9-27-08
HAYDUTSI
A breath from outer-world came and whispered ripples across mirror surface of
lake, dreaming in solitude. A pair of mallards V’d by like an imagination upon the water,
Upon distant shore white egrets and black cormorant were drying I the early sun, sun-bathing in the wonder all around, gossiping.
Slumbering lake’s face, placid, silent, sweet, dreamy, rippled now and then from a whispering breath from the east then the north.
My spirit waited for a breath from the south, for that sweet breath might bear haydutsi, A delicate haydutsi from my baby girl who is upon a precious, perhaps, perilous journey to the center of the Indigenous world, Machu Picchu, resting atop the Andes.
Whisper came from the south, baby said, “Akon (Grandpa).” I sensed a moment of hesitation in her whisper.
My haydutsi returned the soft plea, saying “Baby, obey only the powers that cause the universe to churn forever. Allow nothing else to hinder your mission.”
Haydutsi then lifted from the placid surface like a hummingbird, creating a rippling dimple to merge with Aponi’ha (Great Wonder), to travel to her in the far south of Mexico.
Haydutsi found her there in the ruins of a temple thinking, surrounded by the universe. Once again my spirit thought, “Baby, continue the quest, for it is those who cannot and will not search for greater powers within themselves, who will attempt to impede your dream, for they know not that it is a dream I am always near you, my tinihowi, (guardian), melak’me’da (mountain lion), walks ahead of you and Tamciye (little people) surround you. They know that your dream will find satisfaction only when the Great Powers embrace you, holding you close to the heart of tolol tollim (forever and always), and they will assist you through, under, around and over any peril. Akon”
Little lake smiled hearing the ancient language, a tribe of geese splashed down. Like a ghost-shadow egrets took flight skimming the waters toward their little island and safety, vanishing into the early reflections. Earth breathed long and deep. Solitude was master.
Landscape took on another character as humans invaded the peaceful quiet, laughing.
(As we left the little park and the shattered solitude, a young white man came running with his dog, pointing to our car. We slowed and stopped. He kept coming, pointing now to the top of the car. The boys remembered that they forgot their coffee cups on the roof while they helped me into the car. One boy jumped out and grabbed the coffee. A little embarrassed,we all laughed, dog, too).
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
WINTER
A MOMENTARY PASSING OF THE WINTER AND MUCH PAIN
Like a veil upon an angel
mist hugs the valley floor
Frost soft upon the meadow
crisp wind through little door
A momentary ceasing of the patter on the pane
Sun reaches for the mountain top
to look across frigid land
So long we haven't seen it,
anticipatin' is just grand
A momentary ceasing of the patter on the pane
Diamonds crown the early grasses
as spring has made a start
here beside the crashing waters
music, silence touch the heart
A momentary passing of the snowing and the rain
It has been said by poets
and it has been sung by bards
that winter's chilly presence
means that spring is in the cards
A momentary ceasing od the snowing and the rain
A splash of brilliant sunlight
makes nearby mountains dance
brilliant bright and brilliant white
blinding, flashing! brilliant light
A momentary pasasing of the winter and much pain
Maybe the beginning to an ending
of another winter of too much discontent
March 10, 1985
Sam Spring It A'juma homeland, western hemisphere
Sul'ma'ejote
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
OUR LEADERS
SAM SPRING, WESTERN HEMISPHERE, It Ajuma,Autumn, 1984
In Chile they shoved the tattered poor
to the long grave
dug with angry machines
And while
holding automatic weapons upon them
manufactured in the United States of America,
demanded,
"Now. You. Tell us who your leaders are!"
The poor red people wailed with weakened breath,
"Our lesders are need and hunger."
O'America
when you finally force me to kneel at the long grave,
know that my leader is a dream of freedom from American values
and I have agreed with my dream
never to compromise our private
and healthy respect for each other
No matter what the demand
No matter what the threat
No matter what the odds
Sul ma ejote
In Chile they shoved the tattered poor
to the long grave
dug with angry machines
And while
holding automatic weapons upon them
manufactured in the United States of America,
demanded,
"Now. You. Tell us who your leaders are!"
The poor red people wailed with weakened breath,
"Our lesders are need and hunger."
