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Thanks to the person in Montreal, Canada. Not fiction–but truth.

The story, West Toward Berkley, is an autobiographical story about the principal in my high school.  The man was literally “bigger than life” and he inspired me and moved me and contributed to who I am today.  It is very gratifying to hear from readers who read my bits and pieces and recognize the truth of them.  In truth, his name was Red Benson.  I so honor this man for what he taught me and I hope others will see my post on this great man. 

True confessions.  Every word of this story was true.

 

Jamie Lee

Where Am I?

I started back to work at Oglala Lakota College and am going through a bit of culture shock.  Where is my berry patch?  Where my little trailer?  Where my soul? 

Actually, I could already feel myself re-engaging with students today as I met each one during registration and did what I could to help them find a good schedule.  When we got home we had a major weed patch to clear out but the gardent looks marvelous and I picked about 3 gal. of green beans the other day.  Also zukes and my first cuke.

Apologies for not writing much and not going very in depth.  I never wanted to write a blog where I told you what we had for supper or what my cat was doing (actually, I don’t have a cat).  Bear with me and I’ll get back into some form of schedule. 

Wow–this summer opened me wide up.  More on that later.  You can see the great little films Milt has been producing on our HomesteadingMN experience at www.hollowbonefilms.com  Check it out.

Thanks for coming.

Jamie

The Homestead

Tonight the moon was almost full and shining red through the pines on the bit of earth in Northern Minnesota that we have recently tagged “our land” (although I still doubt that anybody can actually “own” such a thing).  We have been here for one week and the magical flow we discovered from the moment we decided to buy into these twenty acres continues. 

On our way out from Rapid City, SD, Milt and I were coming to terms with the fact that we probably would not have the expertise or resources to actually begin building our strawbale house.  On Tuesday we considered finding a camper or something more substantial than a tent to live in while we prepare our project.  On Wednesday we found two potential old campers, made an offer on one, hooked it to my brother’s truck, and pulled it to our homestead.  It is a 1966 Trailblazer and we bought it for $250.  By Thursday we had cleaned it, repaired some leaks, blocked it, and generally made it livable.  Now, a week later, we are sleeping like babies in our cozy bed and listening to all the night sounds with the breezes blowing across our faces.  Of course, we also do nightly mosquito checks to make sure none of the friendly (hungry) little buggers have followed us in the door.  

They have completely torn up the main street of Cass Lake.  Evidently the town received a major “Miracle” grant and is trying to bring itself back to life.  The main street will now be paved with bricks that, hopefully, will attract new businesses and energy.  I walked around down there today thinking about how busy it was when I went to high school here-two drug stores, three grocery stores, several bars, Two Traders, and the Five and Dime.  Now-not much. 

Not since I graduated from college and moved to SD (in 1977) have I spent this much time here.  I am feeling strange and adrift, as if my main street had been torn up and something new was about to replace it.  I am just not sure what.  Our small 8 x 18 foot trailer requires that we choose carefully what we “want” and then keep it in its right space.  The land makes me breathe more fully in a way that I haven’t in many years.  A few days ago I discovered one of the most beautiful wild blueberry patches I’ve ever seen-and it is right on our land.  The plants are loaded with green berries that begin to blush toward blue.  I go now every day to see how they are progressing and feel confident they will be ripe for me to pick before I have to leave.

All of this is making me feel oddly alive and young.  It makes me wonder what it was I was trying to accomplish-push, push, push.  Sometimes I have tried so hard to be “something” that I just forgot to “be”.

 Now I just want to be.

 So far this is the first writing I have done since we got here.  We were busy carving a small space for ourselves, nudging Mother Nature over just a bit.  Tonight was the first night I felt that peculiar itch I get to put words on paper (or my computer).  I am curious to see if I can find a new rhythm of writing AND being as we are here over the next two weeks.  We did set up to do The Bead People at the annual Rib Fest this weekend so that should be fun.  

 It has also been many years since I have lived close to so many family members again.  They keep popping in and out and bringing many gifts.  When I woke up this morning there was a small round table outside the trailer.  I didn’t see it but evidently my nephew, Ryan, found it at the recycling place and thought we might be able to use it.  He wrote his name with sticks to let us know he had left it.  And then tonight when I returned home from doing some other stuff, there was a bucket of newly-dug raspberry bushes beside my trailer-and a new metal plate replacing the hole in the floor near my front door.  Last night we were ferried over the lake by one brother so we could join another brother on Star Island while he tried out their new Snuba gear.  Snuba is a combination of snorkeling and scuba-a generator on a floating tire, two 40-foot hoses, mouth breathing gear and weights to help you explore the underwater world.  

 So, I am surrounded by gifts both from the earth and from family and friends.  Could it be that as I seek a simpler life, it will get richer in many other ways?  Probably.  I would certainly like to find out. 

 What a life.  And by the way, my 24 blueberry plants seem to be thriving and establishing new roots-just like us.  I think it will be hard to leave in two weeks and the only thing I will miss are a few trillion ticks and mosquitoes.

 More on our adventures to follow . . .

 Jamie   

 

 

 

 

Farmer John and Candide

We are home again and I am scrambling to get my home garden in.  We shot a lot of footage and Milt is producing something he calls “The Blueberry Chronicles”.  You can see them at http://www.hollowbonefilms.com  He is having some fun with it. 

I have a cold and am not good company tonight so I’ll skip out and put in a bit of fiction instead.  I like the beginning of this odd series I started that is my version of “Candide” and “Siddhartha” combined.  I’ll let you figure that one out.

 

Evida
Or How a Forest Girl Discovers the World

Evida Takes a Walk and Finds Herself Separate 
There could be no better place on earth than this the young girl thought as she stepped her toes into the muddy edge of the pool of water to catch a closer look at the water spiders skimming the clouded surface.  She was in a small clearing carved out by road workers who had taken the red soil for their road-like purposes and left behind the moon.   The clearing was dotted with rough craters that were filled with water and each pool birthed a new universe teaming with tadpoles, water spiders, bugs, birds feeding, and scruffy grasses poking up among the reddish mounds. 

She was eight years old the summer she awoke from childhood to find her self encased in a wrapper of skin that separated her from this beloved world.   Up until that moment, it had not occurred to her that she was separate. 

Evida lived along the northern edge of the nation in what she simply called Blueberry Country in honor of the low bush berries that filled her forest.  No one else ever came to this small, scarred piece of earth but Evida, and she came daily that spring to watch the transformation between winter and spring.  It was, in truth, a muddy mess, but she loved it.  She ran along the plowed ridges that separated one small pool from another so often that her bare feet padded and packed the sand as if it were an ancient road carrying tribal inhabitants across the Bering Strait. 

Life was good.

Down the road her parents had built a house that sheltered Evida and her five brothers and sisters in a cocoon of warmth and safety.  That her dad had tried to defy Mother Nature and built his house in a swamp seemed not to matter to them.  When the ditches filled with murky water, Evida and the other kids leaned over the edge to see the wigglers that bred there by the millions and would soon turn into mosquitoes.  It was a small price to pay for paradise–a few hundred red, itchy welts and the little screamers buzzing them to sleep each night.

Evida couldn’t figure out what was different this spring, different from all the others she had endured in her full eight years.  Something had changed.  The color of a single green leaf bud opening on a twig belonging to the larger tree pierced her eyes almost painfully.  The dry grasses of last year, as they gave way to the newer shoots poking up from some mysterious earth ethos, seemed to say reassuringly, “We go gratefully, never mind.  We’ve had our season.” 

