11-28-08, San Jose, CA
THANKSGIVING SUNSET,
11-27-08. Santa Cruz
It seemed to be a very long time from dawn to Thanksgiving dinner, but when we finally gathered at the beach to eat, to enjoy each other’s company, to laugh together, and to bask in the soft, sweet, fuzzy sunshine of Autumn at the California beach, the time flashed by so very quickly!
I recall eating a variety of foods, enjoying each unique flavor, and enjoying more the laughter that was muffled by a mouth full of wonderful food. Then someone directed my attention to the sunset. Red sun seemed to be racing for the softly curved horizon.
Out at the ocean’s edge, sun was a throbbing “cherry” as it shined through the smoke and smog gathered there in the distance. An old memory came to me and was captured like a spring salmon in a net.
When I was just a boy, long, long ago, our little tribe of cousins always had our pockets full of marbles. Among our marbles we always had our favorites. A heavier marble was the best “shooter” because it would scatter the marbles collected in the middle of the circle we drew, usually with a stick, and sometimes knock several marbles out of the circle that we added to our collections. “Steelies” (a big ball bearing) were too heavy for accuracy. If the shooter knocked a marble out of the circle it became his “keeper.” Once there was a magic red marble in the circle. We called red ones “cherries,” and they were rare. Finally, my turn to shoot came. I shot and hit the cherry pretty good, knocking it out of the circle. It was mine! I was so happy. From then on until I lost it to a dare (I did not jump off the bridge first because I really was “chicken”), I carried regular marbles in one pocket, but in the other pocket there was only one marble, my cherry.
Sometimes I held the cherry up to peer deeply into it while holding it near the sun. When the sun was maximum, the cherry was bright, bright, sparkling red. It was perfectly round and so pretty. It was a see-through. That “cherry” red is how the Thanksgiving sun appeared over there resting on the ocean’s curved horizon, a see-through. In a moment it slipped off and fell just beyond the edge, sinking into the waves.
Sun’s bright red now was just a wine-glow. In another moment the glow faded like the embers of the sleeping fire. Quickly we gathered things together and as the seagulls patrolled in the twilight, hurried to our homes, the vision of sunset yet warming the sweeter parts of our hearts, emotions, and memories; the “cherry” magic lingering.
Babe
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
KINDER and GENTLER, a NEW WORLD ORDER
1-24-91. 4:51 am, U. C. Davis, Davis California
KINDER and GENTLER, a NEW WORLD ORDER
You have dropped a silver quarter and heard the silver “ring” then dropped a copper-lead quarter and heard the dull “thud.” “Thud” is how the unpopular American Administration phrases, “Kinder and Gentler” and “New World Order” pounds upon, while irritating, my life’s spirit.
Peering across the 500+ history of the original natives with the European/American experience, I see not a “new order” of life but the same order that entered this domain in 1492 with theft aforethought and intentions of damaging or destroying all it could not understand.
The diseased and mentally deranged Europeans entered this hemisphere with cannons firing. Any grade-school American History book clearly shows that the Pilgrims came not so pure but with loaded muskets in one diseased hand and a Bibles in the other diseased hand. Most Americans should know through our exposure to American History that this hemisphere was claimed as private property for aliens who lived upon the European Continent, a crime unacceptable, agitating every indigenous generation.
In 1775 the Americans, with war tactics, set upon the British occupation in America. This war severed the loyalty between England and the colonies, lasted several years, and destroyed thousands of lives while multiplying and promoting hatred and distrust.
The battles between the north and the south are familiar to Americans. Its cost in human lives and in precious possessions has not yet been fully measured or appreciated.
The indigenous watched, wondering about the spiritual disturbance abundantly available to the strangers as they purchased Louisiana from the French, Florida from the Spanish, and Alaska from the Russians. In May 1846, Americans declared war upon Mexico, a military action that produced the “Treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo,” February 2, 1848. The provisions in this treaty expanded the borders claimed by America.
“New World Order” has a monotonous meaning to many indigenous people. As we watched the approach of the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria, some of us witness an invasion. Certainly the approaching threat did not come because we requested it. History clearly displays those ships entering this homeland without seeking permission to enter, a societal violation that has not qualified for pardoned and is yet in hemispheric contempt.
This arrogant maneuvering and the invasion of Mexico and south might be termed a “New World Order,” by those penetrating our homeland with disrespect and disregard for the indigenous people. The intention of the strange beings to settle upon this hemisphere created open and constant conflict between the natives and Europeans which is an act of European aggression that has not ceased, creating an act of native resistance that cannot surrender. Because of this, the coveting of my homeland by wandering strangers is vivid in my mind, vivid and putrid.
Scanning history we find continuous conflict between the natives and the invading forces. As the 13 Colonies were being established, the natives had to give ground or be slaughtered, and usually both. As the Spanish moved into Mexico, Central and South America, the natives had to give ground and be slaughtered. As the British moved into Canada, the natives had to give ground or be slaughtered, and be slaughtered while giving ground. While dreams of Democracy were blossoming all across “The land of the free,” natives gave ground and were slaughtered. After the slaughter the strangers took possession of earth and instituted an indigenous diaspora unparallelled by any Christian or non-Christian society, ever. That mentality permeates this American bureaucracy, today
Moving into a land area and talking possession of it while slaughtering all resistance in order to create a “New World” is not new to indigenous. From the first penetration of the Europeans into this land there has been, in the invading thought, an idea that there must be a radical altering of the life style and World View of the natives.
The slaughtering and damaging of native nations was a most heinous activity. As the Americans moved across the earth, our nations perished. This action was not one of kill or be killed, rather, defend your home and die, Indian! The results of that reprehensible act finds pardon within “The American Dream,” and within the sacred halls of the United Nations, but not around the fire.
Somewhere in the shallows of the European world view there is a tumor-like growth that does not allow some of them to find satisfaction. It may be a sort of distortion. One thing is certain, however, this element magnifies the anger that moves many Americans to coil like a white rattler, then strike!
Indigenous were there under the sun when the first disease infested Europeans seized the islands. We were there fishing and diving when they plundered Cuba. We were holding a prayer ceremony as they butchered indigenous and destroyed Mexico and Tenochtitlan, Guatamala, Peru, and all destinations south. We were in the rainforest when they penetrated Brazil. Today we still feel the brutal velocity of the European character that came in relentless waves of murder and destruction. From the eastern nations to the western, from the southern to the northern the natives on this hemisphere were condemned with angry slogans and attacked: “barbarians,” “cannibals,” “savages,” “prairie niggers,” “bucks and squaws,” “nits make lice,” just like the American Administration condemned the people with slogans, then attacked Panama. There is nothing “new” about this “order.”