O'America
when you finally force me to kneel at the long grave,
know that my leader is a dream of freedom from American values
and I have agreed with my dream
never to compromise our private
and healthy respect for each other
No matter what the demand
No matter what the threat
No matter what the odds
Sul ma ejote
Monday, September 22, 2008
GRANDMOTHER SPOKE A TRUE SAYING TO OUR LIFE-FORCE
April 23, 1990, 846 am, U. C. Davis
GRANDMOTHER SPOKE A TRUE SAYING TO OUR LIFE-FORCE
Strange beings entered our homeland
without permission from our Council
They attacked our lives and our villages
without warning or declaration of war
They destroyed the delicate balance
placed among us at the moment of the origin of earth
Within their citadels and protected by stone walls
the Americans huddle and plot
Within their books of knowledge and history
they scribble half-truths to feed the thoughts of their children,
and ours also
Within their hearts there is a torment
which they blame upon the existence of our indigenous people
Within the tombs
where they hold council and plan strategy,
they plot to farther injure the wounded lives of the indigenous,
thinking if they damaged us the more they can find forgiveness
for their horrible crimes committed upon us and our homelands
Why?
As chool (sun) continued its journey over earth
And fire exploded in sparks
As a youth dropped a chunk of wood onto the sleeping coals,
Ju’wa (Grandmother) spoke:
“It is because Nilladuwi have no history except
for that which they agree between themselves
They cannot be proud of their existence
They do not know where they are
They cannot humble their terrified lives”
Morning winds moved the tree tops
During the approaching day an infant cried
Jahom (dog) barked an answer to parting yodel of Jamol (coyote)
Grandfather returned from his morning “thinkings” beside the great river
Hawk, motionless in sky searched for movement on the land
River tumbled and crashed and whispered as it moved to outer-ocean
Mountains vibrated with songs of the universe
Dose (deer) moved softly in the shadows of the pine, browsing
A child peered through the smoke-hole of the lodge
eyes bright, liquid, deep, as the eyes of a fawn
Far to the south there were clouds billowing and there was thunder
“If I could start from the beginning I could tell you many things
but there is no beginning
All that is made was made by a song of Quan (Silver Fox) long ago
so long ago it is hard to remember
Before there was anything there was nothing.
no stars
no Milky Ways
no suns
no earths
no moons
All that there is was made with a song by Silver Fox long ago.”
Children laughed in the distance, dogs danced in the dust
Elk bugled from mountain meadow
Mountain lion moved softly through the morning shadows, dreaming
Fox dreamed a dream also
Salmon moved from outer ocean to rivers
Grandfather prepared a song
Warrior prepare the net
Grandmother sang the song.
Salmon glistened in the great river
and smoked over smoldering fire
“Children, you must know
Since we are the first people upon this land others are jealous
We was many things
We was first people
Merkans (Americans) cannot point to a time when they was here first
and this makes them very angry
“As you move through life
Remember always that all things, the origin of all that is,
is in the songs of long ago
The songs that we must remember and must sing
we must sing with softness, a whisper
For to brag is not our way and it is not the way of the universe.”
My life-power led me to the great river to reflect on the words of Grandmother
My power then led me to the great libraries of the world
to reflect upon the words of the invading beings, in solitude
And here is what I discovered:
It is true that truth lives within our songs
It is true that all that there is,
is within our understanding
It is true that earth is damaged, and we, also
It is true that the way to heal earth and ourselves
is through our songs and our understandings
It is true that we each are as important to life
as each snow flake is important to winter
Did this information come to me through the great libraries of the world?
No!
It came from the songs of the great river
that reflect the words of Grandmother
as morning sun smiled across earth
and copper/honey children laugh with dancing dogs
This is how it is
Sul’ma’ejote
GRANDMOTHER SPOKE A TRUE SAYING TO OUR LIFE-FORCE
Strange beings entered our homeland
without permission from our Council
They attacked our lives and our villages
without warning or declaration of war
They destroyed the delicate balance
placed among us at the moment of the origin of earth
Within their citadels and protected by stone walls
the Americans huddle and plot
Within their books of knowledge and history
they scribble half-truths to feed the thoughts of their children,
and ours also
Within their hearts there is a torment
which they blame upon the existence of our indigenous people
Within the tombs
where they hold council and plan strategy,
they plot to farther injure the wounded lives of the indigenous,
thinking if they damaged us the more they can find forgiveness
for their horrible crimes committed upon us and our homelands
Why?
