Beware Part II

When I was in second grade my world shattered. Mother was killed in a lumber truck-automobile collision. Daddy tried to numb the constant ache with alcohol. My brothers and I depended on nature to care for us as we faded away from civilization and deeper into the wild. Like little animals our whole family was trapped and became "Wards of the State of California." We would be away from our "way" for a long time. Often we fled to our homeland, finding our way to Aunt Gladys and Uncle Rufus' home, usually following the aroma emitting from her kitchen. Auntie's kitchen and front porch became our Lyceum. She gave us lessons before we ate either breakfast or dinner because after we ran off into the landscape for a week or more.

Auntie's mind worked quickly and efficiently. She manicured a foundation in the original "way." Her Grandmother taught her to use her mind always and sometimes her brain, explaining that her mind was knowledge, wisdom and experiences from the previous generations that came to her. She explained that the brain is useful, but it was not as reliable or accurate as the experiences of previous generations, so use the mind first.

During her formal schooling at boarding school, Auntie studied "The white man 'way' and this thing Democracy." She was articulate, using the English language better than most Americans, and her heart grew sad when she looked at Democracy seeing it attacking the native "way," relentlessly. We gathered on her porch. Sometimes the lesson was about our journey through the stars to arrive here, sometimes it was about things we must know about in nature, and sometimes it was about "This thing Democracy." She saw Democracy as an evil that intended to destroy the native "way" from the tip of South America (she said Patagonia), to the North Pole. He (white man) will never be satisfied until we exist no more, and then that won't satisfy him." Her mouth set straight across and her eyes snapped and we knew that we must listen. Her lessons in Democracy always ended the same, "You must stand across the fire from Democracy and BEWARE!" After her lessons in Democracy, her food, usually wonderful, just didn't have that special sparkle, but we ate everything on the table because it was time to fade into the landscape until hunger dictated that we run to Auntie's for a lecture and loving food.

Now in my last days I look across the land seeing little republics sprouting where the original way was planted long ago, hear Auntie say again, "Stand across the fire," and my spirit trembles like distant thunder. In a tender moment my mind whispers to my brain, "We should have listened carefully when wisdom spoke to us. We should never have rushed to the white man side of the fire."

My mother and father didn't like to go to the Indian meetings, because"They always end the same. Our people will argue and fight over who gets hung with the new rope and who gets hung with the old one, convinced they had favor with the white man and the "proof" of white man's friendship and loyalty lies in the newness of the rope he hangs them with."

In my quiet moments, when my spirit thinks deeper thoughts while viewing natives across the land, watching as the natives willingly step into the trap Democracy has laid in the path, it trembles. My quaking spirit whispers to my heart, "Now it may be too late to BEWARE." We shall see.

Beware

I am extremely lucky to have been born while wisdom and knowledge were yet active and walking in my homeland. They were not yet destroyed by the European invasion that began at the moment Erik the Red, a criminal in the first degree, penetrated the waters protecting this continent, now known as "International Water." Ancient knowledge and wisdom were polluted, and they have not yet stopped deteriorating. The first confusion to our identity as hemispheric people occurred almost immediately with the subsequent penetration of Columbus. Columbus reasoned that he had reached India (thus the term "Indios" which matured into "Indian"). I am, on my mother's side, Itam Is meaning "First People," and on my father's side, Aw'te meaning, "The people created to live here (the homeland)." Also, through my mother's mother's breeding with a French man, I have French blood in my veins. In my youth I watched the continual assault upon our cultures, our languages, our world-views. The God concept entered with Columbus and his unclean mercenaries, then destruction by the strangers came in floods and has not abated. Columbus' penetration is the most visible, still unwelcome and unwanted by many indigenous. The "either or" plot attempted to make the God concept welcome. It was either God or the gun, either God or starvation. Gold and greed, the driving force behind many ships that were sent out from Europe at that time, escorted Democracy into our homelands. The impact of that foreign thought is yet baffling and far from being accepted at some indigenous camp fires.

Many indigenous generations were very astute, being born into a balanced world-view and functioning as they were designed while evading the European thought patterns intending to change the indigenous function forever. Those precious ancestors fulfilled the duty assigned them and became the teachers of the present generation. They knew by studying the effects of Democracy on their generation that the "American Dream," if we allowed it, would escort us into their classrooms and cut our culture and language from us, then encourage us to accept their "way" and abandon ours as the only "Smart way." They also knew that the deception of Democracy would, if we allowed it, encourage us to ignore the lessons of our Elders and cling to "progress" ,which in the end would encourage us to exchange our homelands for shiny trinkets, because that is one intention of that foreign rule ever since our culture of gift-giving and their culture of taking and deception armed them with "proof" in their claim to have purchased an island from us for trinkets.

