Yesterday I read transcript, posted by another practitioner, that described a life as an native american. It talked about counting coups, the practice of gaining status by acts of bravery (or foolishness) in battle, and a victory over a mountain lion that gave the person powerful spirit for the rest of his life.
This story strongly resonated with me, reading it gave me goosebumps from head to toe. I immediately had a sensation of how it felt to hold a bow in my right hand, drawing the string with my left. I felt the strain in my arm and the smelled the string near my nose. (In this life I’m left-handed, and the few times I’ve used a bow, I held it in my left hand.) And I had a strong sense of familiarity with the process of attaching a stone arrowhead to an arrow shaft: cutting the slot, inserting the head and wrapping it carefully so it’s perfectly aligned with the shaft so it will fly true.
The more I thought about it, the more details emerged: In that life I had no family, only my mother. I never married. I was no good as a hunter, but I was good at making things, bows and arrows. Every hunter was expected to make his own tools and weapons, but the fact is that some men were simply no good at it. They might be great hunters but lousy at making weapons. So they came to me. I was a necessary person to have around, though it was slightly shameful to for them to admit that they needed to get their weapons from me. It was ok to use my arrows because they were the best, but not because you couldn’t make a decent arrow to save your life, or perhaps you were just too lazy to try. My arrows were just about the best, so almost everybody was happy to use them. That’s how I earned my place in the tribe. My status was a bit fuzzy as I was below the hunters and warriors, but exactly how low depended on how the egos were flying at any particular time.
That was a short life. I died relative young, even by their standards, not much past thirty. It’s not clear how I died, but it had something to do with falling backwards so the my upper back and shoulders hit hard on a large rock. Afterwords, I saw myself lying flat, my shoulders on the rock and my head dangling backwards, unsupported, with my mouth open and eyes staring,.
I get to wondering about that life. Their social life was probably as complex as ours today, with many subtle cues, obligations and duties to pay attention to, in order to find and fit properly into their place in the tribe. They may seem simple and boring to us, but they had plenty of tasks necessary to survive in, what was essentially, a stone age culture, and a rich history of myths, legends and stories to occupy their creativity.
I can’t help but think about Counting Coups. What does that say about a culture? For instance, does the fact that status depends on bravery in battle mean that war must be constant, in order for young men to earn their place? And what does that say about the purpose of battles? Are they to settle disputes, or are disputes created in order to have battles? Is perpetual war an inevitable result when a society values sacrifice and bravery in war more than peaceful pursuits? Is that why we always seem to be at war with somebody, about something, because it’s easier to advance blatant selfish interests in wartime, when you’re beating the patriotic drum about some scary monster, than when everybody’s home and safe and jus trying to get on with their lives? It seems to me that the leaders who proclaim most loudly their respect for the armed forces, always seem to be the ones that are most likely to send them into harms way, for some increasingly trivial reason. And anyone that points out the foolishness of what they are doing is unpatriotic and disrespecting our troops. Will we ever learn?
Showing posts with label indian. Show all posts
Showing posts with label indian. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Autistic Shaman
This life memory was almost forced upon me. I had woken up in the middle of the night, then, after I went to the bathroom, let the cat out, noticed that it must be late, because the full moon was far into the west, I went back to bed. But I couldn’t sleep. I had no idea why I couldn’t sleep, I was just awake and that was that. I started thinking about an autistic person I sing with, and gradually, flashes of evergreens and bark-covered beehives crept into my awareness. Finally I gave up, rolled over and decided to find out what this was all about. I didn’t knowingly put myself into a trance of any kind, but it was the middle of the night, who knows?
My first impression was a bark-covered beehive in the trees. After some digging, a scene emerged. I was a native American, in bare feet, wearing the kind of shirt that left my arms and shoulders uncovered, and a kind of loincloth. I don’t think there was any decoration on either. I had long black hair, tied back. I was standing, quite still, in a redwood forest on a gently rolling, upland, landscape. Behind me was a view, down-slope and through the trees, of a sunny valley, some miles distant. I was standing outside of, and facing, a beehive-shaped hut covered with bark.
In the next scene, I was inside the hut. There was a small fire in the center, a small amount of belongings, tucked against the sides and my wife. There were also two children, a boy, about 2 years old, and baby in her mother’s arms. My wife was also pregnant. My wife had been chosen for me by the tribe.
I had no feelings for my wife or children, I saw them, quite literally, as blurs. The children were little more than transparent ghosts. My wife was more solid, but was still a blur, none the less. It’s like I physically could not see them. I didn’t love them or hate them. They were just part of my world and I took care of them because that’s what I did. I didn’t really think about it. In a way, I don’t think I “thought” about anything, I just “was,” living in the present.
There was only one person in this life that seemed solid. That was the old man. I have only one image of him, where I am looking up at him from the side, from below, like I am a small child. He is facing away from me, is wearing a shirt like mine that leaves his arms a shoulders bare, and lose pants, both with decorations and beadwork. He has a special band around his upper arm and another around his head, holding his hair. Although his hair is heavily streaked with gray, he is still tall and strong.
New scene. I am again outside in the forest, this time watching some kind of ceremony where people are dancing by a fire. The place was an area of flat ground at the base of some very large rocks, sticking out of the hillside. Again, I can’t see any people, all I perceive are shadows and silhouettes against the firelight. This is during the day.
I wasn’t really paying attention to the dance. Instead I was thinking about how cool it was to have the fire up against the rocks. That way the heat is reflected back and that is so much warmer, and, not only that, but the rocks retained the heat after the fire died down at night and would keep you warm as you sleep. Next I started thinking about having a fire in a cave, and I started to wonder why no one had ever seen cases of people living in caves who built low walls of rocks to block the wind and keep them warm at night.