As chool (sun) continued its journey over earth
And fire exploded in sparks
As a youth dropped a chunk of wood onto the sleeping coals,
Ju’wa (Grandmother) spoke:
“It is because Nilladuwi have no history except
for that which they agree between themselves
They cannot be proud of their existence
They do not know where they are
They cannot humble their terrified lives”
Morning winds moved the tree tops
During the approaching day an infant cried
Jahom (dog) barked an answer to parting yodel of Jamol (coyote)
Grandfather returned from his morning “thinkings” beside the great river
Hawk, motionless in sky searched for movement on the land
River tumbled and crashed and whispered as it moved to outer-ocean
Mountains vibrated with songs of the universe
Dose (deer) moved softly in the shadows of the pine, browsing
A child peered through the smoke-hole of the lodge
eyes bright, liquid, deep, as the eyes of a fawn
Far to the south there were clouds billowing and there was thunder
“If I could start from the beginning I could tell you many things
but there is no beginning
All that is made was made by a song of Quan (Silver Fox) long ago
so long ago it is hard to remember
Before there was anything there was nothing.
no stars
no Milky Ways
no suns
no earths
no moons
All that there is was made with a song by Silver Fox long ago.”
Children laughed in the distance, dogs danced in the dust
Elk bugled from mountain meadow
Mountain lion moved softly through the morning shadows, dreaming
Fox dreamed a dream also
Salmon moved from outer ocean to rivers
Grandfather prepared a song
Warrior prepare the net
Grandmother sang the song.
Salmon glistened in the great river
and smoked over smoldering fire
“Children, you must know
Since we are the first people upon this land others are jealous
We was many things
We was first people
Merkans (Americans) cannot point to a time when they was here first
and this makes them very angry
“As you move through life
Remember always that all things, the origin of all that is,
is in the songs of long ago
The songs that we must remember and must sing
we must sing with softness, a whisper
For to brag is not our way and it is not the way of the universe.”
My life-power led me to the great river to reflect on the words of Grandmother
My power then led me to the great libraries of the world
to reflect upon the words of the invading beings, in solitude
And here is what I discovered:
It is true that truth lives within our songs
It is true that all that there is,
is within our understanding
It is true that earth is damaged, and we, also
It is true that the way to heal earth and ourselves
is through our songs and our understandings
It is true that we each are as important to life
as each snow flake is important to winter
Did this information come to me through the great libraries of the world?
No!
It came from the songs of the great river
that reflect the words of Grandmother
as morning sun smiled across earth
and copper/honey children laugh with dancing dogs
This is how it is
Sul’ma’ejote
Friday, September 19, 2008
Basket of Peace
Note: This story can be translated into other languages, such as Spanish and the thousand indigenous languages from Mexico to Patagonia. Too often we neglect to realize that indigenous are hemispheric and not just from California or other spots across America.
TITA’JI
(BASKET OF PEACE)
Kuyokuk
Yukon
Porcupine
Snake
nChinawa nChinawa is an indigenous name for the Columbia River
Yellowstone
Powder
Pecos
Missouri
Mississippi
Cheyenne
Platte
Ah’juma Ah’juma is an indigenous name for Pit River
Klamath
Tombigbee
Sacramento
Patomac
Peace
Colorado
Athabasca
Dubwana
Sascatchewan
Nottaway
Manicougan
Rio Grande
Yaki
Santiago
Cohos
Orinoco
Apaporis
Branco
Negro
Amazonas
Napo
Ucayali
Sao Francisco
Paranha
Salado
Chico
Sul’ma’ejote Sul’ma’ejote is an indigenous name for Fall River
In the season of summer, in early mist when village was just waking, there was Enun (sister) sad and tired from worry. Tired creases were painted upon her face in the shadows. There was agony within her. Enun would not speak of this, but the village knew there was enmity between herself and her Apawi (brother). There was an injury as jagged and sharp as a razor-thin obsidian slab. It was bitter and it had been this way for many seasons. There was no medicine the people could do to bring them closer, for theirs was a wounding of their spirits.
Season changed from summer to Autumn. Autumn’s spirit painted the leaves of the forest russet and red and gold, yet peace was not known to their dwellings. As pine trees danced in the winds of winter and mountain tops whispered through a blanket of snow, there was no peace. As snow turned to freshets and moon and sun spoke softly over the world of a new season coming, and geese flew high in blue sky calling to the world, to people and to all of life, peace was yet a stranger between them.
This is how it was. Enun searched within herself.
Her nights were of no sleep and her days were only agony. Her world melted without song. Quickly she grew old. Apawi walked within a black shadow whenever she was near. It seemed that there was no way for friendship to travel with them, hand in hand, as it was in the season of their laughing youth.
