RIVERS – MEDICINE SIGNS – AND HEALING SONGS

 

Maybe I am abusing the patience and goodwill of readers but I have one more blog of memories to post before I move on.

I have to laugh at myself at times when I recall childhood adventures and wonder that I emerged into adulthood intact.

I ran the woods like they were my personal domain, at times stalking imaginary foes with a child’s bow and arrows in hand – I would have taken on anything and anyone, and I never had a child’s fear of the dark.

I would log ride down the river sometimes and once during spring runoff got carried miles downstream and spent hours walking home to arrive at night to a worried mother and grandmother as preparations were being made to look for me.

No tongue lashing, no corporal punishment, just the shame and regret of knowing I had caused unnecessary worry and fear as it was expressed to me.

The agent hope was pinned upon was that I was in the company of the hounds, my ever present companions who would trudge along with me wherever I went, wait if necessary, and greet me joyously when I returned.

A demonstration of their unconditional faithfulness was they ran along the river bank barking and yelping furiously during the entirety of my infamous log ride and waded out to meet me when I was able to begin swimming ashore – what a ride.

I was far enough downriver to be in unfamiliar territory but knew I need only follow the river back – what a bedraggled mess we must have looked like when we, boy and dogs, got home limping with bruised and cut feet and paws looking the worse for wear.

In the following days I made something of an effort to stick close to home, within hailing distance, but nature’s lure would not be denied and soon I was running my favorite haunts again, as I grew older a confidence set in with my mother and grandmother that I knew what I was about after extracting a promise not to log ride anymore at least until I was no longer as young as I was.

Other times a friend of mine and I would fashion faux spears with rags and grass tied around the end to soften the impact and using a battered garbage can lid or something we fashioned as a shield, mount up and attack each other attempting to either count coup or unseat the other – a form of something referred to as jousting I later learned.

Our heroes weren’t movie stars, Buffalo Bill, Custer, dead presidents, rock bands or sports figures, they were warriors of the nations and that was who we pretended to be, who we wanted to be like.

Not content with “jousting” we would collect empty 30/30 shell casings and snug them down on the ends of our arrows, separate going in different directions and then begin hunting each other.

Even a child’s bow can launch a projectile with enough force to sting and raise a welt if close enough, but with the added weight of the shell casings making our arrows nose heavy and the limited draw strength of our bows distance and accuracy were of a questionable nature, no real harm, no real foul, and there was never any animosity, respect was shown for a well executed plan.

And while mothers and grandmothers would express concern and caution about eyes and such I believe they understood it was the acting out of a genetic memory, it wasn’t like we had toys, bicycles, cellphones, and gaming consoles to entertain ourselves with.

Winter and ice on ponds, lakes, and rivers signaled the beginning of hockey, or more accurately something resembling a combination of hockey, la crosse, and a free for all – no finesse or rules I can recall just pure competition.

If someone would have attempted to tell us it isn’t about winning but how you play the game we would have shook our heads in disbelief because it was about winning and a lack of effort to that end would have been frowned upon if not ridiculed.

Russell Means in one of his attempts to sound “spiritual” once made the statement that as ndn’s we don’t compete with one another, a statement made for the non indigenous as so much of what he said was because when it’s game time it’s on, we compete, end of story.

Doctors were an ephemeral lot, a scarce commodity seldom in anything that could be considered proximity – once I am told when I was a year old I developed what is known as the croup and became very feverish,

Grandmother had been away for a couple of days, was sent for, and when she arrived my fever had become high enough I had some sort of convulsions.

Grandmother bundled me up grabbed an ax and with my mother and the hounds in tow took me to a frozen river, chopped a hole in the ice and “baptized” me a time or two to break the fever.

It was said that on the final dunking as she began to raise me an otter rose with me with it’s front paws on my back pushing or helping to lift me – a medicine sign taken to be a good omen.

Once back in the house grandmother brewed one of her medicines, dosed me with it, wrapped me in a blanket, burned sage, smudged me with the ashes, and held me to her body warmth singing healing songs.

My mother felt helpless and like any mother wanted to hold and comfort me, but in such instances grandmother had her mojo going, was trusted, deferred to, and wouldn’t broker any interference in the course she took.

Obviously I recovered, and while the river dunking may sound primitive or even ill advised to some I would point out patients in hospitals patients running a high fever are at times packed in ice in an effort to break the fever.

I believe I survived the convulsions and baptism none the worse for wear with my mental faculties intact – though there may be those who would argue the point.