I moved ahead again. Now the scene looked exactly the same, and I was standing in the same position, except that now I was older, much older. I was stooped with age and had grey hair. Now I was dressed just like the old man I had seen in my first vision. I realized that, now, I was the shaman, taking over from my “father” when he died. I was not his blood kin, but was taken in by him after being abandoned by my parents. They were from another group and had left me far out in the forest when they had realized that I was “different.” I was about four at that time. The shaman found me, took me in and trained me to be his replacement.
It seems that I had “talents.” Today I might be called “functional autistic,” but in those times I was a holy man. I had ideas. For instance, my hut had a roof that was somewhat pointed, not flat like the others, so the rain would run off better. I covered my hut with bark because I shed rain better, and wouldn’t catch fire from sparks, the way leaves and branches would. I think I also had a habit of standing or sitting on one place for long periods of time, without moving, lost in my own inner world.
My death was confusing. I had chest pains, some kind of heart condition, but that didn’t kill me. I’d been stabbed in the back with a stone-tipped spear, but that didn’t kill me. It seems that I’d fallen and broken my neck. That didn’t kill me either, but left me a quadriplegic. I was assigned a young girl to take care of me, but someone in that condition doesn’t last long in that day and age. I have no idea how long I lasted, time didn’t mean much to me in that life. One I died, I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I couldn’t see past the death.
My purpose in that life was to understand what it was like to live that life, be that kind of person, and to have compassion, not pity. To experience what it was like to be in the tribe, but on of it. In thinking about it, I am struck by some parallels between that live and this current life. I have, at times, found myself just “being,” aware of the people around me, but not giving them any acknowledgment or significance. Not thinking, just being.
My first impression was a bark-covered beehive in the trees. After some digging, a scene emerged. I was a native American, in bare feet, wearing the kind of shirt that left my arms and shoulders uncovered, and a kind of loincloth. I don’t think there was any decoration on either. I had long black hair, tied back. I was standing, quite still, in a redwood forest on a gently rolling, upland, landscape. Behind me was a view, down-slope and through the trees, of a sunny valley, some miles distant. I was standing outside of, and facing, a beehive-shaped hut covered with bark.
In the next scene, I was inside the hut. There was a small fire in the center, a small amount of belongings, tucked against the sides and my wife. There were also two children, a boy, about 2 years old, and baby in her mother’s arms. My wife was also pregnant. My wife had been chosen for me by the tribe.
I had no feelings for my wife or children, I saw them, quite literally, as blurs. The children were little more than transparent ghosts. My wife was more solid, but was still a blur, none the less. It’s like I physically could not see them. I didn’t love them or hate them. They were just part of my world and I took care of them because that’s what I did. I didn’t really think about it. In a way, I don’t think I “thought” about anything, I just “was,” living in the present.
There was only one person in this life that seemed solid. That was the old man. I have only one image of him, where I am looking up at him from the side, from below, like I am a small child. He is facing away from me, is wearing a shirt like mine that leaves his arms a shoulders bare, and lose pants, both with decorations and beadwork. He has a special band around his upper arm and another around his head, holding his hair. Although his hair is heavily streaked with gray, he is still tall and strong.
New scene. I am again outside in the forest, this time watching some kind of ceremony where people are dancing by a fire. The place was an area of flat ground at the base of some very large rocks, sticking out of the hillside. Again, I can’t see any people, all I perceive are shadows and silhouettes against the firelight. This is during the day.
I wasn’t really paying attention to the dance. Instead I was thinking about how cool it was to have the fire up against the rocks. That way the heat is reflected back and that is so much warmer, and, not only that, but the rocks retained the heat after the fire died down at night and would keep you warm as you sleep. Next I started thinking about having a fire in a cave, and I started to wonder why no one had ever seen cases of people living in caves who built low walls of rocks to block the wind and keep them warm at night.
I moved ahead again. Now the scene looked exactly the same, and I was standing in the same position, except that now I was older, much older. I was stooped with age and had grey hair. Now I was dressed just like the old man I had seen in my first vision. I realized that, now, I was the shaman, taking over from my “father” when he died. I was not his blood kin, but was taken in by him after being abandoned by my parents. They were from another group and had left me far out in the forest when they had realized that I was “different.” I was about four at that time. The shaman found me, took me in and trained me to be his replacement.
It seems that I had “talents.” Today I might be called “functional autistic,” but in those times I was a holy man. I had ideas. For instance, my hut had a roof that was somewhat pointed, not flat like the others, so the rain would run off better. I covered my hut with bark because I shed rain better, and wouldn’t catch fire from sparks, the way leaves and branches would. I think I also had a habit of standing or sitting on one place for long periods of time, without moving, lost in my own inner world.
My death was confusing. I had chest pains, some kind of heart condition, but that didn’t kill me. I’d been stabbed in the back with a stone-tipped spear, but that didn’t kill me. It seems that I’d fallen and broken my neck. That didn’t kill me either, but left me a quadriplegic. I was assigned a young girl to take care of me, but someone in that condition doesn’t last long in that day and age. I have no idea how long I lasted, time didn’t mean much to me in that life. One I died, I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I couldn’t see past the death.
My purpose in that life was to understand what it was like to live that life, be that kind of person, and to have compassion, not pity. To experience what it was like to be in the tribe, but on of it. In thinking about it, I am struck by some parallels between that live and this current life. I have, at times, found myself just “being,” aware of the people around me, but not giving them any acknowledgment or significance. Not thinking, just being.
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