When there was no way to be kind to her apawi and in the season when she weakened, she had a beautiful dream. Dream spoke,
“You must make titaji.”
“Make a basket?” Her spirit questioned dream.
Once again dream spoke,
“You must gather roots from huge dancing pine, strip them and wind strips into twine, then go to the rushing waters and select good willow for ribbing and take bark from red bud. Gather these things in the season of fresh spring. As you gather, here is the song you must sing:
Apona’ha meemoo’ischi’ee (Great Wonder, we are your children)
Apona’ha meemoo’ischi’ee (Great Power, we are your children)
Apona’ha, meemoo’ischi’ee (Great mystery, we are your children)
Apona’ha meemoo’ischi’ee (Great Spirit, we are your children)
After you have gathered these things, cure them by hanging them near roof in your dwelling. Do not stop singing, for as you move upon the world by day and you dream while stars dance, you must think about the peace and friendship that will belong to you and your brother when basket is finished.”
Enun did as instructed. She gathered the material for the basket in the appointed season. She placed her material in her dwelling near roof. She sang to Apona’ha every moment.
The season came for her to begin weaving. Her heart grew sweeter with each sunrise
Darkness. As she was beginning to sleep thinking peace and friendship, there danced across her vision the design of tita’ji.
With new happiness the spirit of her hands began working basket. Apawi looked upon her with dark curiosity. From her dwelling the people learned this song that never changed. When spoken to of what she was making, she said, “Tita’ji.” They began to think she was growing into childhood again and thought she was speaking truths and maybe doing that which was child-like harmony.
She sang “Apona’ha” and her basket grew. Enun began to wonder, “When giving this basket to my brother, will all be well between us?”
She hummed “Apona’ha,” and little song weave its way around and through the dwellings of village even as her twine wrapped itself around the ribs of tita’ji.
As fire danced she looked over tita’ji, a pattern of love. Enun’s spirit grew big and warm. A tita’ji given to her in a dream that would bring everlasting peace to her and her brother. Tita’ji would be finished next sun. She smiled a beautiful smile then dreamed.
As she breathed softly and last spark blinked out and village was deep in dreams there came a vision to her and a peaceful voice said,
“You must place tita’ji upon waters of rushing river.”
Startled she wondered, “Is this a terrible dream? Is this a bad message? But if I put tita’ji upon the rushing river won’t tita’ji go away to outer ocean?” All these things she thought quickly within herself.
It was long before sleep crept within her to curl up like a little mink. Again a sharp vision flashed across her dream and a voice said,
“You must place tita’ji upon waters of river. To have peace and friendship there first must be trust. Before trust appears there must be faith. Before faith approaches there must be a knowing that there is peace and friendship. You must sing the song. You must keep fire burning, always. Feed fire with branches of trees that have not touched the earth, that are yet pure. Do not allow fire to die.”
Enun was surprised but as she listened again to words sent to her from outer world and received by her spirit, she began to fathom the depth of faith it will take to have everlasting peace. Then she slept a beautiful sleep.
First light, song floated over village, over rushing river, over land and around the world.
Enun completed tita’ji and placed it with tenderness upon rushing river’s water. Her people watched it being captured by tumbling current. They stood quietly as it rounded distant bend. Their hearts were sad for their enun who lost her tita’ji upon river. They wondered within themselves why it was none of the warriors tried to retrieve it.
None but she and the whispering power knew that this could not be done.
Enun returned to her dwelling. She sang gift song. She gathered wood to keep fire alive.
Sleeping, a vision flashed across her dreams and a voice said,
“Enunja (little sister), when tita’ji fashioned with dreams and song touches the shores of all countries of our world, it shall bring peace there.
Tita’ji will travel through all of the turmoil of humankind’s own making and when it has delivered peace to every land, it will return to your hands by traveling up river to the place where you put it upon its journey of peace and friendship.
You must not allow fire to die. You must not stop singing. When tita’ji returns take it to your apawi and say,
My spirit’s brother, this is for you. It has traveled all the world and has brought peace to all the lands it has encountered. I made it for you from a dream given to me by Great Mystery. Let this be a symbol of my trust in Apona’ha that there can be everlasting peace between us.
You must say to your people gathered there watching as tita’ji moves from outer ocean up river to your hands,
My people. Remember the song Great Wonder gave to me and I gave to you? Let this be a lesson that we are a people of peace and we have peaceful dreams to dream, and all else we must not allow to hinder our spirits.