Wind, sun, birds, the tiniest flowers, all spoke to her in a language once incomprehensible, but now understood clearly as if by magic.  Going to sleep each night was almost a burden, that she must close her eyes to such beauty for the dimmer world of sleep and dreams. 

She took to speaking aloud, only when alone of course, to the many offerings of nature.  I love you, little bird.  I love you tiny clover.  I love you big mamma tree.  I love you creepy little spider on my hand. 

What had caused such an awakening?  She didn’t know, couldn’t understand.  Perhaps an old bearded philosopher standing beneath a tree watching her from his invisible vantage point would nod knowingly and whisper, “Ah, she now feels her self separate from.”  It didn’t matter to Evida.  In truth, there wasn’t a bearded old one to explain that where once she was simply a part of nature, like trees and grass, now she saw her self as occupying a human body. No, she simply drank the realization in, letting it fill her soul and spirit with such rich nectar that by noon she was drunk, intoxicated and asleep on the grass. 

When she opened her eyes again there was a blue-silk sky wrapping her like a sari.  It was exotic, foreign, scented with the spice of Mother Nature’s unique perfume.  When she stood again and stretched her arms to touch the blue silk, she glanced down and saw the imprint of her own small body in the grass.  She felt just the slightest shiver of what could be fear or foreboding, a wisp of warning of things to come, but she tossed her blonde hair and walked off.

Thirty years later, she would return to this same spot, now an overgrown piece of the forest once again, desperate to find the slightest indentation she had left on Mother Earth. 

Walking back into her Mother’s house in her newly found eight-year-old body was like finding an alternate universe with an entirely different set of shapes, forms, tastes and smells, and its own moon and sun.  The blue silk sari dissolved like a thin skin of ice beneath the heat of this new sun, and the blue was replaced with the gray garb of an ordinary peasant

“Where have you been, Evida?  Lunch was over an hour ago and little Johnny has a dirty diaper and Rocky has a fever and and and and . . . .”

Evida stood for a moment, stunned and shrinking rapidly as all the wide thought-forms fled the little house where her parents ate and slept and were raising six children like raising chickens in a wire coop.

“Yes, Mamma.”  She said.  “I’m here now.”

Here.  Now.  The rest would simply have to wait out there in the wilderness for her return.  Evida turned her attention once again to the business of being eight, third girl in a family of six.  It was okay, this life in this house.  She helped her oldest sister, Kay, fold clothes and roll socks.  She helped her next oldest sister Ann change little Scott.  Ann and Evida got the giggles when Ann removed the nasty diaper and jokingly pointed to his tiny penis and said “Ready…aim…fire.” only to have the little squirt–squirt.  Ann panicked and threw the new diaper over the warm stream, and then had to use a third diaper to have the baby officially and legally changed.  

Kay, Ann, Evida, William, Joseph, and Scott had checked into the family in polite two-year intervals ranging from ages twelve to two.  If you added their ages together it came to forty-two and Evida couldn’t begin to imagine herself at forty-two.  She tried it once, but it was unfathomable. 

All in all, it was a pleasant family to find one self suddenly occupying. 

 

 

Sketching the Male Protagonist

So often when I present programs people or students will ask, “Where do ideas come from?” For me, that is part of the magic of writing. I never actually know where anything is going to come from until I am in the middle of it. The post tonight is a bit of wild mind writing I did while trying to learn more about the male protagonist in one of my stories several years ago. (A Good Soft Blanket) I like it because it shows the total organic emergence of a character. I had no idea that this was part of Charles’ history until I scribbled these words. You’ll see what I mean . . .

Sketching the Male Protagonist

Charles. He is like pudding, loose and soft, his shape never molding. He walks the frames of each scene like bluewash background; no stiff poke, no grit, no getty-up. He is the tender, perfect boy who slips into the back desk in the classroom and listens, never asking questions, never offering opinion, sprung from nothing into nothing. He is a cartoon without color or feature, with no secrets, no sins and no sinister bottom note to the perfect top.

What can I add to this poor pasty man whose life unfolds around him in passive acquiescence? What will wake him up? What does he fear?

He fears fire. He fears loss. He fears being left once again among the living. Charles blames himself for mom and dad’s grief–and his little brother’s death. It was a spark, only a spark–a smoldering error never extinguished, never put out, still burning in his soul.

I like it, the helpless go-along has a reason to not make waves, not engage fully, not be worthy to have the care of innocents or father a child or love a child.

Yes, this deepens the man–puts the boy back in his soul. No, Charles is not pudding but water and charred wood and a long stretch of scar tissue on the upper arm that failed to pull the little brother out through the window of his parent’s burning farmhouse. His fault. His secret. His torment.

How did the fire start?

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Everybody knows that model glue is flammable. Charles, seven years old, and his younger brother hide in a tiny back closet assembling the model ship with secret plans to sail on great oceans. They work for hours—until dark—until little brother says, “I’ll light a candle so we can see what we are doing.”

And Charles, preoccupied, not hearing the little brother, steps out for just a minute–just one short, sixty-second god-damn minute and then whoosh, the world bursts into flame.

Oh my god, oh my god–for the rest of his life he hears that oh my god scream from his own lips and from the lips of his little brother before he died.

Yes. Charles built the boat that carried his little brother across the sea to the other realm. And the punishment? To never be happy, never cover the scar, never wear long sleeves or care for children. Again and again he turns from what will make him happy, from Rose (his pretty woman) and from her children and the children they could have together.

Ah, this leads smoothly to the forest fire in my story–to the sacred ring where all children are kept safe by magic and grace. Now, at last, Charles must face his fear or lose them all—and his own soul as well.

Later, after Charles has passed the test, little Emily, precious psychic child, sees the younger brother laughing and playing and she tells Charles he need not torture himself–little brother lives in a splendid castle on the other side.

Charles looks different to me now. Finally I find an empathy with his heart, with his suffering as he finds his true place upon the page. He attracts me, awakens my healing heart that wants to smooth the scars along his arm. Now, he is ready for Rose. Now we can discover how a man with the heavy burden meets a magical woman under a Tucson sun.

He will resist, of course, and move toward and away again and again but, oh the love is strong and the pull of destiny even stronger. Now the high tides in the blood ruled by the moon will move them. He will lose the fight and he will love her. And he will learn to trust again that the world is a good place–even when it isn’t.

. . . that’s the man I was looking for.

If you like the stories and bits and pieces I am posting on my blog, please forward it to others and invite them in to check it out. My goal is to widen my readership over the next year and you can help. Thanks.

Jamie Lee

Something Sacred This Way Comes (and a little bit sexy)

It has been awhile since I added a bit of short fiction to this site so tonight I will post a story I wrote many years ago that always reminds me of my husband.  I’ll let you determine what parts remind me of him.  It is called A Good Soft Blanket and it was first published in Bellowing Ark Magazine over ten years ago.  It has since grown into a nearly finished novel–someday I will finish it.    Tomorrow night I’ll post a bit of “writing practice” that came from wondering what would happen if Doria knew the stories of how her blankets had affected others. 

