Rock n Roll Indians: A Spiritual Allegory (The White Buffalo Calf Woman Trilogy Book 1)

Volumes of the Liberal Preacher and Christian Examiner, occasional sermons, controversial pamphlets, tracts, and other productions of a like fugitive nature, took the place of the thick and heavy volumes of past time. In a physical point of view, there was much the same difference as between a feather and a lump of lead; but, intellectually regarded, the specific gravity of old and new was about upon a par. Both also were alike frigid. The elder books nevertheless seemed to have been earnestly written, and might be conceived to have possessed warmth at some former period; although, with the lapse of time, the heated masses had cooled down even to the freezing-point.

In fine, of this whole dusty heap of literature I tossed aside all the sacred part, and felt myself none the less a Christian for eschewing it. There appeared no hope of either mounting to the better world on a Gothic staircase of ancient folios or of flying thither on the wings of a modern tract. Nothing, strange to say, retained any sap except what had been written for the passing day and year, without the remotest pretension or idea of permanence.

There were a few old newspapers, and still older almanacs, which reproduced to my mental eye the epochs when they had issued from the press with a distinctness that was altogether unaccountable. It was as if I had found bits of magic looking-glass among the books with the images of a vanished century in them. I turned my eyes towards the tattered picture above mentioned, and asked of the austere divine wherefore it was that he and his brethren, after the most painful rummaging and groping into their minds, had been able to produce nothing half so real as these newspaper scribblers and almanac-makers had thrown off in the effervescence of a moment.

The portrait responded not; so I sought an answer for myself. It is the age itself that writes newspapers and almanacs, which therefore have a distinct purpose and meaning at the time, and a kind of intelligible truth for all times; whereas most other works — being written by men who, in the very act, set themselves apart from their age — are likely to possess little significance when new, and none at all when old. Genius, indeed, melts many ages into one, and thus effects something permanent, yet still with a similarity of office to that of the more ephemeral writer.

A work of genius is but the newspaper of a century, or perchance of a hundred centuries. Lightly as I have spoken of these old books, there yet lingers with me a superstitious reverence for literature of all kinds. A bound volume has a charm in my eyes similar to what scraps of manuscript possess for the good Mussulman. Thus it was not without sadness that I turned away from the library of the Old Manse. Blessed was the sunshine when it came again at the close of another stormy day, beaming from the edge of the western horizon; while the massive firmament of clouds threw down all the gloom it could, but served only to kindle the golden light into a more brilliant glow by the strongly contrasted shadows.

Heaven smiled at the earth, so long unseen, from beneath its heavy eyelid. To-morrow for the hill-tops and the woodpaths. Or it might be that Ellery Charming came up the avenue to join me in a fishing excursion on the river. Strange and happy times were those when we cast aside all irksome forms and strait-laced habitudes and delivered ourselves up to the free air, to live like the Indians or any less conventional race during one bright semicircle of the sun.

Rowing our boat against the current, between wide meadows, we turned aside into the Assabeth. It is sheltered from the breeze by woods and a hillside; so that elsewhere there might be a hurricane, and here scarcely a ripple across the shaded water. It comes flowing softly through the midmost privacy and deepest heart of a wood which whispers it to be quiet; while the stream whispers back again from its sedgy borders, as if river and wood were hushing one another to sleep.

Yes; the river sleeps along its course and dreams of the sky and of the clustering foliage, amid which fall showers of broken sunlight, imparting specks of vivid cheerfulness, in contrast with the quiet depth of the prevailing tint. Of all this scene, the slumbering river has a dream-picture in its bosom. Which, after all, was the most real — the picture, or the original?

Surely the disembodied images stand in closer relation to the soul. Gentle and unobtrusive as the river is, yet the tranquil woods seem hardly satisfied to allow it passage. The trees are rooted on the very verge of the water, and dip their pendent branches into it. At one spot there is a lofty bank, on the slope of which grow some hemlocks, declining across the stream with outstretched arms, as if resolute to take the plunge. In other places the banks are almost on a level with the water; so that the quiet congregation of trees set their feet in the flood, and are Fringed with foliage down to the surface.

Cardinal-flowers kindle their spiral flames and illuminate the dark nooks among the shrubbery. The pond-lily grows abundantly along the margin — that delicious flower which, as Thoreau tells me, opens its virgin bosom to the first sunlight and perfects its being through the magic of that genial kiss. He has beheld beds of them unfolding in due succession as the sunrise stole gradually from flower to flower — a sight not to be hoped for unless when a poet adjusts his inward eye to a proper focus with the outward organ.

Oftentimes they unite two trees of alien race in an inextricable twine, marrying the hemlock and the maple against their will and enriching them with a purple offspring of which neither is the parent. The winding course of the stream continually shut out the scene behind us and revealed as calm and lovely a one before. We glided from depth to depth, and breathed new seclusion at every turn. The shy kingfisher flew from the withered branch close at hand to another at a distance, uttering a shrill cry of anger or alarm. Ducks that had been floating there since the preceding eve were startled at our approach and skimmed along the glassy river, breaking its dark surface with a bright streak.