We must sing the song for all seasons.”
- - - - - - -
Looking closely, the eyes of my heart sees:
Enunja. She yet tends the fire and sings the song. It has been this way for almost too many seasons. With every sunrise she practices the message that she will deliver to the people upon arrival of tita’ji. That precious song weaves its way through each of our indigenous nations. Faith moves within her creation even as fire yet dances and warms darkness. With the special indigenous faith given to them while they were still a dream of fertile spirit and willing seed, our sisters, mothers and grand mothers, filled with faith, wait, peering down river
Native nations watch technology, the God of invading forces, raise its ugly head and seeing nature in repose, attacks it thinking that natural life is a wild thing that needs conquering. The warriors and Elders, with payer and thought, attempt to repeal the injury. We have lost battles and we have lost wars but we have not been defeated, for the war that we fight is for nature and against encroachment and we cannot afford, for the sake of the world and the universe, to surrender.
A fragment of this story came to me from White Mountain Apache. Then, when she was a sparkling youth, the mother of my twin boys, Danell Rene Garcia, made her first basket which she described as “ugly!” I thought it was beautiful. It had long strands sticking out at random around what appeared to be a nest damaged as it fell to earth. Later I listen to a basket weaver telling how she made baskets from dreams. Those things propelled this story into this form. Since then I have carried this story to many people asking if it is their story. Most people shake their heads saying it sounds familiar but they are not sure if it is of their people, but they all understand the message.
Each autochthenous nation might lay claim to this dream, all “own” it. Looking to the beauty of the message, it matters not from which nation it emerged, but that it did. My mind’s eye sees Enunja weaving tita’ji. It is alive in her dreams. It identifies the separations between individuals of our villages and it paints a vivid picture of the degree of faith we must have simply to keep our peace until baskets returns up our many rivers.
I am awed by the courage and strength that our women are required to have. And after perceiving this story I cannot fathom the duty that is theirs alone. Those beautiful woman-flower-people waiting beside the rivers, tending fires, peering down river in bursting expectation, singing in a thousand indigenous tongues,
“Apona’ha mee’moo’ischi’ee.”
Sul’ma’ejote
For:
The daring and doing California Indian Basket weaver’s Association (CIBA)
And Basket Weavers of sterling dreams everywhere in the world
TITA’JI
(BASKET OF PEACE)
Kuyokuk
Yukon
Porcupine
Snake
nChinawa nChinawa is an indigenous name for the Columbia River
Yellowstone
Powder
Pecos
Missouri
Mississippi
Cheyenne
Platte
Ah’juma Ah’juma is an indigenous name for Pit River
Klamath
Tombigbee
Sacramento
Patomac
Peace
Colorado
Athabasca
Dubwana
Sascatchewan
Nottaway
Manicougan
Rio Grande
Yaki
Santiago
Cohos
Orinoco
Apaporis
Branco
Negro
Amazonas
Napo
Ucayali
Sao Francisco
Paranha
Salado
Chico
Sul’ma’ejote Sul’ma’ejote is an indigenous name for Fall River
In the season of summer, in early mist when village was just waking, there was Enun (sister) sad and tired from worry. Tired creases were painted upon her face in the shadows. There was agony within her. Enun would not speak of this, but the village knew there was enmity between herself and her Apawi (brother). There was an injury as jagged and sharp as a razor-thin obsidian slab. It was bitter and it had been this way for many seasons. There was no medicine the people could do to bring them closer, for theirs was a wounding of their spirits.
Season changed from summer to Autumn. Autumn’s spirit painted the leaves of the forest russet and red and gold, yet peace was not known to their dwellings. As pine trees danced in the winds of winter and mountain tops whispered through a blanket of snow, there was no peace. As snow turned to freshets and moon and sun spoke softly over the world of a new season coming, and geese flew high in blue sky calling to the world, to people and to all of life, peace was yet a stranger between them.
This is how it was. Enun searched within herself.
Her nights were of no sleep and her days were only agony. Her world melted without song. Quickly she grew old. Apawi walked within a black shadow whenever she was near. It seemed that there was no way for friendship to travel with them, hand in hand, as it was in the season of their laughing youth.
When there was no way to be kind to her apawi and in the season when she weakened, she had a beautiful dream. Dream spoke,
“You must make titaji.”
“Make a basket?” Her spirit questioned dream.