  A Good Soft Blanket

 Driving across the Dakota prairie, Doria smiled at the moon-drenched land waving at her in the night–so wide, so alive.  Not since girlhood had she felt such a restless, living presence in a stretch of land.  In her peripheral vision the clouds pulsed with a reddish glow but, when she focused on them directly, it was just an ordinary night sky.  Doria chuckled, thinking it a sneaky, playful bit of land.   

As far as she could see, this land had been playground and garden to the spirits and the Lakota people since time began.  Doria always researched her chosen destinations and had read a good deal about the power of Black Hills of South Dakota before deciding to sell her special blankets here.  Better to go to places already primed and ready for her magic and stay away from near-dead cities.  In some places not even a princess could feel the spiritual pea beneath the many layers.  But here, in this land, all was open and ready. 

In the back of the Suburu wagon, the soft blankets were stacked to the roof, each one wrapped in plastic and waiting.  How she loved rural America and the sleepy souls waiting for a jump charge of something special.   

Doria sold blankets at fairs and flea markets; cool cotton on one side and soft downy fuzz on the other with a layer of magic squeezed between.  She thought of them not as down comforters but “up” comforters. “Not everything that goes up must come down,” she told her customers.  “Go ahead, try one–the most amazing things happen beneath one of my blankets.” 

There was nothing remarkable about Doria.  She dressed like an old hippie in all cotton clothing, chopped her hair short, had never had a perm and never worn make-up.  To a stranger walking by, she could easily disappear into whatever landscape framed her body. 

She knew the blankets were not the least bit dangerous because only the people who were ready bought them.  It was as simple as that, although Doria had no understanding about how that worked.  An old Navaho man supplied the blankets, the same man she’d bought her own blanket from so long ago. 

After her first night under the blanket, when she awoke with the most incredible experience ever, she raced back to find the old man only to discover his booth and his blankets gone.  The next three months she hit every fair in a four-state region trying to find him and, when she did, he loaded the blankets into her car, smiled and said, “Have fun”. 

She thought back to the day she’d picked out her blanket at the fair in Santa Fe, how her eyes and then her fingers had rested lightly on a soft yellow blanket the color of butter or buttercups and emitting soft halo of light.  It seemed like many lifetimes ago since the old man’s job had become hers. 

Now it was she who watched the people walk by.  It always made her smile to see seeing their faces when they saw the blankets.  It was funny how a hundred or more people could walk by and then, out of the crowd, a single person pulls away from the pack and strays to her booth and, before you know it, they touch one of the blankets.  Maybe they go for the one on top or the hand hovers before choosing–as if somewhere inside of the fuzzy brain he or she knows to choose carefully.  The blankets themselves seem to influence that.  She had seen it again and again.  A person finally touches just the right one and looks up in surprise as if Doria had pushed a button beneath the table that jolted them out of their bad dream.  She could almost predict that look. 

And once they bought, things happened.  She learned right away to only do one-day fairs (or only stay one day at longer fairs) because a few would come back trying to figure out what had happened–like she herself did with the old man.

Her own awakening had been sexual.  That’s what the blankets did; they brought a person out of slumber to whatever aspect of themselves most needed to be awakened. 

She thought back to that first night sleeping beneath the soft yellow blanket, of awakening to an ache between her legs that she’d never felt before.  The morning shower devastated had nearly devastated her.  Stepping up out of a sunken tub, she seen herself in the full length mirror; saw breasts swollen with need and a waist tapering down and calling attention to pubic hairs standing curled at attention and adorning a lively little thing she hadn’t known existed–her vagina. 

What a time that was, with tears rolling down her cheeks and her talking aloud and saying, “I am a woman.  By god, I AM a woman.”  How, in almost forty years, that amazing fact had eluded her was beyond her ken.  Even with birthing three babies in a fluid rush from her own body, even with watching their tiny mouths suckle tender nipples, her uterus contracting from their sucking–even then–it had not really occurred to her that she was a woman. 

Doria giggled in the quiet car thinking back to that soft yellow blanket (she still slept beneath it every night).  What a maelstrom of the senses; the skin beneath her clothes aching and the wild touch, taste, smell, sound of a body coming sharply, acutely   . . . alive.  She probably would have started screwing anything that walked except the experience itself, for some profound and mysterious reason, had an integrity to it.  It was related to the body and yet it wasn’t.  But when she tried to turn this new need to her old husband it was like putting sandpaper to steel–it had no give.  He suddenly disgusted her in an honest way, a way she had never been able to admit.  His smell made her nauseous.  His touch became like dead things crawling over her skin and, in less than two weeks, she walked out on him.  That’s when she realized that the blanket was somehow involved because she left taking nothing but some money–and the blanket.  And she started searching for the old man.  She wanted to know. What happened? 

When she found the old Indian in Albuquerque, the best he could do was grumble something about, “You gotta want what you really want.”  And then he handed her a card with an address on it, 33 Doria Way, and loaded her car with the blankets saying it was her “turn” to pass them out because she had found him.  Besides, he was “getting too old for this nonsense.” 

Doria took the blankets . . . and the street name . . . and whenever her supply grew low, she simply dropped a note to that address and stated her next destination and the new blankets would be waiting for her. 

Where do they come from?  Once in awhile she asked herself this but none of it made sense in any logical way so why wonder?  She wondered if anybody really knows what they want?  Thank God these blessed blankets seemed also to help people slice through the bullshit packed into an ordinary life.  She didn’t realize that until she met Charles in Tucson at the Swap meet two years ago.  Doria had never done a swap meet and decided what the hell, it was winter everywhere else and not much happening so why not give it a shot?  It was huge. The little booth was almost invisible in the unruly stacks of “Navaho” blankets and everything else under the sun.  But Charles had found her. 

“Hi cowboy.”  How lightly she had treated that particular moment under the hot sun.  He had on boots, a felt cowboy hat, and sunglasses.  “Need a new saddle blanket?”

Oh, he was pulled in right away.  She knew by the way he stood there for the longest time eyeing her, eyeing the blankets, saying nothing, turning as if to go and then walking back, his hand reaching for a blanket and then pulling sharply back, as if afraid of commitment.  Oh, he had known.  He had. 

“What are they?”  His voice had sounded low and husky.  Doria had flipped words at him like plastic chips.  Truth was, he made her uncomfortable.

“They are kind of like down comforters, only they aren’t down, if you get my drift–they are up.  Up comforters.”

“What do you mean?”  The man was dead serious.  Doria’s words had hitched in her throat and tied a knot.  “I mean, these blankets make strange things happen, an awakening of sorts.”  Not ever had she been so straight. 

“What do you mean?”

He would not quit.  His eyes looked straight at her.  His hand had still not touched a single blanket.  Doria shifted from the left foot to the right.  ”I don’t know what I mean.  Stuff just happens.  That’s all.  Whatever is supposed to happen, it just happens.”  She knew the words sounded lame, real lame, but he was so intensely there that she wanted to turn and hide, to run away. 

And then he reached out and took a dark aqua blanket and pulled it to himself as if it was a woman and said, “How much?”

“Thirty-five dollars.”

He dug for his wallet and pulled out two twenties and handed them across the table and, as he got close, she could smell sage–the desert–on him.  He smelled like the earth itself and not at all like a man.  Handing him back the five dollars change, her hand shook.  

Her mind, dusted with his scent, went numb.  He took the change and stood there.  Silent.  She wanted him to leave but he spoke instead.

“Now, if strange things are going to happen to me as a result of having bought this blanket, will you come along as I spend my first night under it?”