The rhetoric emerging from the vicious attack on Grenada was no different than the rhetoric emerging from the vicious American attack on the Modocs in the lava beds or the Itam Is (First people) at Infernal Caverns, Sept, 1867, a hundred years after America began fabricating its humble and peaceful facade. It was no different from the planned destruction of Big Foot’s people at Wounded Knee, the “battle” of Sand Creek, or any other confrontation of indigenous as we defended our lives and our homelands.
Angry slogans coupled with paranoia moved the American military to attack Japan. On August 6 (Hiroshima) and August 9 (Nagasaki) the Americans dropped atomic bombs upon that nation, damaging the people there while damaging the whole earth. In this event the Americans proved their unnatural catering to hatred driven by paranoid slogans that did much damage to the world. Certainly this is not a display of a peaceful people in balance with the life forces all around.
To date that atomic attack is the only time in history that nuclear devices were used against a population, except for the constant bombing of reservations across this land in the name of technologic investigation and the dumping of atomic waste in our rivers or near our homelands in the name of progress.
Angry words moved the American military to strike the people of Korea. Angry words moved the American military to strike Viet Nam, Cambodia and Laos, and although indigenous “served” in those conflicts, angry words moved American society to pardon their activities while the bureaucracy devised schemes to sieze the homeland of the natives serving. This left the indigenous homeless in a political system that did not want the indigenous body, thought, or dream to soil their deserving lifestyle.
The Bush Administration has been in power for only two years. In those two years it has managed to incite two invasions, one into Panama, the other, Iraq. While we are led to believe that the disposing of the leader in Panama was an act of ridding the world of a drug dealer, it must be also understood that the drugs in question were destined for a demanding America. Americans needed something to somehow appease its deeper feelings of isolation and of being unwanted or unwelcome anywhere in the world. An out come of that activity also promised that Americans profiting from the Banana Republics retained the right to exploit the indigenous population. Today SCUD missiles are exploding in Israel. While the American war machine damages the Middle East with a million tons of bombs, we are told that we must destroy this “mad man,” this “maniacal being,” this barbarian” who honors only his activities of “naked aggression.”
Some of the American population wave flags to support military invasion while some of the population burn the American flag in protest of pointless war tactics. A wise native Elder sends a note to Washington, D. C. “There is no power in destructive only in creative.”
The purpose for this war, according to the Bush Administration is to clear the way for a “New World Order. We have not been told what that new “order” might be, but many of us translate it to mean, “America, President of the world.” That is not new. That attitude, that destination has been etched in blood upon this native land from the moment the intruders from Europe sliced parts off of a native person’s body to see if indigenous felt pain, only moments after touching the beautiful Caribbean islands.
There is an old story yet told in my homeland that talks of conflict which reminds me of the American Military-Industrial-Complex and general American greed:
Old Coyote was laying in the shade and became hungry, terribly hungry. He heard something shuffling in the bushes. Carefully looking under the low branches he spotted some quail, maybe a dozen of them. Silently he crept upon them while they were feeding on seeds under the leaves. They didn’t see him. He pounced! He got one quail. Reaching and grabbing in every direction while they scattered in panic, he got another. Quickly he thought that if he caught them all he would have one long satisfying meal. He stood on one quail and grabbed this way and that with his free hand. When he jumped up snapping at one in flight overhead, the one he was standing on got away into the brush, running. In the chaos a quail flew right into Coyote’s nose, “Wham!” Coyote swatted it out of the way so he could see better but he opened his hand to swat and the first quail then got away! Now he had nothing and had to work hard catching something because the quail scattered and vanished quickly. He jumped this way and that way snapping and grabbing. When the dust finally settled Old Coyote discovered that in his greed to have them all, the two that he caught got away leaving him not one feather. Old Coyote remained hungrier than ever, and more unsatisfied.
This morning the sun peered through the industrial smoke and smog hovering over Sacramento. The city being under a silent cloud, I could imagine what it must look like in Baghdad, bombed but in a moment of chaotic rest. Seeing that red glow rise slowly, I again asked myself, “Why? Why is it necessary for bombs to shatter the lives of any people anywhere in the world?”
That is the view from here. It would not be so painful for our children to be sacrificed in a war if we knew war had a useful purpose. It would not be so difficult to plan for a future, if we knew there was going to be one. Then I would not tremble, but somehow answer my ten-year-old-twin boys when they demand, “Why doesn’t George Bush go over there to war? He always says ‘we, we, we’ but he is not there, like Sonny!” As do all the children of the world, they have a right to demand a future. And children have a right to expect the American President to be there marching at the front since so many big brothers (Sonny) are there and their families are expecting them to soon be bleeding in agony.
The “New World Order” is not new at all. It is the same old order that moved the Europeans to this continent with the intention of clearing away the indigenous while creating another Europe, to create kingdoms for themselves, and to exploit nature for personal benefit. Europeans are not indigenous to this land, they are foreign. Many of them cannot understand earth or feel its life, and their actions are made manifest in their destructive deeds.
I distinctly recall Mr. Bush saying he wanted to be known as “The Education President.” Last year he cut the budget for education and scared poor people from applying to colleges if they need financial assistance. This month he is authorizing bombs to be dropped on the “Cradle of Civilization.” Maybe it is time to start history and the world all over again. That should occur when a nuclear warhead totally eliminates the Garden of Eden. And, too, maybe that is the time for Mr. Bush to begin the “Kinder and gentler” relations with the remainder of the world, should there be any. We shall see.
Sul’ma’ejote
KINDER and GENTLER, a NEW WORLD ORDER
You have dropped a silver quarter and heard the silver “ring” then dropped a copper-lead quarter and heard the dull “thud.” “Thud” is how the unpopular American Administration phrases, “Kinder and Gentler” and “New World Order” pounds upon, while irritating, my life’s spirit.
Peering across the 500+ history of the original natives with the European/American experience, I see not a “new order” of life but the same order that entered this domain in 1492 with theft aforethought and intentions of damaging or destroying all it could not understand.
The diseased and mentally deranged Europeans entered this hemisphere with cannons firing. Any grade-school American History book clearly shows that the Pilgrims came not so pure but with loaded muskets in one diseased hand and a Bibles in the other diseased hand. Most Americans should know through our exposure to American History that this hemisphere was claimed as private property for aliens who lived upon the European Continent, a crime unacceptable, agitating every indigenous generation.