Once again dream spoke,
“You must gather roots from huge dancing pine, strip them and wind strips into twine, then go to the rushing waters and select good willow for ribbing and take bark from red bud. Gather these things in the season of fresh spring. As you gather, here is the song you must sing:
Apona’ha meemoo’ischi’ee (Great Wonder, we are your children)
Apona’ha meemoo’ischi’ee (Great Power, we are your children)
Apona’ha, meemoo’ischi’ee (Great mystery, we are your children)
Apona’ha meemoo’ischi’ee (Great Spirit, we are your children)
After you have gathered these things, cure them by hanging them near roof in your dwelling. Do not stop singing, for as you move upon the world by day and you dream while stars dance, you must think about the peace and friendship that will belong to you and your brother when basket is finished.”
Enun did as instructed. She gathered the material for the basket in the appointed season. She placed her material in her dwelling near roof. She sang to Apona’ha every moment.
The season came for her to begin weaving. Her heart grew sweeter with each sunrise
Darkness. As she was beginning to sleep thinking peace and friendship, there danced across her vision the design of tita’ji.
With new happiness the spirit of her hands began working basket. Apawi looked upon her with dark curiosity. From her dwelling the people learned this song that never changed. When spoken to of what she was making, she said, “Tita’ji.” They began to think she was growing into childhood again and thought she was speaking truths and maybe doing that which was child-like harmony.
She sang “Apona’ha” and her basket grew. Enun began to wonder, “When giving this basket to my brother, will all be well between us?”
She hummed “Apona’ha,” and little song weave its way around and through the dwellings of village even as her twine wrapped itself around the ribs of tita’ji.
As fire danced she looked over tita’ji, a pattern of love. Enun’s spirit grew big and warm. A tita’ji given to her in a dream that would bring everlasting peace to her and her brother. Tita’ji would be finished next sun. She smiled a beautiful smile then dreamed.
As she breathed softly and last spark blinked out and village was deep in dreams there came a vision to her and a peaceful voice said,
“You must place tita’ji upon waters of rushing river.”
Startled she wondered, “Is this a terrible dream? Is this a bad message? But if I put tita’ji upon the rushing river won’t tita’ji go away to outer ocean?” All these things she thought quickly within herself.
It was long before sleep crept within her to curl up like a little mink. Again a sharp vision flashed across her dream and a voice said,
“You must place tita’ji upon waters of river. To have peace and friendship there first must be trust. Before trust appears there must be faith. Before faith approaches there must be a knowing that there is peace and friendship. You must sing the song. You must keep fire burning, always. Feed fire with branches of trees that have not touched the earth, that are yet pure. Do not allow fire to die.”
Enun was surprised but as she listened again to words sent to her from outer world and received by her spirit, she began to fathom the depth of faith it will take to have everlasting peace. Then she slept a beautiful sleep.
First light, song floated over village, over rushing river, over land and around the world.
Enun completed tita’ji and placed it with tenderness upon rushing river’s water. Her people watched it being captured by tumbling current. They stood quietly as it rounded distant bend. Their hearts were sad for their enun who lost her tita’ji upon river. They wondered within themselves why it was none of the warriors tried to retrieve it.
None but she and the whispering power knew that this could not be done.
Enun returned to her dwelling. She sang gift song. She gathered wood to keep fire alive.
Sleeping, a vision flashed across her dreams and a voice said,
“Enunja (little sister), when tita’ji fashioned with dreams and song touches the shores of all countries of our world, it shall bring peace there.
Tita’ji will travel through all of the turmoil of humankind’s own making and when it has delivered peace to every land, it will return to your hands by traveling up river to the place where you put it upon its journey of peace and friendship.
You must not allow fire to die. You must not stop singing. When tita’ji returns take it to your apawi and say,
My spirit’s brother, this is for you. It has traveled all the world and has brought peace to all the lands it has encountered. I made it for you from a dream given to me by Great Mystery. Let this be a symbol of my trust in Apona’ha that there can be everlasting peace between us.
You must say to your people gathered there watching as tita’ji moves from outer ocean up river to your hands,
My people. Remember the song Great Wonder gave to me and I gave to you? Let this be a lesson that we are a people of peace and we have peaceful dreams to dream, and all else we must not allow to hinder our spirits.
We must sing the song for all seasons.”