My Aunt Gladys was a scholar of the white man "way." Her Grandmother was recognized as a tijtawa Johonori (genuine medicine woman) who lived the original way influenced only by the Great Universal Powers.

The Europeans did not arrive in my mountain homeland until the 1800's and Auntie's Grandmother lived before that time, guiding younger generations and leading the people to the God path, the real path. Through her Grandmother Auntie possessed a very solid foundation in our"way" and in our languages Grandmother, a Pekumuka (wonderful people of our past) instilled in Auntie the knowledge and wisdom to help her generation and ours.

WEHELU PEACEMAKER

WEHELU PEACEMAKER

According to our legends and lessons (which some of us did not pay much attention to because we were busy growing up and exploring the landscape in our homeland, and we were pup-dumb), it takes certain qualifications to become a warrior. Not just anybody can do this. At her home, “Gramma” Lela, reminded my brothers and cousins of these things. She was not really my DNA “Gramma,” but she was the mother of my native foster mother and we called her grandchildren “cousin,” so that settled it. She was “Gramma”.

She could not speak English very good, and we could not understand her native dialect at all, but she told us the original rules that we must fulfill before we could be considered a warrior in the old “way,” a goal that we must all reach for. This was in the days when Hollywood and history books were busy characterizing natives as blood-thirsty savages living only to attack wagon trains. They displayed that the indigenous were a population devoid of feelings so it couldn’t have hurt much when it came to being killed or maimed by the army or the good guys. The American culture pointed out as unequivocal truth that we were callous because in their theaters we failed to cheer when the cavalry came “ta-ta-ta-ing” in at the very last second, guns blazing, bleeding natives falling all around.

A warrior is strong and he use his strength to care for people.
A warrior is peaceful toward everyone.
A warrior does not wait for peace to come. He take peace and offer it first.
A warrior is a good hunter, tracker, fisher,
he can run over the mountain, run down a deer, carry it in and share it;
he can carry five salmon across valley to feed hungry family.
A warrior always eat last.
A warrior always speak true.
A warrior respect earth and all people.
A warrior sing at dawn for all people who cannot sing for self.
A warrior is responsible.
A warrior never thinks of self first, but others.
A warrior dances for earth and for goodness for people.
A warrior takes children to the flowers on trees and in meadow.
A warrior has good heart, give to people who need.
Above all, warrior respect the “way” and Aponiha (the universal powers:
Great Wonder, Great Spirit, Great Power, Great Mystery).

It was the middle of the 1960’s, turmoil was all around. From many indigenous fires (African, Oriental, La Raza) there was a cry for justice and respect. The younger generation was not listening when wisdom spoke. Some of us in my mountain tribe were furious because Americans kept taking from us. They said it was theirs because God gave it to them. We could not agree with God, constantly. Some of us wildly, young men decided to strike back, an eye for an eye. We made plans. Our logistics were flawed but we were in a hurry. We gathered a few old, rusty guns. Furious with Americans we went to Craven’s home for his approval to our “war plan.” He was home and we filled his little house, spilling out into the yard. We laid out our plan. He thought. Then he squeezed into his back room and emerged with an old broken, weary, rusty rifle. He must have found it after a battle seasons ago.

Dusting it off, he looked around the room with sad, old eyes and said, “Outside, yard.” We thundered out. He gathered us in a circle, him in the center with his rifle. He began chanting, then spun the rifle over his head and began to dance. He passed the rifle behind from hand to hand while dancing and chanting. Rifle over head spinning once more, then he grabbed rifle with both hands over head, stopped dancing and chanting.

He was out of breath but said, “This (dance and chant), dis’wassa’wi.” “This,” holding rifle up, “not our way.”

He looked upon us searching our faces and searching our hearts. We came to him for war approval. Dis’wassa’wi seemed like approval but then he said the rifle was not the way. We were confused and disarmed in our confusion.