In 1775 the Americans, with war tactics, set upon the British occupation in America. This war severed the loyalty between England and the colonies, lasted several years, and destroyed thousands of lives while multiplying and promoting hatred and distrust.
The battles between the north and the south are familiar to Americans. Its cost in human lives and in precious possessions has not yet been fully measured or appreciated.
The indigenous watched, wondering about the spiritual disturbance abundantly available to the strangers as they purchased Louisiana from the French, Florida from the Spanish, and Alaska from the Russians. In May 1846, Americans declared war upon Mexico, a military action that produced the “Treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo,” February 2, 1848. The provisions in this treaty expanded the borders claimed by America.
“New World Order” has a monotonous meaning to many indigenous people. As we watched the approach of the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria, some of us witness an invasion. Certainly the approaching threat did not come because we requested it. History clearly displays those ships entering this homeland without seeking permission to enter, a societal violation that has not qualified for pardoned and is yet in hemispheric contempt.
This arrogant maneuvering and the invasion of Mexico and south might be termed a “New World Order,” by those penetrating our homeland with disrespect and disregard for the indigenous people. The intention of the strange beings to settle upon this hemisphere created open and constant conflict between the natives and Europeans which is an act of European aggression that has not ceased, creating an act of native resistance that cannot surrender. Because of this, the coveting of my homeland by wandering strangers is vivid in my mind, vivid and putrid.
Scanning history we find continuous conflict between the natives and the invading forces. As the 13 Colonies were being established, the natives had to give ground or be slaughtered, and usually both. As the Spanish moved into Mexico, Central and South America, the natives had to give ground and be slaughtered. As the British moved into Canada, the natives had to give ground or be slaughtered, and be slaughtered while giving ground. While dreams of Democracy were blossoming all across “The land of the free,” natives gave ground and were slaughtered. After the slaughter the strangers took possession of earth and instituted an indigenous diaspora unparallelled by any Christian or non-Christian society, ever. That mentality permeates this American bureaucracy, today
Moving into a land area and talking possession of it while slaughtering all resistance in order to create a “New World” is not new to indigenous. From the first penetration of the Europeans into this land there has been, in the invading thought, an idea that there must be a radical altering of the life style and World View of the natives.
The slaughtering and damaging of native nations was a most heinous activity. As the Americans moved across the earth, our nations perished. This action was not one of kill or be killed, rather, defend your home and die, Indian! The results of that reprehensible act finds pardon within “The American Dream,” and within the sacred halls of the United Nations, but not around the fire.
Somewhere in the shallows of the European world view there is a tumor-like growth that does not allow some of them to find satisfaction. It may be a sort of distortion. One thing is certain, however, this element magnifies the anger that moves many Americans to coil like a white rattler, then strike!
Indigenous were there under the sun when the first disease infested Europeans seized the islands. We were there fishing and diving when they plundered Cuba. We were holding a prayer ceremony as they butchered indigenous and destroyed Mexico and Tenochtitlan, Guatamala, Peru, and all destinations south. We were in the rainforest when they penetrated Brazil. Today we still feel the brutal velocity of the European character that came in relentless waves of murder and destruction. From the eastern nations to the western, from the southern to the northern the natives on this hemisphere were condemned with angry slogans and attacked: “barbarians,” “cannibals,” “savages,” “prairie niggers,” “bucks and squaws,” “nits make lice,” just like the American Administration condemned the people with slogans, then attacked Panama. There is nothing “new” about this “order.”
The rhetoric emerging from the vicious attack on Grenada was no different than the rhetoric emerging from the vicious American attack on the Modocs in the lava beds or the Itam Is (First people) at Infernal Caverns, Sept, 1867, a hundred years after America began fabricating its humble and peaceful facade. It was no different from the planned destruction of Big Foot’s people at Wounded Knee, the “battle” of Sand Creek, or any other confrontation of indigenous as we defended our lives and our homelands.
Angry slogans coupled with paranoia moved the American military to attack Japan. On August 6 (Hiroshima) and August 9 (Nagasaki) the Americans dropped atomic bombs upon that nation, damaging the people there while damaging the whole earth. In this event the Americans proved their unnatural catering to hatred driven by paranoid slogans that did much damage to the world. Certainly this is not a display of a peaceful people in balance with the life forces all around.
To date that atomic attack is the only time in history that nuclear devices were used against a population, except for the constant bombing of reservations across this land in the name of technologic investigation and the dumping of atomic waste in our rivers or near our homelands in the name of progress.
Angry words moved the American military to strike the people of Korea. Angry words moved the American military to strike Viet Nam, Cambodia and Laos, and although indigenous “served” in those conflicts, angry words moved American society to pardon their activities while the bureaucracy devised schemes to sieze the homeland of the natives serving. This left the indigenous homeless in a political system that did not want the indigenous body, thought, or dream to soil their deserving lifestyle.
The Bush Administration has been in power for only two years. In those two years it has managed to incite two invasions, one into Panama, the other, Iraq. While we are led to believe that the disposing of the leader in Panama was an act of ridding the world of a drug dealer, it must be also understood that the drugs in question were destined for a demanding America. Americans needed something to somehow appease its deeper feelings of isolation and of being unwanted or unwelcome anywhere in the world. An out come of that activity also promised that Americans profiting from the Banana Republics retained the right to exploit the indigenous population. Today SCUD missiles are exploding in Israel. While the American war machine damages the Middle East with a million tons of bombs, we are told that we must destroy this “mad man,” this “maniacal being,” this barbarian” who honors only his activities of “naked aggression.”
Some of the American population wave flags to support military invasion while some of the population burn the American flag in protest of pointless war tactics. A wise native Elder sends a note to Washington, D. C. “There is no power in destructive only in creative.”
The purpose for this war, according to the Bush Administration is to clear the way for a “New World Order. We have not been told what that new “order” might be, but many of us translate it to mean, “America, President of the world.” That is not new. That attitude, that destination has been etched in blood upon this native land from the moment the intruders from Europe sliced parts off of a native person’s body to see if indigenous felt pain, only moments after touching the beautiful Caribbean islands.
