By Lana Spendl

At my friend’s bonfire on a chilly Southwestern night, a blond woman in Birkenstocks approached me and said that her name was Singing Humyn.

“Singing Human?” I asked.

“Singing Humyn, with a ‘y,’” she said. She was a shaman, she explained.

Questions sprang up inside me like mushrooms after a rain.

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