Again his old, blue-white eyes searched our hearts. He was looking for understanding within us. His tired face turned to each of us and his eyes, that had seen many, many seasons, pierced our aspirations. He slightly shook his white-white head, just a nod. Something like the strength of an eagle wrapped around him. He spoke,

“I don’t need warriors with guns in their hands. I need warriors with their hearts in their hands, and all of their dreams in their hearts.”

Silently we filed away into the evening filled with mosquitoes. He returned to his old coffee cup. We did not understand his words. They sounded like a truth. They sounded simple enough, but what did they mean for sure? We were all smart enough to know, weren’t we? In my old pickup I found a piece of paper and a pen. I wrote his words. Arriving at my little home, I read his words again. I pondered there under the stars. Over the velvet softness of evening again I heard Gramma Lela’s voice explaining what a warrior is in our “way.” When my spirit heard, “A warrior take peace and offer it first,” I cried.

Late, I slept. I dreamed and saw the great Generals of the mighty armies, dismiss their troops and gather at the table in a silent contest seeing who could offer peace first. I awoke from that beautiful dream and thought, “Yes, Craven is a warrior. He is a great warrior who should be honored above all of the Generals of all time.”
In my heart I called him “Wehelu Peacemaker.” (Chief of all peacemakers)

Sul’ma’ejote

DESTINY

01-17-08


DESTINY

One summer day I was in my homeland. The wisest tribal man in my life-experience, Craven Gibson, sent for me (nobody knew Cravens age). In the old way this “sending for” is accomplished not with telephone but with hayy (thought). He “threw” a thought that was “caught” and delivered to me. “Young man, where you goin’? Craven wants to see you.” I went to his crooked little home out on the flat land of Atwum (Big Valley). Because his tired home sagged and the old hinges on the door did not work well and earth got in the way, his front door did not open all of the way, but scraped the ground, hard. My old truck screeched into his yard. The door of his home was open. As I walked up to it he “hallowed” me in for coffee. Soon we were talking politics and I learned that he had some advice for the American President. He wrote his advice with pencil on a piece of frayed, brown grocery bag. He wanted me to deliver it “Next time you see him.” He somehow thought I often had lunch with,could run in and out of the Presidents office at any time, and that I could reach that office as if it was just around the corner instead of 3,000 miles away!
He handed me the paper as he talked. I took the wrinkled piece of grocery bag, folded it then put it in my shirt pocket. We continued the visit. The conversation had a sharp edge every time politics was mentioned.
Soon he mellowed and he talked of legends and destiny. His legends were often about the moon. To him, his destination and destiny seemed like the origin story that began “Before there was something, there was nothing.” In this instance his “vastness” was a huge play pen with a few stars for light. The way he explained it, his destiny was a forever dreaming about eternity.
Then we got back onto a hard subject and talked about how fragile and damaged earth is since the foreigners came here, beginning to harm earth in their first moments, and how they dreamed of damaging earth the more. The profit motive to the strangers seemed much more important than earth, life and future. He worried.
Southeast Asia was being bombed by the American administration and it was now implementing a full-blown carpet bombing. Foliage destruction in the form of Agent Orange was freely used. The future of soldiers on either side was studded with doubt. The old wise man often baffled me because he could “see” the world the way it is and his thoughts often confronted those things that he felt were totally out of balance. Before we left the yard for coffee at his crooked table - that was kept from rocking by a paper match book under the short leg, I opened the thought to the American President. He had written his note in pencil, printing each word. His words pushed hard into the paper:

“There is no power in destructive, only in creative.”

His message may reach its destination one day. Tribal members found him in his yard looking up. Today I “see” him walking with destiny through eternity, moving within his destination, and wonder what any American President would do with his truth. I wondered if any President would ever be brave enough to look with the eyes of their hearts into the eyes of Craven’s heart. I wonder and worry. We shall see.