There is an old story yet told in my homeland that talks of conflict which reminds me of the American Military-Industrial-Complex and general American greed:
Old Coyote was laying in the shade and became hungry, terribly hungry. He heard something shuffling in the bushes. Carefully looking under the low branches he spotted some quail, maybe a dozen of them. Silently he crept upon them while they were feeding on seeds under the leaves. They didn’t see him. He pounced! He got one quail. Reaching and grabbing in every direction while they scattered in panic, he got another. Quickly he thought that if he caught them all he would have one long satisfying meal. He stood on one quail and grabbed this way and that with his free hand. When he jumped up snapping at one in flight overhead, the one he was standing on got away into the brush, running. In the chaos a quail flew right into Coyote’s nose, “Wham!” Coyote swatted it out of the way so he could see better but he opened his hand to swat and the first quail then got away! Now he had nothing and had to work hard catching something because the quail scattered and vanished quickly. He jumped this way and that way snapping and grabbing. When the dust finally settled Old Coyote discovered that in his greed to have them all, the two that he caught got away leaving him not one feather. Old Coyote remained hungrier than ever, and more unsatisfied.
This morning the sun peered through the industrial smoke and smog hovering over Sacramento. The city being under a silent cloud, I could imagine what it must look like in Baghdad, bombed but in a moment of chaotic rest. Seeing that red glow rise slowly, I again asked myself, “Why? Why is it necessary for bombs to shatter the lives of any people anywhere in the world?”
That is the view from here. It would not be so painful for our children to be sacrificed in a war if we knew war had a useful purpose. It would not be so difficult to plan for a future, if we knew there was going to be one. Then I would not tremble, but somehow answer my ten-year-old-twin boys when they demand, “Why doesn’t George Bush go over there to war? He always says ‘we, we, we’ but he is not there, like Sonny!” As do all the children of the world, they have a right to demand a future. And children have a right to expect the American President to be there marching at the front since so many big brothers (Sonny) are there and their families are expecting them to soon be bleeding in agony.
The “New World Order” is not new at all. It is the same old order that moved the Europeans to this continent with the intention of clearing away the indigenous while creating another Europe, to create kingdoms for themselves, and to exploit nature for personal benefit. Europeans are not indigenous to this land, they are foreign. Many of them cannot understand earth or feel its life, and their actions are made manifest in their destructive deeds.
I distinctly recall Mr. Bush saying he wanted to be known as “The Education President.” Last year he cut the budget for education and scared poor people from applying to colleges if they need financial assistance. This month he is authorizing bombs to be dropped on the “Cradle of Civilization.” Maybe it is time to start history and the world all over again. That should occur when a nuclear warhead totally eliminates the Garden of Eden. And, too, maybe that is the time for Mr. Bush to begin the “Kinder and gentler” relations with the remainder of the world, should there be any. We shall see.
Sul’ma’ejote
Thursday, November 13, 2008
WEHELU PEACEMAKER, Craven Gibson
[Should indigenous Historians cease parroting this fabricated and calculated thing, “American History,” and take a deep, fresh breath after opening the window to look out on a new dawn, please let us correct this “warrior” image because it is false, deliberately, and in its falsity leads weak brains to accept that which has never been true concerning indigenous of this hemisphere]
WEHELU PEACEMAKER, Craven Gibson
Atwum (Big Valley, NE California. Mt Shasta 30-miles north. Mt Lassen 29-miles south). According to our lessons and legends given to us by our Elders (which many of us did not pay attention to because we were busy growing up and we were pup-dumb), it takes a certain qualification to become hisnawa. Hisnawa means “warrior,” and it often means “Young warrior.” Not just anybody can become a warrior.
Later, at her home in Burney, Gramma Lela Rhoades, further instructed my brothers, cousins and I about these things. She was not really my DNA “Gramma,” but she was the mother of my foster mother and the boys of our families called each other “cousin,” so that settled it. She was “Gramma..” We youngsters were new at being English-colonized and Gramma was not practiced at the English language, either. We did not understand her native dialect much, but with help from my foster mother, “Tiny,” Gramma again explained to us the original rules that we must fulfill before we could become a warrior in the “old way,” a goal that we must always reach for.
It was in the 1940’s. Hollywood and history books were busy characterizing indigenous beings as blood thirsty savages living only to attack and burn the wagon trains of peaceful, God- fearing pioneers who were innocently looking for 600-million acres to take by military force, and a hundred-million Indians to kill. Text books and the movie industry displayed that the indigenous were a population devoid of feeling and emotion so it could not hurt for us to die a mangled death – especially after the assault of the Army, the “Good guys.”
The American culture pointed out that there was unequivocal proof of indigenous callousness because, in theaters across “The land of the free,” young natives did not cheer when the Cavalry came “Ta-ta-ta-taing” in at the last moment in the show, natives bleeding, broken and splattered all over the place.
Gramma said:
A warrior is strong and use his strength to care for the people
A warrior is peaceful to everyone
A warrior does not wait for peace to come. He take peace and offer it first
A warrior is good hunter, fisher, tracker. He can run over mountain run down and catch 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, responsible
A warrior never thinks of self first, but others
A warrior dance for earth
A warrior take children to flower in meadow
A warrior have good heart, take to people in need
Above all, warrior respect “way” and Aponi’ha (Great Universal Powers)
It was the middle of the 1960’s, turmoil and revolutions all around. From many fires (African, Oriental, LaRaza, This homeland) there was a cry for justice and respect. The younger generation was not listening when wisdom spoke. Some of us in our mountain tribe were furious because America kept taking from us and giving to strangers whatever it took from us. The Americans and the strangers said that everything belonged to them because God made everything just for them. We could not agree with God or the strangers. Some of us younger ones decided to strike back, an eye for an eye.
We made plans. True, our logistics were flawed, but we were in a hurry. We gathered a variety of old, rusty guns, most of them without bullets. Angry with America, we went back to Craven’s home for his approval of our war plan. He was home. We filled his little house and spilled over into the yard. We laid out our plan. He thought and thought, then, he squeezed into a small back room emerging with an old, broken, weary, rusty rifle. He must have found it after the first battle ages ago.
Where we could all see, he dusted it off then looked around the room with sad, old eyes and said, “Outside, yard.” We thundered out, old home swaying. He gathered us in a circle, him in the center with his rifle. He chanted then spun the rifle over his head and danced. He passed the rifle behind from hand to hand while dancing and chanting. Then rifle was overhead spinning once more. He stopped singing and dancing and held rifle with both hands overhead.
He was out of breath but said, “This (dance and chant), dis’wassi’wi.” “This (still holding the rifle up and shaking it) not our way.” He looked upon us searching our faces, searching our hearts. We came to him for war approval but he said the rifle was not our “way.” Dis’wassi’wi seemed like approval, but then…. We were confused and disarmed in our confusion.