Is he joking, she had wondered?  He wasn’t.  The man was dead serious.  Doria noticed how his upper lip formed a soft heart shape, how his shoulders rolled forward forming a masculine cove, a harbor.  “Yes,” she had said simply. 

She didn’t even know the man!

But that’s the way things happen when you’ve been under the blanket for a while.  A different course seems to construct itself outside of what your mind or personality thinks is right or proper.  Yes, she said, just like that. 
     Charles had smiled and said, “I’ll come back at the end of the day and we can have some supper.”
     And then he was gone–leaving her in the middle of five thousand people under the hot Tucson sun and every time she thought of him again throughout the day, wondering if he really would show up, she smelled pinion and sage, tasted soil. 

He did come back.  She did spend the first night with him under the new blanket–the first night away from the soft butter yellow.  And, as if yellow burnished into aqua, her own awakening was completed and his begun. 

“I want you,”  he said, his voice thickened with emotion.  He bowed to her, bent every way to please her, made a mold of his body and poured her into himself.  And then he turned another way, made her the mold and poured himself into her body.  Never, not once, had Doria been made so complete as that night with him beneath the aqua blanket.  The bed was a long straight runway and Charles, a great pilot, did “touch and goes” on her body all night long until her senses, intoxicated by their own damp smells, fell drunkenly asleep. 

By morning they were mated.  Like kittens or eagles or lions, they growled and rolled and curled and knew that this was for life.

“Marry me,” he said.

“I need to know what you want.”

“I want you.”
            “Besides me,” she said.

“Besides you?  The truth.  I want the truth.” 

Ah, truth.  A braided word with so many strands that Doria couldn’t know what he meant by that.  Charles didn’t either.  He tried to explain but got lost in the tangles of verbiage that contained items like God and understanding and realization and attainment. 

And then he crawled once again over her body putting first each of Doria’s fingers into his mouth and then each toe and stayed there for a long time until she grew white and weak and flashed warm and cold at the same time and decided, what the hell, she would seek the truth with him if that was where he was going.  The aqua blanket now smelled of sweat and sweet juices and had hairs embedded into its midst and it belonged, this time, not to one but two, a pair, a yin\yang body stretching outward. 

Doria drove quietly across the Dakota prairie with a sweet dampness between her legs just from remembering him, her man.  Not in five years had it lessened, these  sweet feelings for him. 

Who would buy her blankets in Spearfish?  Oh how she wished she could see what events transpired for her customers.  Did they even know that they were wanting?  Or did they think only about cold fall winds and winter white sheets of snow and that here was a good soft blanket that would shield them from these things?  She stretched a hand out to the passenger side of the car and laid it palm down on Charles’ knee and whispered words like offerings to the moonlit prairie.     

 

On a gray day

The sky is gray and snow is lightly falling.  Today I did an odd thing.  I bought several hundred dollars worth of gold chain and links from a friend of mine who is closing out her own art and craft festival supplies.  Last summer we set up at a few summer fairs and had children building bead people and sold “memberships” to The Bead People International.  One of those weekends it was 100 degrees and windy dusty and another it was 104 degrees and just plain miserable.  Why then, I have to ask, would I want to think of doing this again? 

 

Because it was fun to meet people and chat and be a part of the summer fun.  And because I’d like to think of a way to go places and be there and make a bit of money all at the same time.  And because it gets me out of my head and my obsessive need to save the world or solve the education crises.  It puts me in the here and now.  It also gets me out there with people in a nice way, although we didn’t sell very many copies of Washaka—mostly the little Wind book. 

 

So, my summer vacation.  Do craft fairs and summer art festivals?  Okay.  Sometimes things simply don’t make sense to me until I am well into them.  Even then they sometimes fall short of my expectations, but I can’t say on the one hand “Say yes to spirit” and then, on the other hand, say no. 

 

The truth is, I am excited to begin looking around for fairs and such that we can sign up for.  It will be an adventure.  I may even look into the Santa Fe Flea Market simply because I love Santa Fe. 

 

It has been awhile since I posted a “story” so I think I’ll go shop my files and see what moves me today. 

 

It was a quick search.  What I found were these two quotes that I copied from a slip of paper my father carried in his wallet for decades.  My mother showed them to me after he died and I realized that much of who he was had rubbed off on me in a good way.  Thanks Dad.

 

“Man is buffeted by circumstances so long as he believes himself to be the creature of outside conditions, but when he realizes that he is a creative power and that he may command the hidden soil and seed of his being out of which circumstances grow, he then becomes the rightful master of himself.”

 

 

“I cannot give you the formula for success, but I can give you the formula for failure which is: Try to Please Everybody.”   –Herbert B. Swope

 

All for today,

 

Jamie

 

 

Albert’s Manuscript–Chapter 9

This is the final installment of Albert’s Manuscript.  To begin at the beginning, you will need to scroll down and find the first segment.   

Day Five

Morning Recording Session

 

Albert’s Notes

Jilly had to awaken me this morning. In the night, a deep weariness crept into the very marrow of my old bones, followed by a piercing longing to stand on the edge of a turquoise pool filled by twin water falls. I told Jilly, “This will be our last session.” Her look of disappointment, perhaps a touch of grief, was clear to me. “But Grandfather, you have done so many important things in your life, led so many into healing. Shouldn’t we record all of that?”

“No, Jilly,” I told her. “Mine has only been one life, and not such an important one. What I did, I did because they asked it of me. And this,” I pointed to the recorder and her tidy, growing stack of pages. “This completes what they asked of me–to tell of my visit to the realm of the ancestors.”

She looked as if she wanted to weep but strengthened her spine and gave me a sweet smile. “You have to at least tell me about Sarah.”

She pushed play-record and grinned. We mustn’t leave out the romance for a twenty-three year old woman. Of course, I could never leave Sarah out. She was my heart, my First Woman.

 If there is one thing I have observed in this long life, it is that every human being seeks their own First Man or First Woman, their true mate. Even you, Jilly, I told her. She blushed when I said that. Very pretty.

“Our final session, Jilly. Shall I begin?”

“Please do, Grandfather. I want to hear about Grandmother Sarah.”

Sarah was the rancher’s niece, a pretty brunette, a city girl from Minneapolis. She came to spend the autumn with her uncle on the ranch where I worked. The first time I saw her it was one week after my twenty-first birthday. I am ashamed to say that I didn’t really see her. She was a white girl, a city girl, nothing to do with me, right? She was nineteen, and an artist.

Then one day I was walking past the pump house and saw her over in the shade of the rancher’s house with an easel set up. She was painting. Her long straight, brown hair flowed down her back and, suddenly, when I looked at her, I saw the mane of her hair shimmer and sparkle. I blinked and looked again. It appeared to be changing colors from brown, to gold, to deep black, to pale white. It was not so much the hair itself that was changing, but a thin glow of light resting on the hair.

I stood there, staring at her hair and feeling oafish, lumpy and adolescent, and that is when       I remembered. I’m not even sure how a man’s memory could bring forth two entire days worth of images in mere seconds, but mine did, as if a mo-tion picture formed from beginning to end in a moment. My brain handed me the memory of my two-day journey as a complete packet stored in the golden front chamber of my brain.