TWO MOON

Another time Craven sent for me. As instructed, I arrived at his home moments before full-moon splashed like a sunrise across Atwum and the coyotes began to sing all around. He spoke long about legend and the moon. In the course of the evening he told how the moon was an earth at one time and how it had all of the life of this earth. He called the moon before it turned into the moon, first earth.
He told of the war that took place on the first earth between two “thinkings.” One “thinking” looked upon first earth and said, “This is mine and I’ll use it all for myself.” The other “thinking” said, “No. You must save earth for coming generations.” The two “thinkings” got into a big argument that turned into a war.
The side that wanted to save earth used up its half trying to defend it, and the half that wanted earth for selfish purposes, used up its half with bombs, bullets and destruction. One day first earth caught on fire and there was not enough water to put it out. “First earth burn all up.” He took me out and we looked at the full moon hanging there in the darkness. He showed me the craters and the scratches. “Do you see that war?” I did.
We went back into his home. He sat at the table near his coffee cup and pushed his palms and crooked, warn fingers together, hard. There was a long silence, then he began, “Look at this erth with you heart. See two sides like first erth. Many big arguments, who gets it to use for selfish. It damaged and those using erth for self use it more fast. Mebee all burn up soon.” The power of my spirit looked upon a burning earth and chills raced up and down my spine and around the back of my neck.

“Craven, then there would be two moons?”

“Two moon, no erth.”

The chills raced faster. I rushed home. With chills still racing across my heart I grabbed my writing pad and wrote down his words vowing to write a book about our conversation there under the summer moon. I did: Two Moon.

Sul’ma’ejote

HAY’DUTSI’LA (explanation)

HAY’DUTSI’LA (explanation)

I realize that few, if any, are familiar with my mother’s language, indigenous to north eastern California, on the sunrise side of Ako Yet (Mt Shasta). My mother’s people are Itam Is (First People), and ever since earth began turning around the sun, we have dwelled beside It Ajuma (the big river). A modern name for this river now is, Pit River, but that name is not in our original history, since it came to our homeland with colonizers, not long ago. Within the language are many narratives concerning creation. I will show how hay’dutsi’la functions within our lives by using one narrative, or parts of that narrative, while maintaining the way my precious Elders used the “new” language, English.

Around the dancing campfire, deep in the silence of a sugar pine forest, during the season psukitok (spring), an Elder, older than time, stood and softly spoke to the gathering of young warriors. He spoke to the darkness and the stars, and to the Great Powers assembled to witness this passing of history. In the silence of his heart he talked again with the Great Powers then turned to us.

“Hisnawa, listen with the ears you heart and you will hear legend of our origin as told by father’s father when I small boy, long ago. It true, and you hear many times before, but listen one more.
“It is said, before there was something there was nothing. There was vast, no end vast, no stars, nothing. Then thought (hay’dutsi) come. Nobody know where thought come from or when come. It just there in vast. Thought, thought and thought for long, long time. Maybe million year maybe more. Nobody know.
“A dream come. Thought want become something. Thought, thought itself into voice. Voice all alone in vast, just thought and voice. Voice want be pretty so thought, thought voice into song. Song he live vast long, long time, maybe million year maybe more, just sing. Then star appear in vast. Then another. Soon vast filled with many, many star. Good, very good. It dream.
“Today someone say, ‘Where from?’ Say ‘Haydutsi star.’ ‘When?’ say,’Song.’ ‘How?’ Say ‘Haydutsila’ (by thought, by thinking). Then they know you have wa’tu (spiritual umbilical cord, beginning) among star. We must talk more, tomorrow, but not now.”

Elder shuffled towards his dwelling leaving us there under the starry sky, pondering hay’dutsi, dream, song, and our beginning long ago. We had many questions for ancient Elder but we must wait until he was prepared and spoke first. Hadutsi wrapped softly around our world. We slept and dreamed dreams.
In my dream hisnawa (young warriors) gathered in the early darkness of dawn singing songs to Mother Earth, to our people and to the world. Later Ancient Elder stood at the speaking fire and continued.

“Hisnawa (young warrior), it good greet dawn song. Earth know you heart, look, see good live there. That way since begin. Long ago Elders say we must look with eyes of heart, see. Look with eyes only, just look, sometime no see. Same listen. Always listen. Ears of heart, hear best.
Wa’tu you must know, and ahlo. Ahlo connect you see, touch. Ahlo connect to mother, Mother Earth, homeland. Everyone everywhere same. Wa’tu, can no see, no touch. Connect spirit-power special, begin in land beyond star. Cannot see, cannot touch. Wa’tu there always. No always same everyone.

“Hisnawa (young warriors) you must listen carefully, with heart. Hay’dutsi he make dance. Sing long, long time, maybe million years maybe more. Then mist appear far over there….”
My spirit shook my body awake and we lay there deep in thought about wa’tu, smelling the smoldering fire as it silently mixed with the darkness. We watched the red and blue stars move slowly through branches of the tall trees and waited for dawn, listening for the fire-keeper to stir the embers to flame and softly sing to the fire.

