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A Gift For A Friend
This story is dedicated to RedFern Autumn GreyFeather
After a month separated from the peace and beauty of the mountain, I am in
much need of journeying home once again. My mentor tells me that I need to
be able to maintain the peace in my heart that is attained on the mountain
when I am not there. This lesson is very hard. The longer I am away from the
mountain the greater the drain on my energy.
The so called civilized world seems to be opposed to all I believe in and
love. At this time I am unable to maintain my balance there.
Today the mountain is empty of other people. The wind is sharp and strong.
The temperature is eleven degrees. As I step onto the path that leads me home
to an old friend not visited in over a year, the wind stings my face and the
cold burns my lungs. Already the stress is beginning to fade and a calmness
overcomes my spirit.
To my joy a new snow dusts the land. All before me is a mix of colors and
white. The forest floor is brown leaves partially visible through the soft
white surrounding and trying to cover them. Through my soft mocs I feel a
newly frozen earth give under my weight. The small ridges of soft damp earth
pushed up by the freeze is compacted to reveal my presence on the forest
floor.
The soft comfort to my feet felt in summer is replaced by a jabbing feeling
and a cry of crushing sounds. Yet the bond is there still. My feet and earth
are one here. The discomfort felt by INA s skin being twisted and stretched
by the cold is also felt in the souls of my feet. Her soft skin has now
turned hard with the winter cold.
A new beauty is on her face now. The soft browns are partially covered by the
soft white powder of winter. Each tree limb is capped in white. The lush
green leaves of the laurel now hang straight down and tightly curled. The
huge bushes resemble racks of hand dipped green candles hanging from green
wicks. I look upon a large brown oak leaf. In Its boundaries lie delicate
flakes of snow. Here each grain is revealed as if held in a gently cupped
brown hand. The ridges of a fallen log are now highlighted by white snow
filling the small chasms.
As I move farther into the mountain my mind drifts to the Old Ones and my
life is forgotten. The love for this place and my ancestors fills me now.
This place is much as it was before the Euros became our guests. I am
reminded how in conflict our cultures are. Here the Old Ones lived in harmony
with the gifts provided them. They appreciated all things and gave thanks to
Creator. We are but one of the creations here and are to live with the others
-- we are no greater then them. The Euro s wish to conquer, control,
dominate, and manipulate all things to their personal gain.
Along the path are clumps of moss. This summer they were thick soft green
lush mats. Now in winter they are reduced in size and thickness. Their color
is now a pale green to almost gray from the cold. The snow sits on them as
sprinkled sugar on frybread. Teaberry surrounds the mounds. Their leaves are
a deep purple of winter and hug the ground. The white under their tiny leaves
only heightens their reddish purple color. Every where small branches of new
green hemlock are sprinkled over the earth. Their delicate needles form an
intricate pattern of green and white. Deer fern palms lie fat on the ground
now withering in the winter's cold breath.
The path drops down the ridge into a small valley sloping to a lake. From the
ridge the first glimpse of the lake can be seen through the hardwood trees
lining the slope here. The limbs of the oaks and walnuts form a frame of
grays and browns through which the frozen surface of the lake appears emerald
in the fading light of late afternoon. White islands dot the green surface
formed from wind blown snow. The new skin of the water creeks and groans as
the wind pushed currents move beneath it.
The path drops to the valley floor and the view of the lake is hidden by
patches of thick laurel and hemlock. The valley floor is covered in deep red
colored shale. This rock always reminds me of my ancestors and I feel I am
home once more. The stone peaks through the white covering of snow and the
thick brown of leaves dropped this fall. The air is clean and crisp. The wind
whispers to my ears and my footsteps are echoed by the crunch of dry leaves
and shifting red stone beneath my feet.
I stop to look over the valley I love. I glance over the ridges of fir and
hemlock dotted with the occasional oak and walnut. My breath can be seen in
front of me for a few feet as I breathe heavily from the difficult path. Over
my own panting is heard a loud noise. It is a raspy sound as if something is
being dragged across the rough bark of a walnut tree. There - maybe twenty
feet before me is seen a huge gray squirrel spiraling down the trunk of a
large walnut tree. For a moment he is lost in the thick cover of the laurels
standing between us. Then his small leaps can be heard in the thick carpet of
noisy brown.
I move across the valley floor to meet the stream that feeds this lake. The
banks are low and the rocks in its bed stand higher then the banks
surrounding it. The water gurgles and sparkles. Here it is clear and clean --
spring fed all year. The channel of open water twists and strains to make it
to the lake through a channel of white ice covered in snow. Behind each large
rock is a large island of ice and snow changing the streams usual path. The
water must shift to reach its goal as we ourselves must shift to get around
the rocks on our own paths.
An opening in the canopy is noticed. It is a new opening and as I draw closer
I see an old oak I have known for years has been blown over in the strong
winds which tore the hemlock boughs from the trees to cover the path today.
It was an old tree of huge girth. The trunk snapped about four feet up from
the ground. Its freshly splintered ends stand white and sharp -- not
weathered with age yet. Her huge body lies at the base of the shattered trunk
stretching out over a vast area of the small valley.
