First Nations Shaman

[image from crystalinks.com]

I once knew a shaman

who didnt call

himself

a shaman.

He didnt talk about

spirituality, ever.

He simply, humbly

was spiritual.

He said in his culture

things of spirit

were not talked

about publicly,

for they were sacred.

His path

had been long,

and he had evolved

through pain

towards wisdom,

the journey

the most fortunate

among us

are privileged to make.

Around his quiet

strength,

I felt our

non-native

(non)-"culture"

talked far too much,

and too loudly.

I,I,I,

me,me,me,

as if we

needed chatter

to know

we were

still alive.

Every morning,

winter and summer,

he plunged 

into the ice-cold river

to purify himself.

He didnt talk

a great deal,

but when people

wanted wisdom,

they sought him out.

He was

such a

good listener.

Just being

in his presence

always helped.

He never spoke

a harsh word

about anybody.

Even when someone

was behaving terribly,

being offensively officious,

he gave them

his respectful manner,

as a fellow human,

smilingly acknowledging that

"every leader wants to sail

his own boat".

He was quiet.

He watched, and he

saw it all.

He watched it

all happen.

They were

trying times.

A struggle

between

Head People

and Heart People

was going on.

My heart

was wounded

by the wrongs I saw

being done

to the place I

believed in,

to the people

that I loved.

One day the three

Nuu chah nulth leaders

were asked to give

a "mission statement".

He and the other two rose,

without having

even needed

to confer,

crossed their arms,

spoke in their

own language,

together,

the same words

with a power

that nearly

blew the roof off,

and a steely

determination

in their eyes.

We didn't need

any translation.

For once,

we were

silenced.

They hadnt needed

to show

this strength,

but they could,

when they deemed it

necessary.

Mumakli's

(white people)

are not big on

subtlety.

We seem to need

a piano to

fall on our heads

to get

the message.

They closed me,

one day,

in a darkened building.

I was the only mumakli,

invited to

this secret ceremony,

because

they loved me. 

They saw

how my heart

was wounded.

They saw

my love for

their people.

They trusted me,

and it was

an honor.

We were covered in

cedar branches,

from head to toe.

A fire burned in

the center of the room.

What was done

in that room

is not to

be spoken of,

for it is sacred.

But they were trying

to heal me

of the hurts

they had watched

me receive,

to support

my spirit,

that was faltering

under the pain of

what should not be

happening.

Today,

I feel wounded

in spirit

once again,

for life

can be

wounding.

I have been missing

these beautiful

people,

who knew so much pain,

yet loved to laugh so much.

I am needing

to see

my wise shaman again,

not to talk,

just to listen.

I send him

a thought

on the back

of a raven.

I have no doubt

that, soon,

he will

appear.