Then I walked over to where Sarah was and watched in stunned amazement as she put the final brush strokes on the most vivid of my memories. On her easel was the picture of a man on a hillside curled into him self, weeping, his tears flowing in thin streams into a standing grove of trees of many kinds. And painted within their midst was a stand of thin, white-barked Aspen trees. I couldn’t speak.       I just turned and walked away.

The next day I told my boss I had to go home for a day. Instead, I drove back to where I had slid off my horse in a red rain. I got out of my old truck and walked to the exact place and sat down. There was a pile of damp leaves and, beneath the leaves, I felt metal. It was the small bowl that First Woman had pushed into my hand just before I went into the twin falls. Cradling the bowl in my lap, I sat beneath that tree all day and all night, staring blindly across this land while my mind retraced the path of the journey of those two days. I remembered it all, or most of it.  

When the sun rose at dawn, I had ‘sunk it’ deep within myself. The vision has never left, although additional small details came in bits and pieces. And whenever the smaller details came, I have jotted them down on whatever was handy.

Nearly a year later, on the Fourth of July, Sarah and I were married. You see, I no longer saw her as a white woman but as a Weaver. And the fabric we wove together over our lifetime, it was a beautiful thing. We had much love.

 

 

Albert’s Notes

Jilly applauded-my audience of one. I gave her instructions on what to do with the manuscript, and all the many slips of paper, and sketches, and notes I’d saved over the years. She noted my instructions and agreed to do as asked.

That evening, I took her to town to celebrate with a nice supper.  It felt right to end the story there, with my marriage to Sarah. All I had been instructed to do was now done. No more, and no less. And like the stone that First Man had me drop again, it is a little bit hard to let go of my scraps of paper, and this manuscript.

And now I am alone again.

Jilly’s End Note:

Grandfather Albert’s instructions did not in-clude me adding this note, but I’m drawn to write it anyway. The days spent recording Grandfather’s stories were like no other I’ve ever experienced. In order to record the story, it was as if he had to take himself (and me) back to the Spirit World to reclaim the information. After each session, I could recall none of what he said.  A strange amnesia came over me, but it was a sweet amnesia, filled with a deep joy.

I’d walk out alone at night while he rested and see, really see, that the world is made up of scintillating points of light. This lasted only a little while, and then it appeared solid once again as I remembered to forget, but I remembered enough to know that this realm, and the realm that Grandfather visited, are composed of the same stuff.

Another odd experience I had while gathering (yes, gathering) his material was the way I’d recognize complete strangers. I’d run into town to do this or that errand, and feel as if I knew all the people I saw. This is not my town-I don’t know any of the people-and yet I would recognize them, as if their actual names were on the tip of my tongue. That experience didn’t last either but comes back to me on occasion.

All my life Grandfather has called me his ‘little weaver’. I never knew why until now. I thought it was just a pet name he gave me because I liked puzzles and beading, and anything that had patterns within them. Now, I know that Grandfather saw us all: the Walkers, the Watchers; the Weavers; and yes, I read his sad note about the Weepers. All of these people, too, are familiar to me.

I’m back in college now, and with each course I take,  I recall Grandfather’s words and smile. The physicists, the seekers and spiritualists, the new philosophers and thinkers, the scientists-they all sing the same song-the song Grandfather heard in his two-day journey.

After Grandfather completed his recording, he took me out to dinner, and talked a long time about how, in just the last decade, he has seen the Weaver’s hands upon the loom of the world. How I love that image. He even named a few, said he knew of many couples right here in the Black Hills and Pine Ridge who have given birth to children with extra abilities. They read through time, he told me, they read each other, they see patterns and interconnectedness in all that is around them. I got very excited and wondered at my own place in the design of this new world.

I did not share his vision, it belonged only to Grand-father, and yet my close work with him during those intense few days of recording, has given me his vision like a gift. I begin to hear and see the world and its people differently. He stepped me back far enough (10,000 years) to see the larger design. Suddenly, the world is not such a dark place, but sitting at the end of a spiritual winter waiting for the bursting-forth energy of spring and the opening of a new spiral.

Grandfather did not give me permission to add this end-note to his great symphony, but I feel compelled to do so. I assume it is the spirit that directs me and, if so, I’m sure he will approve.

Here is what I observe as I take his lessons into my heart and the bright chamber of my mind. I needn’t fear loss-it is only temporary. The spirit of my loved ones is inhaled with every breath         I take. We think we fear death, but it is the fear of not being fully alive that consumes us. We desire to take life fully, bring about creation and take our full power and place in the world. We simultaneously desire it-and fear it-because then we may have to stand alone again for a moment. This takes great strength.

  We are in danger of becoming a Weeper when we see only what is behind, and not what is directly around us guiding us to become more.  I’ll stop now. Grandfather wanted to not interpret too much and neither should I. That is for each of us to do separately. And we do not learn-we weave.

One week after Grandfather finished recording his story, he passed one night into a peaceful coma and, three days later, went home to First Man and First Woman, to his father and mother, and to Sarah.

I would have attached his obituary here-I still would like people to know his great works in the world-but I honor his request to remain anonymous. Even in the telling of his story, he would not offer his last name or his lineage because he wanted nothing to distract from the words themselves, and the story as it stands. I did as instructed by my Elder, and now his words are in the hands of another.

           

  Mitakuye Oyasin,      

                     Jilly

Author’s Note

Dear Reader,

I also don’t want to interfere with Albert’s story but, like Jilly, feel drawn to add a note. For many years I was working on a novel series in which the characters continually seek the intersection between heaven and earth. In one novel, I encountered Albert and heard of Albert’s Manuscript and ‘The Wind of a Thousand Years’. I liked the images it evoked but never explored it fully until one winter day in 2004.  I was stuck in the novel and finally asked myself, “What does Albert’s Manuscript say?”

When I put pen to paper in a cheap notebook, I wrote Albert’s Manuscript in nonstop sessions over the next six days. I put no pressure on the words to perform, asked nothing of them, but just allowed the book to be whatever it wanted to be. I was both fully engaged and completely detached-and when it was done, it was done. Nothing more could be added.

Albert is not a real person, not in this realm anyway, but I suspect he is not very far away-and had something he wanted to say. I was willing to listen and write.

I’d like to see how strong the Weavers of the world really are. Can we connect and find each other? Can we create a world where learning is about weaving creation? What fun it will be to find out. 

                   Peace,

                           Jamie Lee

Albert’s Manuscript–Chapter 8

Day Four

Afternoon Recording Session

“Ready, Takoja?”

“Yes, Grandpa.”

After First Woman told me a small part of her story, she became very no-nonsense and marched through the instructions efficiently. She went back into the gray-walled structure and came back holding a nested set of metal bowls. They were of a deep, bronze color with thin rims of colored enamel, four bowls in all.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” She picked each one up and set them side by side on the slab of cottonwood. With a tiny cloth-ended mallet, she tapped each one and a beautiful sound rang out. “I am using these to illustrate this lesson for you.   I told you earlier that this chamber of open potential in the brains of The Weavers was fragile, a container that must be filled. Actually, the inner chamber of the brain depends upon this nest of containers. This first, the smallest, is the mother and her womb. This next size is father and family. The third is the community, meaning everything from a neighborhood to the larger human community. The fourth bowl is the natural world and its many attending realms and worlds.” As she spoke of each bowl, she tapped its edge and when all four bowls were singing together, that single fine sound seemed to contain all the music and stories of all the people perfectly harmonized into one sound. “Do you hear it?”