 

 

 

ENLIGHTENMENT

The Bo tree has a long association with Buddhism, it is said that Siddhartha Gautama gained enlightenment while sitting under it’s branches pondering life and the nature of existence.

I read a great book by the German author Hermann Hesse entitled Siddhartha and have known a few Buddhists.

What has impressed me most was their equanimity of spirit and adherence to non violence.

The photo is of a young Bo tree less than a year old belonging to a friend, they are part of the ficus family and can grow quite large depending on conditions and are characterized by their heart shaped leaves – a pattern that seems fitting.

This one was somewhat stunted due to being root bound, after suggesting several times that it be transplanted to a larger pot it has begun to flourish.

OLETA

I remember the first banana split I had, it was like a spiritual awakening, for some reason or another grandmother and I were in a store something like a five and dime that had a kind of soda/ lunch counter.

All the stools were empty and as I wandered by I noticed a poster featuring a banana split, I thought it was magnificent, other worldly, as I stood gazing raptly at it while attempting to be inconspicuous, the waitress following my gaze said it looked pretty good didn’t it and asked if I wanted one?

Not knowing what else to say I asked her what it was? I’m not sure if she was stunned or thought I was putting her on but she said “it’s a banana split, don’t tell me you never had one”.

I confessed I had not and she asked again if I wanted one?

Feeling cornered and a little embarrassed I asked how much they were and she replied how much did I have?

Rooting around in my pockets I came up with twenty some cents, showed her and she said I was in luck, there was a banana split special that very day and I had the exact amount.

My excitement cup overflowed at the sheer blind luck of it.

Even better when grandmother came looking for me and sat down beside me as I offered to share with her and the waitress said she had made a mistake and I had actually paid for two.

Grandmother looked at me for verification and assuming the waitress knew better than I did I nodded my head in assent – hey, I was seven or eight years old how could I have known whether I had overpaid or not? Besides, respecting my elders was something I had been taught……anyway that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

I thought Grandmother once having dived into hers might swoon on that very spot, later in a nonchalant offhanded sort of way grandmother allowed that it was something of a marvel that I knew she would be joining me and had already paid for hers – I just kinda smiled and nodded my head once again in assent.

Years later in another state, another city, Seattle, when I was about seventeen or eighteen that very woman stopped me on the street and asked me if I’d ever had a banana split?

She looked familiar to me as we drew near to one another but the minute she said banana split the light went on and I recognized her – I told her it was my turn to buy but she said she was watching her weight and would settle for a cup of coffee though with a twinkle in her eye she couldn’t say if a special was being run on a cup or not.

So we sat on the pier by the Pike Street Market drinking coffee and talked for a couple of hours or more.

Never forgotten her or that banana split, her name was Oleta.

It may appear as though I’ve been kind of rambling on, and maybe there’s a truth to that but a comment made by Rebel Girl in a previous blog A Child of the Nations and the Age of Enlightenment about small gestures set me to reminiscing.

Little gestures and paying it forward, it doesn’t get any better than that. 

GRANDMOTHER – FOXES – AND THE MOON

I doubt any of us can recall our initial sighting of the moon but I can remember when it took on a greater significance for me as something other than a shining orb hanging in the night sky I attempted to reach out and touch on more than one occasion.

It was a moonlit night in late fall, a time when your breath would begin to create a vapor and there was a notable crispness in the air.

I was sitting on the porch with grandmother who had wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, no real conversation taking place just a quiet comfort as we listened to the night sounds and gazed at a low hanging moon that seemed closer than ever I had already attempted to touch.

A little distance away a fox had began yipping and went on for some time – I asked grandmother why the fox was talking so much and she replied because he’s happy that grandmother is providing light and smiling at him.

Then she gestured to the moon and said it was the foxes grandmother much the same as it was ours – a simple statement that changed my thinking and led me to understand that foxes and people are kindred spirits from different nations but nations none the less.

The hounds having heard the fox had risen to their feet casting about for a scent, satisfied nothing was amiss and there was no threat they turned a circle or two and laid back down ruminating about the things that dogs do and no doubt congratulating themselves on their readiness and what they would have done had an actual threat emerged – a pat on the head, a thump of the tail and all’s well.

I feel asleep on that porch as only a five year old born with a natural affinity for the outdoors can do, to sleep unencumbered by the restraints of walls, doors, and a breeze filtered only by grass, leaves and pine needles as a companion.