The death of this old one now leaves room for the sun's rays to reach the
earth at her feet. Here new life of all sorts will spring forth in the warmth
of the next season. Here some of her acorn children to will have a chance to
one day stand high as she. So the circle continues.
>From here the path leads me to my old friend. She stands high but leans a
little more each year with age. She is beautifully adorned today. Here
delicate green is adorned with soft brown rose shaped cones. Her soft hair is
highlighted with white from the new snow. How beautiful she is today. The
soft light of days end sparkles on her and dances in reflections from the
snow crystals.
Her skin of dark brown is very rough and deeply grooved with age. I reach out
and touch my old friend. Nothing could feel so good. A year has passed since
we have been together here. At her feet stories have been shared, Prayers
have been released, and friends have been brought. Here soft arms have
sheltered me from storms and today her soft touch of limbs bowing to the
earth shield me from the winds cold.
She sits only feet from the edge of the lake. I nestle in her feet and rest
my back against hers. Here the view is unobstructed out over the lake. This
end of the lake is sheltered from the wind and it is completely covered in
snow. The white softness is bordered by dark green firs and hemlocks. At a
few places the white birch clump along the shallows. Their white bodies
adorned with black spots mimic the forest floor of white dotted with the dark
brown of the leaves peaking through.
The wind blows and the trees groan loudly. The hemlock swishes a gentle tune
to my heart. At her feet dry grasses stand tall but yellow from winter. Their
voices remind me of the soft swishing of an old rattle gently shaken in time
to the voice of the drum. Here INA s heartbeat can be felt and her voice is
the drum. The dry grasses sway and swish in time to her lead. Once again I
picture myself around the drum with friends. The prayers and honor songs rise
in the air and our hearts.
Yes, here I am home. The mountain wraps around me as if I were a child a
mother was holding wrapped in a warm blanket. My spirit soars and I am one
with everything. The words of a friend and teacher ring in my ears here. He
eloquently explained the meaning of Mitakuye Oyasin. Our ancestors were air
buried here. Their bodies became part of the winged ones. Their bodies became
part of those on the earth (four leggeds). Their bodies became part of those
in the earth (the crawlies). Their bodies became part of the trees and plants
(the one leggeds). Their bodies became part of INA. Our ancestors are part of
everything now and we are one. We are all related.
I thankyou for this lesson my friend. Here I stand on the land of my
ancestors. I feel one with everything and it with me. I could not belong to
this land more if my feet grew roots into it for they already have. I try to
make others see this -- to understand our cultures better. To soften their
hearts to our people and respect the land. My heart aches but my words fall
short.
Grandmother moon rises full tonight. Her beauty shines bright over the gray
shadows of the pine forest on the far ridge. I am grateful she looks over me
and lights my path so I may see. I came home to find peace and remember who I
really am. As always I am again filled with hope and energy from the love
gifted in this place of great beauty. Aho.
This was to be the end of the story. The end of a happy journey.
When I returned to my house a sad note greeted me. A friend who always
showed me great kindness and unselfishness had crossed over. I never had a
chance to tell her things I hold in my heart. She was taken suddenly by an
aneurysm -- unforeseen. I will always remember her free giving of things she
had to others.
The first time I met her I was in need of an otter pelt for a hair wrap for
my sister. She offered one with no questions. I refused as I had nothing to
trade in return. She reminded me of the wrap over time and said I could have
it. I explained I always trade in return -- the gift was to much. Strangely
today in the cold I thought of her and this pelt. I thought of a suitable
gift for her in return. I was lulled into thinking time was indefinite for
this friendship.
A reality that has hit me in the face hard once again. This year has brought
much grieving to my door and you think this lesson would have been well
understood by now.
Here I sit wishing I had the pelt to remember her by for each gift contains a
piece of the giver.
She will be remembered for her kindness always. She will be missed.
Time must never be taken for granted -- the gift is short in these shells --
tomorrow may never come.
Her husband Standing Elk has provided the words to best describe RedFern.
Wopila
I am posting his words here:
I MUST SAY THAT SEEING HER SMILE AND JOY EACH DAY WAS
A GIFT TO ME,, I WOULD FIND HER AT NIGHT WRAPPED IN A
BLANKET WATCHING AND SINGING TO THE MOON, AND EARLY
MORNING YOU WOULD FIND HER WAKING THE SUN,, AND
SMILING THAT SMILE OF JOY THAT SHE HAD SHE LOOKED AT
EACH DAY WITH WONDERMENT AND JOY SHE STOPPED AND
SMELLED THE FLOWERS WE ALL PASS BY; SHE WENT THE EXTRA
MILE FOR ALL AND ALL SHE EVER SAW IN THIS WORLD WAS
BEAUTY; SHE NEVER SAW THE UGLY; SHE LOVED LIFE AND I
WAS BLESSED TO HAVE HAD A CHANCE TO LOVE HER AND MAKE
HER HAPPY
STANDING ELK
written by ShyHawk(FM)
early winter 2001
Dedicated to RedFern Autumn GreyFeather
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