I was transfixed by that rare sound and could only nod.

First Woman touched a fingertip on each bowl to still the sound. She laughed. “That sound will put you into meditation and prayer. In fact, that sound is meditation and prayer.”

She rapped each edge again with the mallet and let the sound sing out across the turquoise pool. I listened, feeling strangely moved and emotional.     I never wanted it to stop ringing. This time she let the sound fade out naturally but, even after the ringing had stopped, I could still hear it in my ears.

“They are nested, Albert. This is so important to remember. Each container holds the next container.” She reached a hand toward the ground and a pretty silver pitcher was in her hand. First Woman nested the bowls together again, and poured the water into the center bowl. When it was filled it poured out into the next bowl, and when that was filled, it poured out into the next, and so on until the water flowed back out onto the earth itself. “Do you see, Albert? Life, or more precisely spirit, is such an overflowing thing that if we just let it flow naturally it will fill every container. It flows from one container to the next, from one generation to the next and on and on. It is unending, this flow. But the nest of bowls must be in order. Do you see?”

“Yes, I see.”

“Good. Then you see there is an order here that must be followed.”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She lifted the pitcher of water and put it in my hands. “This is the energy of life itself vibrating. It is creative, it fills and empties and contains us all. I have it in this pitcher but, in truth, it cannot be contained by anything and yet is con-tained by everything. Do you understand?”

I did understand, and nodded, feeling like a schoolboy sitting beside my pretty teacher with the pretty bowls. Later, this lesson would prove to be both the simplest lesson, and the most difficult. The energy that is life-mysterious, felt and yet not felt, seen and yet not seen, immeasurable.

 ”Albert, when you understand this natural order of things, it becomes easier to be a Watcher, easier to see when a person, or an institution, has gone out of order. And a child in order will become a Weaver, capable of using this special chamber in the brain in very different ways, but only with proper training. My instruction for training the young Weavers is quite simple really. The key is to understand that the Weavers weave-one idea into another, one thought into another, one bit of information with another, one person to another, one country to another. They are pattern-makers. They do not learn by absorbing information like wads of cotton absorbing liquid, but by weaving, integrating one thing with another. Our job, then, is to feed finer and finer threads and more colors onto their loom so that they can weave the vision. We could call them spider children but Weaver sounds better, don’t you think? Do you under-stand? We do not learn-we weave.”

First Woman stopped talking; to give me time to do my own weaving. I’m not sure what I had expected. I waited for more information and there was no more. She had finished the lesson with four bowls, and the instruction to allow the Weavers to weave. I couldn’t resist asking. “That’s it? That is all we need in order to enter the new time of gathering?”

First Woman shook her head. “Oh, Albert, you have no idea how difficult this simple lesson will be-for them to weave the new fabric out of the old? The challenges will be great as the Wind of a Thousand Years dies out. Earth will look like the aftermath of a great storm, and the people will cling to their old identities like life rafts. They will form false camps of belonging, fearful of separating or standing alone. They will reject the Weavers in a hundred different ways, calling them names, challenging their ideas, excluding them. Only those firmly planted in their families, whose center bowl can overflow into the other bowls, will be able to proceed. Old institutions of health and education will collapse, and we must pay careful attention to the families and the food supply. The only grace is that it is the right time, and more and more will weave their connections between this earthly realm and the other realms. Help will come from other places. But there will be many challenges. Come, walk to the waterfall with me, and then you must go.”

First Woman took my hand and together we followed the footpath to the edge of the twin falls. Neither of us spoke for many minutes. We walked, both lost in our own thoughts of spider children and weavers and the new world. Once she paused and said, “Albert, remember this. The strongest thread on the Weaver’s loom is always love . . . only love.”

I knew my time in this realm was nearly completed. We were standing at the foot of the waterfall and I saw large, fat goldfish the size of my hand in the clear stone plates that held the water. Panic rose in my throat, and in my middle.  I didn’t want to leave this place.  I was afraid to crawl back into that broken body in another time and place.

First Woman saw my panic. “And Albert, fear is the sharp blade that cuts the thread of the Weaver’s loom.  Trust is the only thing that can mend the break.  You must trust.”

We stood a moment staring into the falling waters. She said, “Now, it is time for you to cleanse yourself. Walk into the shallow pool beneath the falls and put your body beneath its spray.”

I started to object.

“No, Albert. All will be well. You must never cling to your belonging when it is time to separate. Go now into the falls.” She dropped my hand, and then handed me the smallest of the four bowls. “Hold this close to your chest while you cleanse.”

The twin streams of water flowing over the ledge were no more than ten yards away, but it was difficult to force my feet to walk those ten yards. I knew. I must have known. I wondered if it was possible that the tears I’d wept earlier had merged with the waters above and I would now be showering in my own tears.

I walked into the shallow waters and then plunged beneath the falls, clutching the bowl against my chest. An explosion of water crashed over my head and shoulders and, in the next instant, I was blinking my eyes open in the disgustingly dirty and broken body of the Albert who had slid from his horse. It was a cruel awakening.

“Some hot tea, please, Jilly.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

Albert’s Notes

Jilly hurried off to fix the tea while I fought my lungs for that first deep breath all over again. She was back in just minutes pressing the cup into my trembling hands and murmuring, “Drink, Grandpa. It will restore you.”

I gasped. “Ah, Jilly. You have no idea how difficult it was to leave that realm and return to this one.” But I couldn’t stay. It wasn’t yet time for me to stay there.”  I gulped the tea and felt its heat burn through my body. It did restore me and I breathed more easily. “

I better get back to Jilly and finish this story. She worries about me.

“Is your little machine still on?

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“Good. I feel better. Where was I? Oh yes. It was like being born again, but into a broken, dehydrated, god-awful body. As you young people like to say, it was gross.”

“Oh, Grandfather.”

“See, I’m fine now, my humor returns. Let me just get the poor boy home, and then we will call it a night.”

As far as I could tell, there were no broken bones. My slide from the horse had been caused by the blindness, the bleeding red rain in my eyes.  I was, however, dehydrated, disoriented, and weak with hunger. Unconscious and unaware, I had lain beneath that grove for two full days. Had I been in full sun, I would have died. I tried to whistle for old George, but my lips were so parched and swollen    I couldn’t make a sound. George, I am convinced, had his own lessons and arrangements with the higher realms because just minutes after I regained consciousness, he came galloping up. I think First Woman must have sent him to get me. My duffle bag was still on his back and I used the stirrups to yank myself upright and get to the water in my pack. I don’t need to tell you in detail how filthy I was. I drank half the canteen of water and then threw it right up again. I think it was the smell that made me sick. I smelled that bad.

My mind was fogged over, and my eyes were bleary-but not blind. I was relieved to be able to see, but had no immediate recall of what had happened while I was unconscious. I was just damn glad to be alive, even in this disgusting body. My recollection of getting back up on George, and making my way back home is pretty sketchy but somehow I managed it. Or George did.

When I rode up to that poor old cabin, it looked like a palace. I heard my mother scream from inside the house and soon she and my sisters flew out of the door, off the stoop and began kissing me, and crying, and half carrying me into the kitchen.  They asked no questions, just kept kissing and crying. I stayed awake long enough to strip to the bone and scrub and scrub, and scrub. If I hadn’t already been a red man, I would have been after that scrubbing.