Sul’ma’ejote










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My Tribal Elder on Columbus

My Tribal Elder on Columbus

I was just I second grade. I thought that I was pretty smart and I was prepared to prove it. This was in the days when the indigenous people gathered in a good way to talk and discuss, usually wondering about this thing “civilization” and this thing “progress.” Too many of the old ones, both appeared to have a purpose of damaging earth and life, akin to the caterpillar tractor that today unconsciously damages life while shoving the landscape around.

The many American “rights,” were usually discussed as much as the American “wrongs.” Many of those gathered there that day were born a hundred years before me, and had experienced everything, but my arrogance instructed me to teach them something about what I had been gathering of history at my American school. I was a “pup-dumb” little tyke, so began my lecture with the sterling feats of Columbus.

The brave man sailed into the unknown and found us here and he is a great man for his efforts. Kings and Queens liked him a lot and they gave him money to keep adventuring and finding people and land. We all should think of him as having a good, brave heart.
My second grade knowledge base kept me from noticing how thick the atmosphere had become. Looking back I now see that I should have never opened my mouth in council until I was fifty-years old! The council was very patient with me, but an Elder Lady looked at me several times. Finally she spoke.

“This great Columbus, he found us and our homeland?”
“Yes.”
“We had to be lost if he found us.”
“Yes.”
“Did this great man find the sun, too? Because our homeland was never lost, any more than the sun was lost.”

That was the first ray of dawn sunlight splashing across my abyss of stupidity concerning history, and it laid the foundation driving me to look through American intentions and see a frantic people, constantly dissatisfied with life, and much like Old Coyote in our lessons and legends who had to change everything, “for the best,” he said.

Today earth is damaged beyond repair yet machines are gouging the mountains and angry machines are drilling thousands of holes deep into earth – even under the threatened oceans. Seasons are sick and confused, water decays, bombs and bullets lurk in the dawn. Forests are only shadows of their original design, societies ache with pain and fear, life trembles and flees the terror all around. There, dressed in a tailored suit, death smiles.

Now in my advanced age my spirit looks across the landscape and I understand why the Elders were united against this civilized beast, progress. Too, my spirit witnesses as our precious life-forces are rendered valueless by politics. Then my trembling heart trembles the more, seeking refuge in the placid dreams of children.

WAHACH

The oral records of the indigenous populations of this hemisphere often vary widely from the histories written by the various invading forces. Academics and civilization both proclaim that what ever is up for discussion is not written with a record in the printed word that it is one step beyond true because it cannot be proven, in their thinking. This deduction, of course, solidifies the thought of the establishment that it will always be truthful - because they can provide their own proof for their claim and natives cannot satisfy this simple requirement. Since indigenous history and adventure is oral (passed from previous generations and shared around the campfire), the establishment claims that that history cannot be proven with the printed word, so it cannot be true.

I am the product of both paradigms; the oral and that recorded in writing. Oral literature usually has the universe and the landscape for proof. The establishment does not accept this. The establishment has the printed word for proof. Many natives do not accept this because words written are designed to be recorded crooked, and it omits nature as proof.

In the instance of natives, omission by the civilized written recorders is a habit developed to protect the establishment. But, omission of written works is damaging to the whole truth all of the time.

In a pure act of genius and a sterling act of survival, my people, on one of the several gun-point removals from our homeland, created a type of survival-bread from flour, salt and water.

History records that wagon loads of goods, to support the natives on that forced march to Round Valley (a location distant from our homeland) were, in fact, provided. The written record of this support effort stops there and a clueless individual will assume that the natives were cared for while being relocated as prisoners-of-war.

However, a quick look into the oral literature of the natives will show that this assumption of care was simply not true and the design of continuous genocide against my native people was muffled in the silence of the printed word, in order to further damage my people and show that the supplies were used. It is a true recording. The U. S. Army command did issue supplies at San Francisco. The U.S. Army did distribute those goods.

The supply wagons were two weeks catching up with the force-marching natives. Along the trail were many settlers, ranchers and citizens. The Americans had every Constitutional protection and right. The natives had no protection and two rights: To keep marching in silence or to die by gun shot.

