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Just A Walk
The morning awakens. A soft light begins to stir the dawn breezes. The
sky is dark with patches of light peaking between large areas of unbroken
clouds. The air is crisp and my hands tingle from the cold. Gusts of wind and
the rustling of leaves provide a musical background for this unfolding day.
This morning I journey to an area preserved in heavy forest and oral
history. Modern history has long forgotten the significance of this place and
the original people who walked here. I go to remember. I go to seek a
connection to a people and place almost erased from this land. I go in
respect.
Before me stretches a sea of short green grass flowing and moving as
seaweed with the tides. Here the winter wheat is given direction by the fall
winds of change. I hope these same winds will whisper direction to me today.
From the wood line comes the loud clear voices of several dark shapes.
The ravens greet each other and the morning with resounding voices. I feel
they greet me also -- a warm feeling removes the chill of this cold morning.
They slowly circle while calling to each other. The small group lands in the
lush green of the young wheat. These small islands of rich black are easily
seen in this pool of quivering green -- even in the dim light of early
morning. As they glean the field they continue to chatter loudly. Happy for
another day it would seem -- a feeling reflected in my spirit also.
The field is crossed on an old farm lane. It consist of two well worn
ruts of packed dry earth bordered on each side by a fence of fox tails
bobbing vigorously in time with the winds song. The field ends abruptly at a
wood line of tall oaks. Here the lane twists and disappears into the twilight
of the forest. The field of lush green shifts to a forest of dull browns and
golds.
The oak's large dry leaves spin and twist at the end of their twigs upon
each gust. Their voice calls loudly. Momentarily the ravens song is lost to
this new voice of the morning. The lane here is cut deep into a dirt bank of
about two feet in height. The once sharp defining edge is now softened by
islands of green moss and swaying deer ferns. The moss over hangs the lanes
lip and juts through a deep carpet of brown and gold leaves.
As the sun rises above the horizon, it peaks through the slits in the
gray sky. The lane slowly climbs the mountain in a gentle arc. The old
roadway travels east. The welcoming day warms my face. The sun peaks out from
the clouds and dances between the trunks of the dense forest. A mixture of
dark and light -- cold and warm exist side by side in the same land.
The lane ends suddenly with a yellow chain of heavy links stretched
between two tulip poplar trees. I hope this marks the last signs of man for
many miles to come. A deer trail continues east across a large mountain
bench. The trail appears gentle and flowing under a thick blanket of freshly
dropped leaves. Through the soles of the mocs another picture is revealed.
The subsurface is one of rock. Sharp points and uneven surfaces can be felt
with my feet. The soft soles of the mocs sense loose unstable surfaces
allowing one to shift their foot position for a surer step.
As with all things the shell hides what is truly underneath this facade.
You must look past the shell to see the spirit.
The trail passes into a stand of beech, maple, and poplar trees. Here the
drab browns give way to glistening colors of orange,red,yellow,light green,
and deep purple. The canopy is contrasted against small patches of ragged
blue trying to breakout of the gray fall sky.
The trees show varying amounts of gray barked limbs devoid of leaves.
These limbs and twigs act as the frame of each segment of a stained glass
window. In each small segment a mirage of moving mixing colors. Each one
brought to life by the wind's hand.
Here the forest is thick and only dull light penetrates on the brightest
of days. The trunks of dark ruff bark are adorned by patterns of green moss
and bluish lichens. No two patterns alike. The trail enters a stand of tall
laurels. The laurels are old with heavy dark brown twisted trunks and thick
limbs easily seen through the flat green waxy leaves. The leaves are open --
surprisingly. Usually drought and cold will make the leaves curl to preserve
precious moisture.
A loud noise is heard running across the crunchy forest floor covering.
There is a lot of disturbance -- maybe deer? A small smile comes to my face.
Only the stripped little friends of the forest -- chipmunks. I am reminded of
the story - How The Chipmunk Got His Stripes. The chipmunks stand on small
stone outcroppings in the leaves and scold me for being there. Then with a
short chirp they disappear into their borrows to await my departure.
The forest floor is covered in many inches of new leaves. Through the
surface break numerous islands of gray rock adding a rugged feeling to this
beautiful land. For this moment, the earth and the air are both adorned in
mirror regalia. The reds, oranges, and golds dancing in the air flutter to
the earth to reveal a similar pattern at rest.
The trail is a mosaic of color and shapes. Leaves larger then my hand,
pointed leaves, oval leaves, leaves shaped like mittens, tulip shaped leaves,
and tiny leaves pile on top of each other to reveal a kaleidoscope effect of
patterns and shapes. The colors of the forest floor mix as an oil sheen
swirls in and out on top of the water.
Before me the dull surface is broken by little kicked up areas. This
reveals something has past this way not long ago. The forest canopy opens.
The tall trees are spread a little farther apart here. Young laurels and
wild azalea chock the ground to a height of about 18 inches. Brown oak leaves
are trapped in there twigs as paper debris clings to a chain link fence.
Blue Jays shriek and dart between the limbs. Their blue and white streaks
are easily seen in an area of brown oaks. Amongst the laurel a constant
rustling of leaves is heard. Wrens and juncos root in the ground cover for a
meal. A lone hammering can be heard in the distance. A single woodpecker
reveals his position this fall morning. Is he wintering over here or on his
path south?