- - - - - - -
Looking closely, the eyes of my heart sees:
Enunja. She yet tends the fire and sings the song. It has been this way for almost too many seasons. With every sunrise she practices the message that she will deliver to the people upon arrival of tita’ji. That precious song weaves its way through each of our indigenous nations. Faith moves within her creation even as fire yet dances and warms darkness. With the special indigenous faith given to them while they were still a dream of fertile spirit and willing seed, our sisters, mothers and grand mothers, filled with faith, wait, peering down river
Native nations watch technology, the God of invading forces, raise its ugly head and seeing nature in repose, attacks it thinking that natural life is a wild thing that needs conquering. The warriors and Elders, with payer and thought, attempt to repeal the injury. We have lost battles and we have lost wars but we have not been defeated, for the war that we fight is for nature and against encroachment and we cannot afford, for the sake of the world and the universe, to surrender.
A fragment of this story came to me from White Mountain Apache. Then, when she was a sparkling youth, the mother of my twin boys, Danell Rene Garcia, made her first basket which she described as “ugly!” I thought it was beautiful. It had long strands sticking out at random around what appeared to be a nest damaged as it fell to earth. Later I listen to a basket weaver telling how she made baskets from dreams. Those things propelled this story into this form. Since then I have carried this story to many people asking if it is their story. Most people shake their heads saying it sounds familiar but they are not sure if it is of their people, but they all understand the message.
Each autochthenous nation might lay claim to this dream, all “own” it. Looking to the beauty of the message, it matters not from which nation it emerged, but that it did. My mind’s eye sees Enunja weaving tita’ji. It is alive in her dreams. It identifies the separations between individuals of our villages and it paints a vivid picture of the degree of faith we must have simply to keep our peace until baskets returns up our many rivers.
I am awed by the courage and strength that our women are required to have. And after perceiving this story I cannot fathom the duty that is theirs alone. Those beautiful woman-flower-people waiting beside the rivers, tending fires, peering down river in bursting expectation, singing in a thousand indigenous tongues,
“Apona’ha mee’moo’ischi’ee.”
Sul’ma’ejote
For:
The daring and doing California Indian Basket weaver’s Association (CIBA)
And Basket Weavers of sterling dreams everywhere in the world
Monday, September 8, 2008
AHWA’NEECHEE
U.C. Davis 1990
September 08, 2008, San Jose
Beauty
that most delicate of understandings
And spirit
that most necessary of all things
Trembles here in the mighty valley called Yosemite
In awe the multitudes say,
“Feel! the spraying waters, the silken veil of
an angel”
“Look! there, the sun dancing
upon the morning waters of rushing river”
“Listen! the flowers and trees
singing with the wind”
“Experience! The parting clouds
and sun splashing everywhere”
“Wow! the majestic dome
broken by a mysterious and awesome power”
My spirit looked upon all these things
and it was like studying a painting of a great artist
for it is the greatest artist
holding the universe in her hands
But as my spirit wandered through the valley floor
it began to grow hesitant
For people, that imbalanced life form
attempts at every moment to subdue and weaken
the power that creates beauty
Humanity, that element of an unhappy soul
stumbles across earth
making dirty all that it touches,
making me ashamed of my humanness
Standing in awe of the grandness of nature
humans “ooh” and “ahh” at all they see,
but they cast their filth all about them as they depart
They say, “It is a cathedral,”
as they bring garbage with them to deposit within sweet earth
They say, “It is grand. It is beyond comprehension,”
as they pollute the air with their machinery and their breath
Daybreak, my spirit and I climbed a peak,
and peered north to the sacred mountains of the Yurok,
the Karok and Tolowa, seeing Doctor Rock and Chimney Rock
I thought of the courage of my brothers and sisters
facing armies that long to destroy Tolowa Cathedrals,
Yurok and Karok sacred mountains
and my spirit trembles
Casting my eyes to the great Yosemite Valley floor
I see automobiles of every possible fabrication,
Screaming along the stone path
Casting my eyes to the falling waters
I see every possible form of humanity, the multitude,
in an immeasurable and insulting manner,
rushing in and pushing aside the sacred power
Once again I thought of the threat
to Doctor and Chimney Rocks
and again I wonder what type of creature
Americans are
They do not know Chimney Rock and many will not know its power
They do not know Doctor Rock yet many will condemn it
Yet Americans view the rugged Yosemite calling it “wonderful,”
as they participate in its diminishing
They claim it is “breath taking,”
as their automobiles emit death and destruction
They claim it is “The seat of God,”
as they pollute the sterling water and create mountains of human waste
They do not know Doctor Rock.