Again his old, cloudy-blue eyes searched our hearts. He was looking for understanding within us. His tired face turned to each of us and his eyes that have seen many seasons pierced our aspirations. He gave a slight nod with his white head and something like eagle power wrapped around him. He said,
“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 valley evening filled with mosquitoes. He returned to his 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 so I could not forget. Arriving at camp I read his words again. I pondered there under the stars. Over the velvet evening again I heard Gramma Lela’s explanation of a warrior in our “way.” When my spirit heard her say, “A warrior take peace and offer it first,” I cried.
Late, I flopped into bed and dreamed. At a table Craven was there with the great Generals of the world. The Generals got up, went to their Captains and ordered them to dismissed their mighty armies, then gathered at the table again. In a silent contest they were seeing who could offer peace first. I snapped awake from that beautiful dream and thought, “Yes Craven is a warrior, a great warrior and he must be honored above all Generals for all time.”
In my heart I called him Wehelu Peacemaker (Chief Peacemaker).
Sul’ma’ejote
WEHELU PEACEMAKER, Craven Gibson
Atwum (Big Valley, NE California. Mt Shasta 30-miles north. Mt Lassen 29-miles south). According to our lessons and legends given to us by our Elders (which many of us did not pay attention to because we were busy growing up and we were pup-dumb), it takes a certain qualification to become hisnawa. Hisnawa means “warrior,” and it often means “Young warrior.” Not just anybody can become a warrior.
Later, at her home in Burney, Gramma Lela Rhoades, further instructed my brothers, cousins and I about these things. She was not really my DNA “Gramma,” but she was the mother of my foster mother and the boys of our families called each other “cousin,” so that settled it. She was “Gramma..” We youngsters were new at being English-colonized and Gramma was not practiced at the English language, either. We did not understand her native dialect much, but with help from my foster mother, “Tiny,” Gramma again explained to us the original rules that we must fulfill before we could become a warrior in the “old way,” a goal that we must always reach for.
It was in the 1940’s. Hollywood and history books were busy characterizing indigenous beings as blood thirsty savages living only to attack and burn the wagon trains of peaceful, God- fearing pioneers who were innocently looking for 600-million acres to take by military force, and a hundred-million Indians to kill. Text books and the movie industry displayed that the indigenous were a population devoid of feeling and emotion so it could not hurt for us to die a mangled death – especially after the assault of the Army, the “Good guys.”
The American culture pointed out that there was unequivocal proof of indigenous callousness because, in theaters across “The land of the free,” young natives did not cheer when the Cavalry came “Ta-ta-ta-taing” in at the last moment in the show, natives bleeding, broken and splattered all over the place.
Gramma said:
A warrior is strong and use his strength to care for the people
A warrior is peaceful to everyone
A warrior does not wait for peace to come. He take peace and offer it first
A warrior is good hunter, fisher, tracker. He can run over mountain run down and catch 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, responsible
A warrior never thinks of self first, but others
A warrior dance for earth
A warrior take children to flower in meadow
A warrior have good heart, take to people in need
Above all, warrior respect “way” and Aponi’ha (Great Universal Powers)
It was the middle of the 1960’s, turmoil and revolutions all around. From many fires (African, Oriental, LaRaza, This homeland) there was a cry for justice and respect. The younger generation was not listening when wisdom spoke. Some of us in our mountain tribe were furious because America kept taking from us and giving to strangers whatever it took from us. The Americans and the strangers said that everything belonged to them because God made everything just for them. We could not agree with God or the strangers. Some of us younger ones decided to strike back, an eye for an eye.
We made plans. True, our logistics were flawed, but we were in a hurry. We gathered a variety of old, rusty guns, most of them without bullets. Angry with America, we went back to Craven’s home for his approval of our war plan. He was home. We filled his little house and spilled over into the yard. We laid out our plan. He thought and thought, then, he squeezed into a small back room emerging with an old, broken, weary, rusty rifle. He must have found it after the first battle ages ago.
Where we could all see, he dusted it off then looked around the room with sad, old eyes and said, “Outside, yard.” We thundered out, old home swaying. He gathered us in a circle, him in the center with his rifle. He chanted then spun the rifle over his head and danced. He passed the rifle behind from hand to hand while dancing and chanting. Then rifle was overhead spinning once more. He stopped singing and dancing and held rifle with both hands overhead.
He was out of breath but said, “This (dance and chant), dis’wassi’wi.” “This (still holding the rifle up and shaking it) not our way.” He looked upon us searching our faces, searching our hearts. We came to him for war approval but he said the rifle was not our “way.” Dis’wassi’wi seemed like approval, but then…. We were confused and disarmed in our confusion.
Again his old, cloudy-blue eyes searched our hearts. He was looking for understanding within us. His tired face turned to each of us and his eyes that have seen many seasons pierced our aspirations. He gave a slight nod with his white head and something like eagle power wrapped around him. He said,
“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 valley evening filled with mosquitoes. He returned to his 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 so I could not forget. Arriving at camp I read his words again. I pondered there under the stars. Over the velvet evening again I heard Gramma Lela’s explanation of a warrior in our “way.” When my spirit heard her say, “A warrior take peace and offer it first,” I cried.
Late, I flopped into bed and dreamed. At a table Craven was there with the great Generals of the world. The Generals got up, went to their Captains and ordered them to dismissed their mighty armies, then gathered at the table again. In a silent contest they were seeing who could offer peace first. I snapped awake from that beautiful dream and thought, “Yes Craven is a warrior, a great warrior and he must be honored above all Generals for all time.”
In my heart I called him Wehelu Peacemaker (Chief Peacemaker).
Sul’ma’ejote
Sunday, November 9, 2008
CUAUHXIHUITL, PRAYER
CUAUHXIHUITL, PRAYER
November 7, 2008
I read again her letter. Then I went to a hill top overlooking the valley. Cuauhxihuitl is traveling from Peru. She went to Machu Picchu and made a ceremony and prayer for many of us. Now she is on her way home but stopped in Mexico for a four day prayer ceremony for us all, whatever and wherever we may be. I made my way through the sun and shade of Nahok (Autumn), calling deer and rabbits, coyotes and hawks and I tried calling a Blue Eagle. Several deer appeared and hawks and crows and squirrels, but no coyotes or blue eagles.
Her words came to me again: “I am holding my own fire in the cave.” “ I am asking for your love and prayers, especially during the last few days of the ceremony.”