For the first days after my return I had lost all memories from those two days. That space in my brain was simply closed off to me. My body healed, and my mother and sisters began to relax again. They must have sensed a change in me, but they asked no questions.

The only thing that felt different at first was that my anger was gone. The demon living inside my body had left. You can’t imagine what a relief it was to no longer have that raw, red energy control my days and nights.  I was not like one of those sinners who suddenly find the lord. I still liked a cold beer, but I didn’t need a case of it to kill the demon any longer.

Something inside of me was different, but I didn’t know what or why. I figured it was because  I had lucked out and cheated death. I should have been dead after my foolish drunken ride off to rescue my father.

Mother was struggling to provide for the family so I took a job on a ranch near Martin and began working long, hot days fixing fence, tossing hay, and running cattle. The work felt good, maybe for the first time. It stripped my body of all the bad influences I had dumped on it for so long. I got stronger, and clearer, and healthier with each passing week. I took most of my wages and handed them to my mother without saying a word. Sometimes I’d catch her staring at me as if she was wondering what had happened to change her struggling boy into a man. But still, she didn’t ask, just thanked me.

I spent time with my sisters, Shawna and Silvie, and was shocked to see them becoming young women. It was as if I had not seen them-really seen them-since our father died, as if I had been living in a dark fog. In August, I turned twenty-one and marked the moment not by getting blind drunk, but wondering why I no longer wanted to get blind drunk. I shot a few games of pool in Vetal, had a couple of beers, and went back to the ranch.

And then I met Sarah. And I remembered.

“Jilly, I want to stop here for the night. I need to consider how much more to tell.

“Yes, Grandfather. But you know I want to hear the rest.”

“I know, dear. And you will. You will.

Albert’s Notes

Jilly and I barbecued a couple of steaks and baked potatoes to celebrate the end of the telling of my two-day journey. She finished her transcription an hour ago and went to bed. I am restless, staring out the window, an eye on the world like the moon above. I’m not sure how much of my life I need to put into this story. In some ways, it feels finished right now, and yet in other ways the experience goes on and on and will continue to go on and on even when I am gone from this place.

When I quiet my mind and sit a moment in my spirit,  I realize that I want to leave my reporting of the visit to the other realms as it is. A lot of interpreting and meaning-making will just drain the energy off the basic lessons I was given. It will weaken them. Better to let them stand and let others do their own meaning-making, their own weaving.

In many decades of study, reading, tracing the world’s great philosophies, I have found nothing as clear or truthful as the simple lessons taught to me over those two days. I look out at the world from these old eyes, and I see the aftermath of the storm.

The Wind of a Thousand Years is a breeze now, but the clean-up is a big job. At the same time, I see the opening of the new spiral of gathering and belonging, a world of individuals seeking spirit and right place, seeking true identity and roots, finding creation. They are the Weavers, and some of them, like Jilly, are coming of age now. Beneath the tattered gray blanket, a tremendous energy builds. We are remembering to remember.

Albert’s Manuscript–Chapter 7

Day Four

Morning Recording Session

“Already this becomes a pattern, Jilly, with you sitting there, and me sipping coffee. Is your talking machine on?”

“On and recording, Grandfather.

“Good, this is good. We are almost there. Let me see, where did I leave off yesterday?”

In all the time I had spent with my father, we had been in the beautiful emerald valley, the sun bright and yellow above us. Now, as Father finished his instructions to me, his form again shifted to the smaller, sinewy form of First Man as we neared the top of the hill. The gray walls I’d first encountered with my Grandfather rose suddenly around us once again. They were the color of slate and threw light back at me. I put my hand flat on its surface and it felt as solid.

First Man smiled. “Don’t worry. It is solid, just not as solid as we once believed.”

I entered through the same arched doorway into the wide hall but, when I turned to speak to First Man, he was gone. He had not followed me in. Fear clutched my middle for an instant but the feeling was quickly removed by that warm presence behind me that father had told me to sink into my belly. Evidently, I had done it right.

I wandered an open, empty space that looked like a large, enclosed courtyard. Uncertain about what to do next, I waited, but not for long.

I felt her presence before she entered. There was a change in the air, a softening of the energy.  It’s hard to describe, but when I turned to see where the change was coming from, I saw First Woman enter from an opening to my right. I think I had expected a female twin to the sinewy First Man but, instead, before me stood the most beautiful young women I have ever seen. She was so beautiful that I felt suddenly oafish, lumpy and adolescent in her presence.

Her features were fine and smooth.  Long hair flowed to her waist and seemed to take the qualities of this place into itself because the color shifted with each step she took. It was dark as the night sky one moment, and a pale red sunrise the next, and then yellow as sunlight a second later. Finally, all color left until her hair looked like a moonbeam.    I must have looked ridiculous, like a boy meeting a movie star. She laughed and I heard bells, crystal bells, tinkling in her laughter. 

“Oh Albert.” She laughed again. “You look dumbstruck.” She ran a hand over her hair as if telling it to settle down, and it muted all color back to deep night.

You would think such a woman would wear flowing white robes but she wore only an ordinary tan cotton shift. No adornment, no rings, no beads, no strands of shell, or headgear or feathers. In truth, she needed nothing added.   I think I was just a little in love-maybe a lot.  Forever after I would seek her in all the women I saw, and would eventually marry the one who had her qualities. I shook myself and blushed. “Sorry. You are First Woman and I am a rude boy. I expected you to be old.”

“I am. I am very, very old.” She grinned. “Come, we have much to talk about and very little time.”

First Woman turned and quickly walked out the way she had entered. I followed. We passed the gray walls and were suddenly standing on the shore of a beautiful turquoise lake surrounded by red canyon walls. Across the lake, twin waterfalls flowed over high ledges and landed in limestone-crusted plates of stone that looked placed by the hand of god. A fine misty spray reached my face from where we stood.

First Woman said, “Pretty, isn’t it? It is my favorite place in all of the realms. Water helps me think.” She walked down the path a hundred yards and sat down on a wide slab of polished wood cut from a giant cottonwood tree. I took a place beside her.

“You are having quite the adventure, Albert.”

“Yes.”

“I am to instruct you about the Weavers, the children who are arriving. Many are already here, actually.”

I had nearly forgotten the words First Man had said, so filled with my father was I still. “Yes, First Man told me.”

The bright look on her face faded as though a cloud had passed overhead. I glanced upward but the sky was a sheet of blue.

“You must listen carefully, Albert. Much de-pends upon these children finding their place in this time. For a thousand years the wind has tumbled the people of earth into one another until they no longer remember where they belong, who they are, or what they have come to do. The longing, the seeking, the deep sense of aloneness and isolation will, for a time yet, cloud all connection with the higher realms, even with the earthly realm. It is a blindness of the soul-you know of what I speak.”

“Yes, I think I do.” I thought again of blind Albert unconscious beneath a grove of cotton-woods.

“It comes rapidly now, this time of change. Soon you must go back but my instructions are very specific and won’t take long, so I want to tell you one small story from my own storyline.” First Woman smiled and the shadow lifted.

Her smile warmed me to the core of my being. I really was in love. She could have talked for one hundred years and I would not have wiggled, so enamored of her was I. Her words were like warm water.