A stream lies before me. Its bed is wide. Where once a roar could be
heard, now only a soft trickle. The stream is choked by large rocks of
granite rounded and shaped by years of water flowing over and around them. In
this area granite is one of the oldest and hardest rocks. Yet - water which
is thought of by most as a soft substance wears away the granite and shapes
it. Somethings are not always as they seem on the surface.
The stream is only visible in small window openings -- peaking through a
maze of rocks and thick floating mats of colored leaves dammed between the
boulders. This picture is a prelude to winter. The rocks and banks are topped
by overhangs of thick fluffy leaf deposits. Hiding and softening the contours
of the stream and its banks. In a few weeks these same contours will be
hidden by soft white overhangs and fluffy caps of fresh snow. The cool crisp
air gives hint to the fact winter will not be daunted.
A soft sound at first -- soon a loud honking fills the sky. A large flock
of Canada Geese migrate south. They are low enough to see clearly the black
and gray feathers adorning them. They pass over in a distinct V shape. I am
reminded of the words of an elder and friend. The geese work as one in these
migrations. The bird at the front is replaced with another when he tires. No
ego -- no fights to lead -- only a common purpose that needs to be done for
the survival of all in the flock. This is how it was and is supposed to be
with the oyate. I still here his voice question -- why is it not?
The trail leads to a bench overlooking a small deep valley. The valley
drops off steeply on both sides. The twin slopes are lined with hemlock and
oak. The base of the valley is covered in thick laurel hiding the forest
floor from sight. A thread can be seen twisting across the valley floor
through the dense green of the laurel. It is a small creek no more then a
foot wide. The water is crystal clear and has a fresh smell when scooped up
in my hand.
A sharp noise is heard followed by a loud thump. The noise reminds me of
a baseball when hit with the sharp swift crack of the bat. It is a large
acorn bouncing off the oak limbs and then coming to rest on a matted earth
with a dull thud -- muffled by the leaves. This sound is repeated over and
over again on this forest bench of plenty.
Something draws me deeper into this valley along the edge of the bench. I
am startled! Crashing and pounding, flashing of brown and white springs to
life immediately before me. Several deer were bedded on the South slope in
thick laurel. In an instant they were gone from sight and only the fading
noise of rustling leaves reveals they were truly there. Such beauty and power
moves as the wind over this rough terrain.
Ahead on the bench an old stump stands -- almost black in color. The
stump's sides are covered in a lush thick green wrap of moss. The stump is of
an old oak several feet across -- a true grandfather of this place. Here can
be seen a softness of the moss encasing the strength of the old oak, the
bright green contrasting the deep black of the exposed wood, the new life of
the moss clinging to the very old life of the oak. Again duality exists
together -- no different then the physical and spirit of my own life.
I touch the old one legged and wonder how beautiful it must have been. I
begin to count rings -- one hundred and not half way -- magnificent. This old
one sits on the edge of the valley overlooking its floor as an old sentinel.
This is the land I searched for. I can see why it was important to the Unami
Oyate.
Here words are passed with Creator. To the East the sun is penetrating
through the heavily forested horizon. It glistens off the golds and browns of
the oaks and is softened by the green of the hemlocks adorned in small cones
of brown. The sun looks straight into my eyes. I am reminded of new life and
the birth of a new day. To the West an old gray silhouette of aging snag -
wood devoid of all bark with no limbs comes into focus. Many homes have been
drilled into it by woodpeckers. I am reminded of the death of the day here
and my own dwindling days.
To the North one tree stands out from the blur of the forest. It is an
oak. The tree is young,staright,and tall. No defects or scars of age show on
its skin.I am reminded of youth here and the beginning of my journey on the
red road. As this tree, I in my prime with many lessons to learn and
hardships to endure -- only the beginning. To the South a tree of great
character speaks to my heart. It is old with a thick girth. From age,
struggles with disease, fire, and animals the canopy is twisted and deformed.
Many snags are all that are left of once large limbs. The trunk is knurled
and scarred from disease. This old one has great character. It has survived
many struggles and has many stories to share in the autumn of its life. This
tree reminds me of the end of my path -- a place of my ancestors. It reminds
me, too. I am in the autumn of my life scarred by many lessons -- withered
with age and struggles.
Life is a circle and in this place it is shown to me once more.
This has been a beautiful journey to the land of my ancestors and of my
heart. My heart always sings when I stand on the homelands of the original
people. Here for now, free as the wind -- surrounded by Creators gifts, Aho.
Thanks are given. As I walk out the trail leading from the valley
something catches my eye. A small rotting stump is at my foot. From this
stump a large oyster shell mushroom grows. It looks exactly like the fanned
tail of a grouse -- shape and coloring. The fan shape has the stripes of
black and brown spaced by white. The grouse feathers were special to the
people of this land. Both the beauties of the grouse tail and this reflection
in the mushroom are not only seen but felt. No words can put into perspective
this scene placed before me this morning.
Wopila, Tunkasila
Written by ShyHawk(FM)
Late fall 2001
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