Grandmother having an appreciation and understanding of such things as related to feral children got a blanket of her own and slept beside me.

In the morning awakened by wet tongues licking my face and eager eyes accompanied by wagging tails that said suns up time to play or wander in the woods my mother appeared with coffee, cornbread and biscuits for all – good naturedly fussing a little as she attempted to comb my hair with her fingers and asked if a porch that creaked and groaned as it longed for bygone days when sturdier made for a good nights rest and what were my plans for the day?

Not satisfied with the way my mother had attempted to create some semblance of order with my hair grandmother made a pass or two, realized the futility lacking a comb and then said she was of the opinion I would probably like to see where the fox had been and what he was up to.

Sounded good to me so off went – less than a half mile away we came into something of an open area in the woods that would have provided an unobstructed view of the previous nights moon.

As a unit we cast about looking for sign, the hounds sniffing and wuffing crossing back and forth – at the time I thought I was the first to discover a track, but that was grandmother’s way, she wanted me to make the initial discovery and would make a pretense of looking around until I did.

We found where the fox had sat for a time and a log he lain under having since departed in pursuit of breakfast and a drink of water.

Having satisfied themselves there wasn’t much going on the hounds feeling obliged to do so scent marked what they considered to be their territory and turned their attention to finding something, anything, to chase – which turned out to me as we alternated between being chaser and chasee.

One of the benefits of my childhood were the real time illustrations that accompanied a lesson, I wasn’t just told something but shown as well – the emphasis not being on books but the more tangibles like look, this is where the fox sat and by sitting in this place and looking in that direction he could clearly see grandmother.

Then as he became sleepy he chose this spot under this log, why do you think he did so?

Because it was snug, offered security, and no one could sneak up on him.

Grandmother still provides open air lessons accompanied by different though not as feral children and different dogs who like their predecessors feel the same obligation to scent mark territory and look for something to chase – there’s a comfort in such continuity, a sense of well being.

To this day when out at I night I continue to look at the moon hoping to hear a fox in the distance, smile and say nae’ese ke’eehe……..thank you grandmother. 

 

A CHILD OF THE NATIONS AND THE AGE OF ENLIGHTENMENT

Children die every day, large numbers of them due to disease, starvation, parental abuse, and dehydration – its as though humankind has stacked the deck against them as the result of indifference, greed, and war.

Children who are the victims of war are lumped together in the category of “collateral damage” – “damage” often predicated on religious, ideological, and genocidal policies forgetting that all children are the children of man.

The loss of life due to such pursuits whether man, woman, or child should never be minimized, the loss even more egregious, more cruel, more difficult to bear when it involves children.

Every demographic, every culture on the face of this planet has experienced this grief, and I would never attempt to lessen the degree of that grief for any parent, any nation, yet for a people the loss of those within their own strikes a harder blow, cuts a deeper wound, is intensely more personal.

Wars periodically rage, a grim reaper accompanied by disease and famine while individuals and corporations play the money game as though they are immortal, and if not then exceptions will be made and they’ll get to take it all with them when their time comes.

How many billions or millions does anyone or any entity need?

How much power and influence?

How many “reality stars” or “celebrities” does the world need, and what is the attraction for those who hang on their every word? What is missing in their life?

We are told an age of enlightenment began in the eighteenth century, an intellectual and philosophical awakening, yet I see little of that in today’s world, I in fact believe we are on the cusp of new dark age, the initial steps having already been taken.

We cannot withdraw, isolate ourselves in some personal enclave. We need to become involved, everyone of us to the degree we are capable of – if we do not then like it not, agree or not, the end result is we become facilitators.

On a barren stretch of wind blown land a roughly etched stone marks the resting place of child whose name has been lost to the world – both a testament and an accusation against an age of enlightenment.

A child that was loved, a child of value who surely laughed and played at times, a child who like her people was hunted and struck down merely on the basis of who she was, a child of the nations.

I don’t know who took this photo, but I feel as though I understand the motivation, and it is a worthy honorable thing.

 

 

DETAILS AND NUANCES

Always kind of interests me how we will see something and not really see it – this crumpled piece of paper is an example.

It’s a piece of paper, no big deal, when the visual message is sent to your brain no particular attention is paid to it unless that is you may be looking for a piece a paper like this.

But if you’ll take a closer look you’ll notice what looks something like a shadow figure with an upraised arm.

I think that’s what photography and life itself are about – taking a closer look, noting the details and nuances.

ABANDONED – FROM THE INSIDE LOOKING OUT