Then, a little deer appeared under a little tree as if by magic. It looked at me, then wiggled its ears and its tail. I cast a thought to the deer saying, “Doseji (Little deer), Cuauhxihuitl wants your thoughts and prayers at this time. Do you have a thought for her?”
Little deer looked through me, then turned and looked into a distance in the south that I can only imagine. Its head came up proud. Both of its ears focused south, listening intently. Like a statue it held that perfect posture, thinking. Then deer relaxed and continued the hunt for acorns. But in that statuesque motion little deer seemed to say, as it peered south, “I too, am very proud of your accomplishments, Little Eagle. From the deer family I send thanks for all of us forgotten ones being included in your prayers.” Deer swished its tail then delicately stepped into the shade of the forest and vanished.
From among the great universal powers, the Great Mysteries, Grampa Ramsey appeared there under the autumn sun, like he was a photo reflecting from clear, clean glass. He eyes sparkled, he giggled what I call a horse-giggle then said, “Cuauhxihuit, Spimami (Cuauhxihuitl, I see you). Hataji spimami jeskehar ( My heart sees your thoughts and prayers). Tusi jeskahara tolol nika (It is good you think of everyone and everything just now). Ina’lum’qotmi (My heart belongs to you). Hay’la’cheska, Akwir la’cheska (I love you, we love you).” I wondered how Grampa could pronounce her name so clearly because he went away from us almost 25-years ago. Then I thought that they must have met many times in their dreams.
With quiet and dignified confidence Grandfather melted into the cool autumn sunshine. Departing, he again gave his horse-giggled and said, “Cuauhxihuitl jeskahar Ju’wa yamakela.” (Cuauhxihuitl thinks of all Grandmothers).
I could think of nothing to add to the message of deer or the message of Grandfather so looked south, asking a cloud to deliver this message, then, there under the autumn season I cried, because I am here without purpose and she is there with so many. Akon
Note: Cuauhxihuitl calls me Akon. Akon means, Grampa
November 7, 2008
I read again her letter. Then I went to a hill top overlooking the valley. Cuauhxihuitl is traveling from Peru. She went to Machu Picchu and made a ceremony and prayer for many of us. Now she is on her way home but stopped in Mexico for a four day prayer ceremony for us all, whatever and wherever we may be. I made my way through the sun and shade of Nahok (Autumn), calling deer and rabbits, coyotes and hawks and I tried calling a Blue Eagle. Several deer appeared and hawks and crows and squirrels, but no coyotes or blue eagles.
Her words came to me again: “I am holding my own fire in the cave.” “ I am asking for your love and prayers, especially during the last few days of the ceremony.”
Then, a little deer appeared under a little tree as if by magic. It looked at me, then wiggled its ears and its tail. I cast a thought to the deer saying, “Doseji (Little deer), Cuauhxihuitl wants your thoughts and prayers at this time. Do you have a thought for her?”
Little deer looked through me, then turned and looked into a distance in the south that I can only imagine. Its head came up proud. Both of its ears focused south, listening intently. Like a statue it held that perfect posture, thinking. Then deer relaxed and continued the hunt for acorns. But in that statuesque motion little deer seemed to say, as it peered south, “I too, am very proud of your accomplishments, Little Eagle. From the deer family I send thanks for all of us forgotten ones being included in your prayers.” Deer swished its tail then delicately stepped into the shade of the forest and vanished.
From among the great universal powers, the Great Mysteries, Grampa Ramsey appeared there under the autumn sun, like he was a photo reflecting from clear, clean glass. He eyes sparkled, he giggled what I call a horse-giggle then said, “Cuauhxihuit, Spimami (Cuauhxihuitl, I see you). Hataji spimami jeskehar ( My heart sees your thoughts and prayers). Tusi jeskahara tolol nika (It is good you think of everyone and everything just now). Ina’lum’qotmi (My heart belongs to you). Hay’la’cheska, Akwir la’cheska (I love you, we love you).” I wondered how Grampa could pronounce her name so clearly because he went away from us almost 25-years ago. Then I thought that they must have met many times in their dreams.
With quiet and dignified confidence Grandfather melted into the cool autumn sunshine. Departing, he again gave his horse-giggled and said, “Cuauhxihuitl jeskahar Ju’wa yamakela.” (Cuauhxihuitl thinks of all Grandmothers).
I could think of nothing to add to the message of deer or the message of Grandfather so looked south, asking a cloud to deliver this message, then, there under the autumn season I cried, because I am here without purpose and she is there with so many. Akon
Note: Cuauhxihuitl calls me Akon. Akon means, Grampa
Friday, November 7, 2008
ET’WI (Eagle)
March 16, 1984, Bo’ma’rhee (Fall River Mills, CA), morning
(Polished, U. C. Davis, February 16, 1991, 6:11 am)
ET’WI (Eagle)
[To keep the record straight, Ramsey Bone Blake was not my DNA Grandfather. He was married to my father’s great aunt. He was “uncle” in my youth, but after my generation began having children he automatically changed into “Grampa,” because he had a good heart and we liked him]
With the words of an old Grandmother, Ah’poni’ha, mee’moo’ischi’ee (Great Mystery, we are you little children) swimming within my spirit, my twin boys and I went to Grampa Ramsey Bone Blake’s home. Jo’ji (bone) is one of his “real” names but his father worked for a white man named Blake. That is how his father acquired that name. Ramsey lived in a little apartment between Fall River Mills and McArthur, overlooking It Ajuma (Pit River). To the north across the flat valley and looking over the mountains, Ako Yet (Mount Shasta) stood strong, heavy and frozen.
Sun was white-gold and frigid. Wind moved but with chilly reluctance. Frosted leaves in his driveway scurried in a swirl, stirred by an invisible, icy finger. Earlier, the engine of our old truck growled and died. It did not want to go to work today. We did not relish working in the frozen atmosphere either (cutting wood), so we went to Grampa’s for warm milk and cookies.
We had just killed a buck so we took some back strap to Grampa. The old ones of our life appreciate good meat and they prefer heart, liver and back strap of the deer. With fried potatoes, greasy gravy and warm biscuits, the back strap is delicious, so delicious that it must be tasted with the heart of your life-spirit.
