Mark (wysiwig) did a powerful upload about Native Americans, and wrote me a letter about them with some of his experiences with their plight...I was very grateful, and wanted to share a related story. It's of a blessed teacher years back, who was Native American. I do this with gratitude for Mark's passion, reminder and moving commitment. It's not long, and if you read it, I hope you enjoy it. I'm almost done commenting, as I'll be gone in December. I'll do a last upload this weekend, and probably a music link too... A blessed weekend to all, Mark * * * Her name was Doris. I give no last name because she was private. She'd received her Masters degree in Biochemistry, but returned to her Native tradition after that: After 15 years, she became a Medicine Woman in her beloved Ojibway tradition. For those of us who think that Medicine Women and Men are from the occult: These were people who studied for many years to learn the accumulated wisdom of their people, about herbs, flowers, barks, animals, the way a lawyer learns about laws. When Doris walked into a forest, everything was alive to her: She knew every 'weed', every blade of grass, every bark and every sap; to her, it was as if the entire place were lit up, like she had the pigment that allowed her to see nature with x-ray eyes. She knew every insect, every petal; she could sit with animals and hold them and communicate such peace that the animals would curl up to her and fall asleep. And when she needed an herb for a cut, a cold, a flu, etc, she knew just where to find it, and how to prepare it. She did so with the most touching reverence: She whispered to herself, said prayers, and sang to the plants. This, from a woman steeped in Western science and technology: She said she was never happier than when practicing the ways of her people. She was in her 80s when I met her. Her eyes blazed, and in her wrinkled face she radiated a youth that only very wise old souls radiate. She was like a child of eternity. She grew up in the Reservation system of America: the last great remnant of a systematic debilitation and obliteration of the Native American, who was here first, and who was treated as the invader, not as the inhabitor. She was beaten often by white teachers and overlords. She witnessed the descent into poverty of her people, and the descent into personal degradation, alcoholism and suicide that happened to a number of Native Americans in the wake of the white decimation of their people. She was forced to cut off her naturally long black hair, and stop singing native songs or saying native prayers. Many of her people lost their native names, and many lost their language. She eventually joined white society, became a teacher and academic. But when she finally turned to her roots, she said she had a huge surge of agony---at how horribly others had tried to rip her roots away, as a child---and ecstasy---at returning to a world that had been ripped from her early, but which had never gone away; it was just waiting for her, when she finally 'came home'. She'd had a husband who died young. And 3 children. I met one of them: She was a splendid woman, with deep heart, who was a lawyer for Native peoples. Doris spoke in a low silken voice. She spoke deeply, and made you feel you were the only one in the entire world. I learned much Native lore and poetry from her, and she'd take me on walks in the forest---in Northern Wisconsin---and it was as if she knew every living thing on a first-name basis. She always stopped for this leaf or that flower, stroking and examining, like talking to her children to see if they were ok, or needed something. She taught me many prayers and songs; and when she was outside, she sang those songs to the flowers as if they were her own children. She'd then sit in the forest, and animals would walk up to her. At first, I thought she wore some scents or herbs to attract animals in the wild: But she didn't. "There's no magic in this," she said, "no hocus-pocus: If you communicate peace to most animals---and this takes time, you must develop that peace in you first---they'll be peaceful with you." And she seemed to know immediately when an animal was angry or dangerous. When they were, her moves were immediate and without thinking: Frequently you'd feel her hand on your arm, pulling you away from a deranged animal or poisonous leaf. Other times, she'd grab you and say: "Look: a revelation..." Our last night, she took me into a storm. She built a fire---in raging wind and rain---and protected it with a blanket propped up on sticks. She swayed back and forth and sang in the sweetest voice I'd heard since I was a child---all while I was being pelted and slapped with freezing rain. She'd look up constantly and and pat me on the cheek, and say prayers for me. Finally---seeing me shiver---she put a blanket over me: She carried it for just that purpose. And she had only a blouse and skirt on, with exquisite Sioux decoration, yet she wasn't cold nor did she shiver. And, as she had many times past, she taught me poetries and prayers of the Native peoples while a storm raged around us. Before I speak of our parting, there's an Ojibway prayer for an animal one's about to kill. I don't have it now, but I'll give you its essence: It says: "You were beautiful, you were strong, and you were noble. But now I must take your life so that my people can live. Please know that you will live through us, your bones will become our strength, your flesh will become our muscles, your power will become our wisdom, your love will become our love..." It ends with "forgive us for taking your life, dear noble soul, but through you we will live forever, and you will live through us..." She always said this with tears, and though I'm writing it from memory, I know she'd be ok with that: "Pass everything through your heart before you give it back," she'd often say... When she finished teaching, that night, she took the blanket from the flame, and put it around me---it was very toasty and felt wonderful. Then she said:"I'll make you a drink that will warm you." She pulled me up and helped me: She was in her 80's, but she helped me, because I was still shaking from the frigid storm. Inside, she made an herbal drink: Do you remember that drink in my Medieval tale? (The one I wrote for Mark/wysiwig?) It was "mead," a real medieval drink. Well, my description of it was Doris's drink. Deeply spicy, wondrously sweet...the only difference was Doris's had no alcohol. But it didn't need it: It blasted through you like a fire storm, it warmed you to your toes, and it gave you wondrous energy. When I finished, feeling immense gratitude for her, she told me that she had cancer and would not be alive much longer. I was stunned. I asked her why she didn't heal herself, with all her herbs and plants---or with modern medicine. She said: "Oh, I've done both, for a long time...but the time comes when we must make a decision: I can't do anymore to this body nor pummel it anymore: I'm tired, Mark, the time has come. And I do it with peace: It's possible. That's why I called you here one last time. To guarantee you you can have peace even in final departure..." I couldn't talk after that. I just rememberd so much Native American folklore and poetry that I'd learned from her. She'd shown me so much about nature, down to the leaf, and the petal, and the tiniest gnat. Before I left, she showed me her great great grandmother's rattle---and if you think a 'rattle' is a child's toy, oh, you have to know what they mean to Native Americans. Grandmothers cut pieces of their skin and let it dry, and put it inside the rattle, so each time you shook it, you'd bring back the memory and spirit of your ancestors. Some of those rattles are generations old... Doris showed me many such things; and I thought, how much have I missed by knowing nothing of the people who originally lived here. And how fierce their sense of tradition was, and how much light they found in it. She gave ma a bag of the herbs she used for that drink: It lasted a year and then was gone. I never found the recipe for it, and never found the mix---not in any store or online site. It was her family's, handed down for generations; and I could picture her saying, "when it's gone, don't be sad: Make your own traditions instead..." Then she said, "you have to go". She was a woman of fierce conviction: When she said you had to go, she meant it. I stood up, dreadfully sad, and she hugged me as hard as anyone ever has, whispering Ojibway words in my ear---which she never translated---and gave me blessing upon blessing. She ended with the ancient Native prayer, "go in peace, my child, and may you walk on the sunrays hovering at the edge of the horizon..." With that, she signaled me to the door. I left. I got in my car, and never saw her again. I drove a long ways that night, in one of the most blessed forestlands in America. And I swore, when looking through my windshield, the night was protected by her vast arching arms, stretching across the whole world, and being sure that everyone within it was protected from all pain... That's my story. We are blessed by people like her. Thanks for giving this your time... ------------------