“Before the Wind began, actually it was already blowing, we just didn’t know it, but all the people had a deep belonging with the natural world. We spoke the language and heard the language of earth, stone, animals, dreams, and the soft whispers from the spirit realm. We spoke the language and we listened. It was a natural, graceful way of being. In truth, we couldn’t have survived this cycle without the help of the plants and animals. When the Wind began, it stirred the natural rhythms and disturbed them. It brought with it the beginning energy of separating and, with that, an awareness of what is mine-and what is yours.” First Woman stopped and gazed into my face. “Do you understand?”

I said I wasn’t sure.

“The deep harmonies were disturbed, Albert. Now, instead of living in belonging with all things, we drifted from true belonging into ownership. This belongs to me. That belongs to you. That doesn’t belong. You see?  The energy of belonging shifted.”

I nodded, now understanding her meaning.

“It is impossible to describe how this shift interrupted the natural rhythms, but you can see the result in your world. Now the people of earth fight to have, and not to be. From this place I am now, this high vista, I see the many cycles which form the spiral of which First Man spoke; the energies of gathering, belonging, separating, and alone. Now a new twist of the spiral opens. It will carry human-kind into the next, and even deeper, com-munication between the realms, but it has been very painful, this ending of one cycle and the opening of the new.”

As First Woman spoke, I felt the pain of which she spoke like a knife-point at my throat. I said nothing, just nodded again like a puppet.

“When I was a young girl I, like you, was taken to the this realm, and made a Watcher. It is very difficult to be a Watcher, Albert. You live in one world while simultaneously seeing another. It is confusing, and sometimes very painful. Always you ask why others cannot see what you see. You feel very alone. You see-but are seldom seen by others. Being instructed, as you have been during your time here, helped me, but still I had to live in a world that was rapidly changing.”

She took my hand in hers and continued. “In my village, a neighbor to First Man’s village, I was a maiden of the Sun. I took the Sun as my master. Another man, a priest in my village, fell into the Wind and took darkness into his soul. I tell you this not as an indulgence, but to let you know that in that time, the seed of this time was also planted. I fled my village with another Watcher from the south. I had twin babies in my womb. The evil priest believed himself to be the father of those babes, a boy and a girl but, in truth, they were special children formed from the mating of the Sun and the Moon.”

First Woman gave another tinkling laugh. “Never mind about the logistics of that mating. It simply was. There were others born to the Watchers at that same time around the world, and it is these special children who have seeded the human race with what is needed as the new spiral begins. The descendents of all of those children are like a silver net holding the potential for this new time, when the Wind is ending. I’ll try to explain in more modern terms. The energy of sun and moon combined in these children and created a new chamber in the brain.” First Woman tapped her forehead between her brows. “Here. This chamber is not unlike its predecessor, it is the place of connection, of gathering, but in these descendents of sun and moon, it carries an even greater potential, a preparation for the new spiral of gathering and belonging. A wider reach, so to speak.”

First Woman was excited about this mysterious chamber of which she spoke. Her eyes were wide and shining. I could not take the time to think through all she said because I simply needed to record her words in my mind so I wouldn’t forget.

“Oh, Albert. The potential is so great, so far- reaching and full of promise, and yet so fragile at the same time, but it is container only.  It is like having a miraculous machine, but it must first be turned on. If properly turned on, the human race will flourish once again and surpass its former state of being. The sense of belonging will reach far, far beyond the skin of a single person. Do you understand?”

“I think so.” In truth, I didn’t understand yet, but her excitement was so contagious that I was caught it its glow.

“The Wind of a Thousand Years will not have been in vain for it will herald in such a time of peace, of connection, of light. I want that for the next generation, and all the generations to follow.”

Her eyes misted over and pale particles of light and energy rose up from her shining hair again and formed a halo around her head. I was reminded of the sweet images of the Virgin Mary that I had so loved as a child. In fact, this woman was not unlike my image of that other woman. Such a vision she held for the human race and, with her help, I saw the promise of it too. Her vision of humanity bloomed in my own mind, although it was not the world I currently knew.

She watched my face, her gaze tender and sweet. “You see it?”

“I do.”

“Good. Then my story has carried what it needed to carry to you.” She leaned over and kissed my brow in the same place she had tapped her own brow. “Now sink it, Albert. Sink that vision into your middle.”

She sounded like my father and I laughed. With that most tender of kisses, First Woman became all business again. She ran quickly through my instructions on what she called ‘Care of the container for Weavers.’ She began by reminding me that we cannot know which children are descendents of the sun and moon energies and so therefore, the instructions apply to all children. “As it should be,” she said. She did say that we will in some ways be able to recognize the Weavers because they will enter the world greedy, restless for knowledge, impatient to learn-and intolerant when that learning is denied or constrained.

First Woman then spent a long time talking to me about how, in this new time, we must be mindful of the larger container of earth, that the Weavers must have pure water, pure air, the food supply restored and cared for, and that the ability of these children to weave will depend upon their own brain’s ability to weave its fine connections. “Caring for the weaving child requires a larger spiral of care,” she said, “Which includes care of the mother, care for the family, and care of the earth.”

Remember that the man receiving these rapid instructions was a crazy, young man who had not even considered fatherhood as an option yet. I think that First Woman must have poured the information like liquid into my own container.    I took it in whole, in one long, thirsty drink and have never forgotten the simple instructions she gave.   

However, in the world that unfolded as I grew and aged, following her instructions was another matter entirely. From what I could see, in the final decades of apathy and despair left in the wake of the mighty Wind, our institutions and culture did exactly the opposite of what she instructed. It was remarkable.

But I also saw that these children with the golden chambers, the special containers, would not be denied the learning or the care required.

“A break, Jilly? I begin to stray from my story.”

 ”Yes, Grandfather.”

Albert’s Notes

Jilly looked reluctant to push the stop button on her recorder, but smiled and clicked it off. Oh, I knew she was one of them, one of the Weavers. I haven’t yet said a word about the others, the ones not descended from this ancient line, born of sun and moon, the ones whose containers, for whatever reason, were not filled with this potential.

First Woman called them ‘The Weepers’. Sadly, those who could not pass through the final days of the Wind, she said, would cry all their lives for what they could not have, be, or do. They would die having never thrown off the gray net of despair. I will make no further mention of this hereafter. You will know them when you meet them, the Weepers. They cry and they cry. First Woman also told me to remember that eventually all will cross the stream again and be descendents of sun and moon.

For many years I wondered about this use of words beginning with a ‘W’ in this language of the other realms, and the new spiral. The only thing I saw is that it is the only letter in the English alphabet whose two thin arms reach for heaven, for the higher realms, while its bottom is firmly planted on the earth. ‘W’.  Firmly seated-but reaching.

The telling of this story, so long held, is both energizing and making me weary to the bone. I’m embarrassed to say I sent Jilly off to do useless errands so I could be alone in my home for a moment.

The meeting with First Woman shaped the rest of my life. I became an artist so I could capture her in oil or watercolor. I took up photography to chase her shadow on film. I wrote to feel her hand cover mine over the pen. I married my wife because she reminded me of First Woman. She was a good wife to me, too, and soon, I will find her again.

I think it is time for a rest.

I am an old man. After the last session I crabbed back into my room and stretched out on the bed for nearly an hour until Jilly returned and came back to see that I was all right. I didn’t tell her that it is only there, in my dreams, that I see First Woman. She is always there, whenever I seek her guidance. Refreshed from my nap, I told Jilly that we would do one more session after lunch. It is time to finish this story now.