They do not know Chimney
Americans know they make the decisions
They think that it is more important
for them to have, have, have
than it is for native people to worship
They think it is more important
for America to “progress”
than it is for the Tolowas to sing with the winds
that beautiful song whispering
along their familiar mountains at dawn
They think it is more important
for one American to make decisions
than a nation of Yuroks and Karoks as they seek their balance
within the universe, in soft conversation with that
great spiritual power that they were born into
Where are the Ahwa’neechee?
Where has their spirit gone this day?
Where will the Yurok, Karok and Tolowa be
when the sacred spirit if Dr Rock and Chimney
are disturbed
and seek a peaceful place to dwell?
And that is why
when the clouds and sunshine moved over the
Ahwa’neechee homeland and the beautiful Yosemite Valley,
my spirit led me to the silence of the forest
and there we wept
For the beautiful spirit of resistance that is our heritage since America
Sul’ma’ejote (aka) Darryl Babe Wilson
September 08, 2008, San Jose
AHWA’NEECHEE
It came to be
When clouds and sunshine moved by a great power
over the land of the Ahwa’neechee
That my spirit led me to the silence of the forest
and there we wept
It came to be
When clouds and sunshine moved by a great power
over the land of the Ahwa’neechee
That my spirit led me to the silence of the forest
and there we wept
Beauty
that most delicate of understandings
And spirit
that most necessary of all things
Trembles here in the mighty valley called Yosemite
In awe the multitudes say,
“Feel! the spraying waters, the silken veil of
an angel”
“Look! there, the sun dancing
upon the morning waters of rushing river”
“Listen! the flowers and trees
singing with the wind”
“Experience! The parting clouds
and sun splashing everywhere”
“Wow! the majestic dome
broken by a mysterious and awesome power”
My spirit looked upon all these things
and it was like studying a painting of a great artist
for it is the greatest artist
holding the universe in her hands
But as my spirit wandered through the valley floor
it began to grow hesitant
For people, that imbalanced life form
attempts at every moment to subdue and weaken
the power that creates beauty
Humanity, that element of an unhappy soul
stumbles across earth
making dirty all that it touches,
making me ashamed of my humanness
Standing in awe of the grandness of nature
humans “ooh” and “ahh” at all they see,
but they cast their filth all about them as they depart
They say, “It is a cathedral,”
as they bring garbage with them to deposit within sweet earth
They say, “It is grand. It is beyond comprehension,”
as they pollute the air with their machinery and their breath
Daybreak, my spirit and I climbed a peak,
and peered north to the sacred mountains of the Yurok,
the Karok and Tolowa, seeing Doctor Rock and Chimney Rock
I thought of the courage of my brothers and sisters
facing armies that long to destroy Tolowa Cathedrals,
Yurok and Karok sacred mountains
and my spirit trembles
Casting my eyes to the great Yosemite Valley floor
I see automobiles of every possible fabrication,
Screaming along the stone path
Casting my eyes to the falling waters
I see every possible form of humanity, the multitude,
in an immeasurable and insulting manner,
rushing in and pushing aside the sacred power
Once again I thought of the threat
to Doctor and Chimney Rocks
and again I wonder what type of creature
Americans are
They do not know Chimney Rock and many will not know its power
They do not know Doctor Rock yet many will condemn it
Yet Americans view the rugged Yosemite calling it “wonderful,”
as they participate in its diminishing
They claim it is “breath taking,”
as their automobiles emit death and destruction
They claim it is “The seat of God,”
as they pollute the sterling water and create mountains of human waste
They do not know Doctor Rock.
They do not know Chimney
Americans know they make the decisions
They think that it is more important
for them to have, have, have
than it is for native people to worship
They think it is more important
for America to “progress”
than it is for the Tolowas to sing with the winds
that beautiful song whispering
along their familiar mountains at dawn
They think it is more important
for one American to make decisions
than a nation of Yuroks and Karoks as they seek their balance
within the universe, in soft conversation with that
great spiritual power that they were born into
Where are the Ahwa’neechee?
Where has their spirit gone this day?
Where will the Yurok, Karok and Tolowa be
when the sacred spirit if Dr Rock and Chimney
are disturbed
and seek a peaceful place to dwell?
And that is why
when the clouds and sunshine moved over the
Ahwa’neechee homeland and the beautiful Yosemite Valley,
my spirit led me to the silence of the forest
and there we wept
For the beautiful spirit of resistance that is our heritage since America
Sul’ma’ejote (aka) Darryl Babe Wilson
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