by Larry Brody
Ah, more recollections of the wonders of Indian Country. The Lakota Reservation in Pine Ridge, South Dakota, where, accompanied by the Navajo Dog, I started my lessons on the meaning – or the magic – of life:
The Feather
It was after my vision quest, the three days in the pit,
When, full of the freshness of my new name,
And the animal power it held, I made my way
To the trailer where my friend the wild Indian lived.
(I sing of the Bear—the Bear sings of me.)
His arms went around me, and he offered me a
Beer and stew, for this was Pine Ridge,
And while the power was strong,
The pickings were slim.
(I sing to the Bear—the Bear sings to me.)
Later, after a sweat, my friend, who had
Already done so much toward showing me
the way, gave me a gift he had prepared.
It was a single eagle feather, wrapped in
Red thread, and blessed by the seven most
Sacred of medicine men. Not just Lakota,
They were all tribes, all kinds, and they had
Given him the feather as a sign. Now he wanted
to give it to me.
(I sing like the Bear—the Bear sings like me.)
When I touched the feather, my hand tingled
And burnt, and I was embarrassed, feeling
Unworthy. But the eagle had allowed its death, and its
Use, and the old medicine men had given their
Power. Who was I to deny? To say no? To
Refuse? I had to accept the honor.
I have kept the feather, and talked to it, and
Heard it. I have slept with it beneath my head,
And I’ve dreamed.
(I sing of the Bear, my spirit, my soul—the Bear
Has already sung its songs to me)
With the feather, I have made liars speak truly,
Vanquished old evil and new. With the feather,
I have made friends of enemies, and sent messages,
And healing, but never has it been easy to use.
It flies, you see, this eagle feather does. It refuses
To stay on the ground. It vanishes from where I put
It, and tries to escape, searching ceaselessly for
the Freedom it deserves.
(With the eagle’s feather, I become the Bear—
The Bear has already become me.)
I have lost the feather a dozen times, and found
It a dozen more. Every time, it speaks, in the
Eagle’s screech, and, more quietly, in the
Chant of the medicine men. I hear the feather
The way I hear my own heartbeat, and its message
Is ever the same.
Be the Bear, it tells me. Learn. Teach. Heal.
Be the Bear of your vision, or be nothing, be no
One. Be the Bear of the sky, and fly from this earth.
Fly beyond the Bear—sing of it—sing to it—
Sing like it, with the most melodious of roars.
Be the Bear as you saw it, and were it in the
Mountains, half-buried, half-starving, but more
Than twice new.
Be the Bear—
For the Bear has already—
How long? Try forever—
The Bear has already been you.
It was after my vision quest, the three days in the pit,
When, full of the freshness of my new name,
And the power it held, Talking Bear received
A single eagle feather, wrapped in red thread.
The thread is gone, spun off in mid-flight,
And the feather is torn, worn, and bare.
But still I hold on and sing of the
Bear, and listen as it sings of me,
And still my hand tingles as I learn,
Teach, and heal,
As I try to be worthy of the vision
And all those who need so much to believe.
Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. Although the book whose cover you see above is for sale on Kindle, he is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, “As the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out to me, ‘Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you compromise your artistic vision by trying to please those who are paying. If you don’t accept money, you can be yourself. Like your art, you too are free.’”