The way it is told at the evening campfire, the first ranch that the supply wagons came to got the slabs of bacon to divide among the community. The second stop got the buckets of lard. The following stops the ranchers and settlers were rewarded in like manner with pots, pans, buckets, blankets and dry goods. When the wagons caught up with the marching natives, all left of the supplies were sacks of flour and smaller sacks of salt. By that time hundreds of my people had perished from hunger, neglect, shock and broken-hearts.

The natives could get water from the creek, and now they had flour and salt, so they made a type of pancake. No pan, they cooked on a flat rock over the campfire. The cooks knowing that pancakes cannot be transported in the pocket, created a thicker, tougher round of bread, cooked in the same manner but a little longer and they put their little love song into the mixture. Wahach! It could be carried in the pocket and was versatile – it could be wrapped around anything else to eat. Dry, it would last a long time, but dry it was very difficult to chew.

Many of recent generations survived because of wahach. In my younger days almost every woman’s home and fame revolved around the aroma and flavor of her wahach. My old Aunt Gladys made the best ever, and when we went to visit her, we hoped that wahach and beans were yet warm.

During the forced marches to Bosque Redondo headed by Kit Carson, the natives of the Southwest created bread dough deep fried in grease, fry bread. My people having no grease, no pan, and no other ingredients, created wahach. We all survived!

Darryl "Babe" Wilson

In 1939, Sul'ma'ejote, aka Darryl Babe Wilson, me, was born in Qatsade (Fall River Valley) on the north bank of Sul'ma'ejote (Fall River) at Fall River Mills, a stone toss from It'ajuma (Pit River). Just a few generations ago the male-child was named after the landscape where he was born. In this manner, I am Sul'ma'ejote. Like many native families at that time, my family shadowed in and out of civilization. When I was in the second grade in the Fall River Valley, my mother was killed in a lumber truck-automobile accident. The family shattered, the state caught us and we were scattered in California but out of our homeland. My three brothers and I stuck together. As is the practice of civilization, the girls were taken in a separate direction. Summers we managed to run back to our homeland, our people, the dream of life and the ancient dance of nature's powers. I managed to muddle through high school but failed to graduate, and for the sake of survival I joined the Marines. The service took me far away from the homeland but I dreamed about the teachings of the Elders and our "way." After my "hitch" I was logging in Oregon, met a girl, married and did a very poor job of settling into the "American Dream." We had three sons, Sonny, Lance and Cory. They all live in Washington state and now I am a grandfather. I was caught in the whirlwinds of the "Indian wars" of the 1960's, neglected my family and my wife divorced me. I met another girl. We ran into the safety of the mountains of northern California. In 1980 she gave birth to twin boys, Theo and Setorro (they are still with me). In a seat beltless car wreck she was killed. The twins were babies. Broken and our hearts bleeding we went back to the homeland and tried to survive. We did! In order to again survive, I entered U.C. Davis in 1989. After Davis I received a scholarship to the University of Arizona, completing all of the requirements for a pedigree. I became a Professor but "bleed" stroke cut my future to the quick.

All of my life I wanted to be a writer and tell stories. The early times of my life were published in a book in the '70's: The Morning the Sun Went Down. It is still available through Heyday books, Berkeley. Stroke has restricted any physical activity tolol (for eternity), but I still am capable of writing and teaching from a distance.

In my gnarled and old age, I look back across the ages and see with my heart that the wonder and magic of children can very well be the emotion that manages to hold earth close enough to sun to make life livable. My parting thought to this earth is captured in my last book length manuscript: Two Moon. Currently the twin boys and I are living in San Jose.

ITSPO’E’OTISI

Itspo’e’otisi is an understanding, a feeling, among the tribal Elders of my generations who, like a great wave, crested, tipped, thundered upon the ancient and timeless sands, rolled far upon the dry beach, then receded into the vast oceans created by the universal systems and countless star-filled galaxies.
Around the fire they spoke long of destiny and destination, of wa’tu (spiritual umbilical cord), of the responsibility and respect owed by the generations to Mother Earth by Earth’s children, of tosaqjami (dreams) and hutdatsi (tought). With their words they intended to lay a foundation of pride and honor for our feet to stand upon. A bold foundation upon which we could create a dream that honors our Pekamuka (wonderful wise people of our past who have gone ahead clearing obstructions from the path). Their words were true. We had but to listen with our hearts and learn with our minds and our futures would unfold wrapped in culture, dreams and song, and be guided by our languages, respect and responsibility. They explained the rules and the laws governing earth and the universe, our place in that achievement of Great Wonder, and how we best fit into this vast arena. And they often spoke of itspo’e’otisi.
“It is recorded in American books that “itspo’e’otisi” means “truth.” That is a fragment of its meaning and intent.