He was at his plain little table in his worn apartment. Instant coffee, a cup and a spoon were on the table and steaming water was on the stove. When he saw my little boys he began heating milk in an old pan. Soon they were having warm milk and cookies. Ramsey had just finished breakfast and was reading from his almost ragged Bible. His countenance was one of surprise and happiness to see us, but there was a strange thickness to his manner. Somehow I knew that he wanted to talk. He always called it “Talk that doesn’t mean anything anyhow.” But I always delighted in listening to him because he had so much substance, depth and historic meaning in his “talk.” It was not gossip or news. It was a lesson in life and the “way,” wisdom passed to this generation.
After shaking his hand (which was like shaking the hand of a stout thirty-year-old weight lifter who was really ninety-years-old), I accepted a cup of coffee and while the twins rolled around on his floor spilling warm milk on the shaggy carpet and bouncing off the bed like little cubs, he talked. I listened.
He put both hands on the table and opened them like one would open a book, softly but deliberately, expecting the page that one searched for to fall open at the proper place. With sober graying eyes he looked out the window into a past that had no limit to time and into a future that had no boundary. His eyes did not focus upon anything in particular, but he saw life in its totality. He was solemn. His bottom lip trembled slightly and his hands vibrated just a little from his memories. Silence was thick all around us.
Then he forced a smile and his countenance softened. He reminded me of a balding white-haired Elmer Fudd. His eyes twinkled and he began.
“People don’t believe me what I am telling. It true.
“When I young and before I was buckaroo, I dream of being Medicine Man, powerful doctor. I want Elamji (spirit power) tame many Damaa’goomes, capture and tame dini’howes. In this way I am strong medicine doctor. I have power. I want powerfulness. White Horse Bob taught me one song. The one Qon (Silver Fox) sing when he make world. That White Horse Bob Dini’howe, that song.
“I try. I got cleansing, went to Rainbow Falls. Run there early in morning. I talk. Spirits not answer. I got ‘nother cleansing and travel to En’ehal’ewi (Falls on It Ajuma in the big canyon near Fall River Mills). I got cleansing again and run to I’paa’ka’ma (Bald Mountain), to top. I talk, I holler. Again, spirit not answer. Grandmother tell me get cleansing then go Sa’tit (Medicine Lake), to stay ‘til power claim me. Maybe I return too soon. Maybe I was not strong enough. Maybe I was shy.
“White Horse Bob say get purification, go into Pit River Canyon (between Little Valley and Big Valley). There I find cave. It will not be big. It will be small one. That place not look like power-place but it is. It will fool you.
“He say I find old tree hang ‘cross, high over river. It not reach other side, so I run length of tree and jump far and reach other side. I needed to reach cave. I need Dini’howe
“White Horse Bob say big spider live there. It curl up in corner by roof. It have red mark on belly. That is how I know it proper place.
“After my old people cleanse me I find cave and cross over on danger tree – like White Horse Bob say to be. I brave. Some power pull me into canyon, into cave. When I enter it dark, but ‘nough lite to see after a while. Spider was there. It not curl up but hang in net, red mark on belly – just like White Horse said it was to be.
“Spider not like me. Cave not want me. So I go to Big Valley few days, “wandering” before I went home. For my Dini’howis, I choose Ro’nee’wee (Origin of Thunder) Ch’art’esee (Origin of lightening power) and Et’wi (eagle, white). Just some how, white eagle seem powerfulness.
I pray. I pray. I pray. I do every thing like told but I not have strength to have power. They tell me jump in Jema’wehelu’tiwiji (Burney Falls). I do. They tell me fast. I do. They say ‘be dreamer.’ I dream many dreams. But still I not medicine man. I not have power tame Dini’howis, Damaa’goomis (spirit helpers required for doctors and medicine persons).
“It seem I sick, something – dizzy. Something not right. Something wrong. I not know what could be. I not think ‘bout womans. I not think ‘bout drinks. I not think ‘bout bad things but good. Still….
“Day I know not have power come. I home, door open. Thunder pound sky. Try break it! Through door I see lightning flash far past the valley. Then flash far past mountains, goin’ away. It fade. Thunder beat sky but goin’ away. It go ‘cross valley and roll heavy down canyon. It fade to quietness.
“Like spirit, like clean window, Et’wi, White Eagle, land in door. It fold wings look side to side. It look all ‘round but not look at me. Et’wi have yellow eyes, black in middle, and yellow feet. Rest look white eagle but small, black feather over each eye. Claws make scrape and thud when grab board on porch.
‘It say nothing, just look but not at me. Then turn, look over left shoulder. With move it in air, glide ‘cross valley. Like thunder, lightening, it fade, leave no shadow. It glide up, over mountain in west, just like thunder, lightening, vanish.
‘Then I know I not be Medicine Man, not have “power.” Rejected. Power no want me. I no have strength overcome it.”
I do not remember breathing through his entire story. After a long silence we made fresh coffee and small talked. He got the boys more cookies and milk. When we finished our refreshments we left Grampa for our little home in the solitude of the Great Canyon, there on the eastern end under the Hat Creek Rim.
Grampa left many stories with me, some that I am recording for my children so they will somehow know the strength and conviction it takes to become a person-of-power, a Medicine Man. Then, perhaps, they will not flit across earth taking titles like “Pipe Carrier.” “Road Man,” “Medicine Man,” from people who have no authority to issue them. “Power” and “Medicine” are not elements of life issued by people. They are pure parts to the Great Wonders that must be earned, deserved, maintained, and something one was born to receive.
During the full moon of October, 1984, Grampa left us. Like Et’wi, his spirit floated over the valley leaving no shadow. It glided up over the western range, climbing with the wind whispering under its power, and vanished. Our little world seemed empty, again. We wept.
* Damaa’gomis and Dini’howes are spirit/power helpers. It is said the life spirit of the male being is weak without one or the other.
(Polished, U. C. Davis, February 16, 1991, 6:11 am)
ET’WI (Eagle)
[To keep the record straight, Ramsey Bone Blake was not my DNA Grandfather. He was married to my father’s great aunt. He was “uncle” in my youth, but after my generation began having children he automatically changed into “Grampa,” because he had a good heart and we liked him]
With the words of an old Grandmother, Ah’poni’ha, mee’moo’ischi’ee (Great Mystery, we are you little children) swimming within my spirit, my twin boys and I went to Grampa Ramsey Bone Blake’s home. Jo’ji (bone) is one of his “real” names but his father worked for a white man named Blake. That is how his father acquired that name. Ramsey lived in a little apartment between Fall River Mills and McArthur, overlooking It Ajuma (Pit River). To the north across the flat valley and looking over the mountains, Ako Yet (Mount Shasta) stood strong, heavy and frozen.
