Even Death Knows Better Than to Argue With an Uppity Woman
They said the old woman was dying.
She said she was finishing.
The tribe gathered with long faces, carrying bowls of water and bundles of sage, whispering prayers as though she couldn’t hear. She rolled her eyes.
“Stop fussing,” she told them. “You’d think no one had ever met Death before. Haven’t I taught you anything?” She playfully chided them. “Death is nothing more than a vehicle here to transport us from one realm to another. And she’s been flirting with me for weeks.”
They laughed nervously, but they knew her words were true.
The mesa wind caught her silver hair as she took her staff and began the slow climb down to the sacred cave. Her knees popped, her breath rasped, and still she grinned — because this was her walk. Her choosing. Her return.
The soft southern wind smelled of juniper, offering a comforting nudge toward home. Over the years, she’d traveled to many other lands but always returned to this mesa. Here, she found solace — the comfort of an old friend and lover.
On her walk to the cave, where she would leave her precious body that had served her for nearly one hundred revolutions around the sun, she offered the earth — this mesa — a prayer of kindness and love for holding her, for sustaining her, and now for allowing her to let go.
This sacred mesa, holy only to those who honor and respect the land, would forever hold her stories, her legacy, and yes, her children’s laughter. So very many blessings.
Inside the cave, a small fire danced like a faithful friend. Her daughters had left food, water, and a blanket of woven feathers.
“You always did overdo the hospitality,” she chuckled quietly to the unseen faces beyond the fire. Deep gratitude for a life lived with intention warmed her soul as she sat, ate a little, drank a little, and began talking to the stars already visible through the cave’s mouth.
“Don’t you start crying for me,” she told the stars. “You know that I’m not leaving — I’m expanding. I’ve got galaxies to visit and mischief to make.”
Again, gratitude swelled within her heart. She giggled, nodding to the fire. “The kids always forget to include the dried apples that I love so much. But no worries, I brought a handful just in case.” She reached into her pouch and pulled out the sweet treat.
She herself had once sat with her mother as she prepared for her own transition. Her mother had taught her to respect all life — the small ants that steal the crumbs and the deer that provided meat and hide to sustain.
Her body, now weary and ready to rest, nudged her to lie down beneath the blanket of feathers. When the final breath came, it wasn’t a struggle. It was a laugh — low and throaty, full of the joy of someone who had lived wide open and would die the same way.
And if you listen, on quiet desert nights, you can still hear her chuckle riding the wind. Not a ghost, not a warning — just a reminder.
Even now, as breath leaves the body, she decides how the story ends — standing tall, wrapped in laughter, ready to join the stars.
Some stories are remembered because they’re written down.
Others linger because they never really end.
The Uppity Woman? She’s both.
PS – Author’s Note:
This story began as a vision long ago, seen through the soft veil of hypnosis. I watched myself—an old woman, wise and laughing—as she chose how to leave her body. She wasn’t afraid. She knew she was simply transforming, dissolving into the cosmos, returning home to stardust and song.
Becoming.
This essay is part of The Uppity Woman Chronicles — stories and reflections celebrating courage, voice, and unapologetic self-worth. The series is now unfolding into my next book.
Coming Soon To a Bookstore Near You!