Itspo’e’otisi: When the eyes of your heart look into the eyes of my heart seeing only good, and the eyes of my heart look into the eyes of your heart seeing only good, then the words between us can only be genuine.

The Elders said that we must do this and adhere to this “way” and never waver for therein lies our honor for Pekumuka and the generations of the ages. Today “progress” and “civilization” have rendered natives of the world a mere suggestion of what our ancestors intended for us to be. Now we must cause “progress” to not be our controlling urgency, adhere to the teachings of our Elders, follow the lead of our children, and journey toward our rendezvous with destiny without hesitation, holding those precious little fingers with all of the love growing in our hearts.

Sul’ma’ejote

YE'JA

Ye'ja has lived among my natural people's languages for a long time. Ever since this earth began its journey around the sun, ye'ja has had special meaning and purpose. Ye'ja, Medicine Song. Ye'ja heals wounds, wounds to the people, wounds to the landscape, wounds to the whole earth, wounds to our hearts and our numen.
Urgent messages often came to us (younger generation)from our Elders. Elders were the wise among us, the dreamers, the warriors who accepted responsibility for the people and honor and respect for the the earth. They were in direct communication with the Powers of the universe through their wa'tu (spiritual umbilical cord). They guided us and moulded us and caused us to fit into the respect and responsibility of caring for earth and for our tribal destiny. And they worried that we were not learning properly. They worried for our destiny because so much interference came with the strangers from a distant land beyond the sunrise.

Worried, they sang and prayed at daybreak and around the evening fire that our feet somehow stay on the good path and not stray from it. They looked upon earth seeing the damage of an angry people who are never satisfied and lived beyond the sunrise for many seasons. They whispered to the dawn, prayed to the Great Wonders, and wept.

With hesitating words the Elders said that we must somehow explain to the strangers that the whole earth is now sick and it needs a great healing. They also said that it is in the hearts and the songs of children that Ye'ja will be caused to heal earth. "Others," they said, are too busy grabbing more than they need making a lop-sided way to live.

Therefore, let us not cast shadows for children to stand in, but move our plans aside and allow sunshine to land on blossoms and children, equally. That is all for now. Sul'ma'ejote

Tribute to Floyd Red Crow Westerman

Hay'dutsi'la

According to our legends, hay'dutsi (thought) was the "first thing." Then there was tosok'jami (dream) This universe was not present, only hay'dutsi in the vastness. Thought thought and thought, "for a million years or more" and thought itself into voice. Thought thought voice should be pretty so changed to song. Song dreamed and sang "for a million years or more," then that which we are familiar with as the universe slowly began to appear.
Hay'dutsi'la means "by thinking." Anthropology will attempt to convince everyone that natives the world over are incapable of thought, but it is that study that in its rush to degrade natives have also robbed the world of precious thought and dreams. Thought is the driving force of this hemispheric's indigenous, and has been for a very long time, dreams and thought. With this blog I expect to contact thinkers and dreaming children.

The Deer at Hat Creek

When I was a little boy, Daddy and I often fished and hunted the mountains. Once we were silently sitting in nature becoming the landscape and fitting into the magic. We were beside Hat Creek before dawn. At daybreak, we could see our surroundings. Soon deer came to the water before heading back into the safety of the forest or higher ground - a few bucks, several does, yearlings and two fawns. The fawns watched as mom and dad waded out a few steps and drank deeply. I went and looked at their tracks later. They were smaller than an arrowhead, but their reaction to seeing the water fascinated me. Water presented a visual structure that could be walked on, but mom and dad had walked in it, not on it. They stood back and studied. A brave one walked to the water cautiously. The other one came along side. Their ears and senses alert, they wondered about this thing water. The brave one stepped out and touched the water like a kitten might do, softly. He recoiled! Then they gathered their bravery and tried again. The foot touched the water, but went down until it touched earth. They recoiled again. Presently they gathered the will to do as the other older deer and step into the new experience. Soon both were in the very shallow water. One touched the water with its nose and must have screamed in deer language, because the entire herd vanished in a moment, fawns included. I feel like a dawn-fawn at the creek edge while dealing with technology. Babe