Sun was white-gold and frigid. Wind moved but with chilly reluctance. Frosted leaves in his driveway scurried in a swirl, stirred by an invisible, icy finger. Earlier, the engine of our old truck growled and died. It did not want to go to work today. We did not relish working in the frozen atmosphere either (cutting wood), so we went to Grampa’s for warm milk and cookies.
We had just killed a buck so we took some back strap to Grampa. The old ones of our life appreciate good meat and they prefer heart, liver and back strap of the deer. With fried potatoes, greasy gravy and warm biscuits, the back strap is delicious, so delicious that it must be tasted with the heart of your life-spirit.
He was at his plain little table in his worn apartment. Instant coffee, a cup and a spoon were on the table and steaming water was on the stove. When he saw my little boys he began heating milk in an old pan. Soon they were having warm milk and cookies. Ramsey had just finished breakfast and was reading from his almost ragged Bible. His countenance was one of surprise and happiness to see us, but there was a strange thickness to his manner. Somehow I knew that he wanted to talk. He always called it “Talk that doesn’t mean anything anyhow.” But I always delighted in listening to him because he had so much substance, depth and historic meaning in his “talk.” It was not gossip or news. It was a lesson in life and the “way,” wisdom passed to this generation.
After shaking his hand (which was like shaking the hand of a stout thirty-year-old weight lifter who was really ninety-years-old), I accepted a cup of coffee and while the twins rolled around on his floor spilling warm milk on the shaggy carpet and bouncing off the bed like little cubs, he talked. I listened.
He put both hands on the table and opened them like one would open a book, softly but deliberately, expecting the page that one searched for to fall open at the proper place. With sober graying eyes he looked out the window into a past that had no limit to time and into a future that had no boundary. His eyes did not focus upon anything in particular, but he saw life in its totality. He was solemn. His bottom lip trembled slightly and his hands vibrated just a little from his memories. Silence was thick all around us.
Then he forced a smile and his countenance softened. He reminded me of a balding white-haired Elmer Fudd. His eyes twinkled and he began.
“People don’t believe me what I am telling. It true.
“When I young and before I was buckaroo, I dream of being Medicine Man, powerful doctor. I want Elamji (spirit power) tame many Damaa’goomes, capture and tame dini’howes. In this way I am strong medicine doctor. I have power. I want powerfulness. White Horse Bob taught me one song. The one Qon (Silver Fox) sing when he make world. That White Horse Bob Dini’howe, that song.
“I try. I got cleansing, went to Rainbow Falls. Run there early in morning. I talk. Spirits not answer. I got ‘nother cleansing and travel to En’ehal’ewi (Falls on It Ajuma in the big canyon near Fall River Mills). I got cleansing again and run to I’paa’ka’ma (Bald Mountain), to top. I talk, I holler. Again, spirit not answer. Grandmother tell me get cleansing then go Sa’tit (Medicine Lake), to stay ‘til power claim me. Maybe I return too soon. Maybe I was not strong enough. Maybe I was shy.
“White Horse Bob say get purification, go into Pit River Canyon (between Little Valley and Big Valley). There I find cave. It will not be big. It will be small one. That place not look like power-place but it is. It will fool you.
“He say I find old tree hang ‘cross, high over river. It not reach other side, so I run length of tree and jump far and reach other side. I needed to reach cave. I need Dini’howe
“White Horse Bob say big spider live there. It curl up in corner by roof. It have red mark on belly. That is how I know it proper place.
“After my old people cleanse me I find cave and cross over on danger tree – like White Horse Bob say to be. I brave. Some power pull me into canyon, into cave. When I enter it dark, but ‘nough lite to see after a while. Spider was there. It not curl up but hang in net, red mark on belly – just like White Horse said it was to be.
“Spider not like me. Cave not want me. So I go to Big Valley few days, “wandering” before I went home. For my Dini’howis, I choose Ro’nee’wee (Origin of Thunder) Ch’art’esee (Origin of lightening power) and Et’wi (eagle, white). Just some how, white eagle seem powerfulness.
I pray. I pray. I pray. I do every thing like told but I not have strength to have power. They tell me jump in Jema’wehelu’tiwiji (Burney Falls). I do. They tell me fast. I do. They say ‘be dreamer.’ I dream many dreams. But still I not medicine man. I not have power tame Dini’howis, Damaa’goomis (spirit helpers required for doctors and medicine persons).
“It seem I sick, something – dizzy. Something not right. Something wrong. I not know what could be. I not think ‘bout womans. I not think ‘bout drinks. I not think ‘bout bad things but good. Still….
“Day I know not have power come. I home, door open. Thunder pound sky. Try break it! Through door I see lightning flash far past the valley. Then flash far past mountains, goin’ away. It fade. Thunder beat sky but goin’ away. It go ‘cross valley and roll heavy down canyon. It fade to quietness.
“Like spirit, like clean window, Et’wi, White Eagle, land in door. It fold wings look side to side. It look all ‘round but not look at me. Et’wi have yellow eyes, black in middle, and yellow feet. Rest look white eagle but small, black feather over each eye. Claws make scrape and thud when grab board on porch.
‘It say nothing, just look but not at me. Then turn, look over left shoulder. With move it in air, glide ‘cross valley. Like thunder, lightening, it fade, leave no shadow. It glide up, over mountain in west, just like thunder, lightening, vanish.
‘Then I know I not be Medicine Man, not have “power.” Rejected. Power no want me. I no have strength overcome it.”
I do not remember breathing through his entire story. After a long silence we made fresh coffee and small talked. He got the boys more cookies and milk. When we finished our refreshments we left Grampa for our little home in the solitude of the Great Canyon, there on the eastern end under the Hat Creek Rim.
Grampa left many stories with me, some that I am recording for my children so they will somehow know the strength and conviction it takes to become a person-of-power, a Medicine Man. Then, perhaps, they will not flit across earth taking titles like “Pipe Carrier.” “Road Man,” “Medicine Man,” from people who have no authority to issue them. “Power” and “Medicine” are not elements of life issued by people. They are pure parts to the Great Wonders that must be earned, deserved, maintained, and something one was born to receive.
During the full moon of October, 1984, Grampa left us. Like Et’wi, his spirit floated over the valley leaving no shadow. It glided up over the western range, climbing with the wind whispering under its power, and vanished. Our little world seemed empty, again. We wept.
* Damaa’gomis and Dini’howes are spirit/power helpers. It is said the life spirit of the male being is weak without one or the other.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