The pickerel leaped from among the lilypads. The turtle, sunning itself upon a rock or at the root of a tree, slid suddenly into the water with a plunge. The painted Indian who paddled his canoe along the Assabeth three hundred years ago could hardly have seen a wilder gentleness displayed upon its banks and reflected in its bosom than we did. Nor could the same Indian have prepared his noontide meal with more simplicity. We drew up our skiff at some point where the overarching shade formed a natural bower, and there kindled a fire with the pine cones and decayed branches that lay strewn plentifully around.

Soon the smoke ascended among the trees, impregnated with a savory incense, not heavy, dull, and surfeiting, like the steam of cookery within doors, but sprightly and piquant. The smell of our feast was akin to the woodland odors with which it mingled: It is strange what humble offices may be performed in a beautiful scene without destroying its poetry. Our fire, red gleaming among the trees, and we beside it, busied with culinary rites and spreading out our meal on a mossgrown log, all seemed in unison with the river gliding by and the foliage rustling over us. And, what was strangest, neither did our mirth seem to disturb the propriety of the solemn woods; although the hobgoblins of the old wilderness and the will-of-the-wisps that glimmered in the marshy places might have come trooping to share our table-talk and have added their shrill laughter to our merriment.

It was the very spot in which to utter the extremest nonsense or the profoundest wisdom, or that ethereal product of the mind which partakes of both, and may become one or the other, in correspondence with the faith and insight of the auditor. So, amid sunshine and shadow, rustling leaves and sighing waters, up gushed our talk like the babble of a fountain.

Could he have drawn out that virgin gold, and stamped it with the mint-mark that alone gives currency, the world might have had the profit, and he the fame. My mind was the richer merely by the knowledge that it was there. But the chief profit of those wild days, to him and me, lay not in any definite idea, not in any angular or rounded truth, which we dug out of the shapeless mass of problematical stuff, but in the freedom which we thereby won from all custom and conventionalism and fettering influences of man on man.

We were so free today that it was impossible to be slaves again tomorrow. And yet how sweet, as we floated homeward adown the golden river at sunset — how sweet was it to return within the system of human society, not as to a dungeon and a chain, but as to a stately edifice, whence we could go forth at will into state — her simplicity! How gently, too, did the sight of the Old Manse, best seen from the river, overshadowed with its willow and all environed about with the foliage of its orchard and avenue — how gently did its gray, homely aspect rebuke the speculative extravagances of the day!

It had grown sacred in connection with the artificial life against which we inveighed; it had been a home for many years, in spite of all; it was my home too; and, with these thoughts, it seemed to me that all the artifice and conventionalism of life was but an impalpable thinness upon its surface, and that the depth below was none the worse for it.

Once, as we turned our boat to the bank, there was a cloud, in the shape of an immensely gigantic figure of a hound, couched above the house, as if keeping guard over it. Gazing at this symbol, I prayed that the upper influences might long protect the institutions that had grown out of the heart of mankind. If ever my readers should decide to give up civilized life, cities, houses, and whatever moral or material enormities in addition to these the perverted ingenuity of our race has contrived, let it be in the early autumn.

Then Nature will love him better than at any other season, and will take him to her bosom with a more motherly tenderness. I could scarcely endure the roof of the old house above me in those first autumnal days. How early in the summer, too, the prophecy of autumn comes! Earlier in some years than in others; sometimes even in the first weeks of July. Did I say that there was no feeling like it? Ah, but there is a half-acknowledged melancholy like to this when we stand in the perfected vigor of our life and feel that Time has now given us all his flowers, and that the next work of his never-idle fingers must be to steal them one by one away.

Alas for the pleasant summertime!

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In August the grass is still verdant on the hills and in the valleys; the foliage of the trees is as dense as ever and as green; the flowers gleam forth in richer abundance along the margin of the river and by the stone walls and deep among the woods; the days, too, are as fervid now as they were a month ago; and yet in every breath of wind and in every beam of sunshine we hear the whispered farewell and behold the parting smile of a dear friend. There is a coolness amid all the heat, a mildness in the blazing noon.

Not a breeze can stir but it thrills us with the breath of autumn. A pensive glory is seen in the far, golden gleams, among the shadows of the trees. The flowers — even the brightest of them, and they are the most gorgeous of the year — have this gentle sadness wedded to their pomp, and typify the character of the delicious time each within itself.

The brilliant cardinal-flower has never seemed gay to me. It is impossible not to be fond of our mother now; for she is so fond of us! At other periods she does not make this impression on me, or only at rare intervals; but in those genial days of autumn, when she has perfected her harvests and accomplished every needful thing that was given her to do, then she overflows with a blessed superfluity of love.

She has leisure to caress her children now.

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It is good to be alive and at such times. Thank Heaven for breath — yes, for mere breath — when it is made up of a heavenly breeze like this! It comes with a real kiss upon our cheeks; it would linger fondly around us if it might; but, since it must be gone, it embraces us with its whole kindly heart and passes onward to embrace likewise the next thing that it meets. A blessing is flung abroad and scattered far and wide over the earth, to be gathered up by all who choose.

This sunshine is the golden pledge thereof. It beams through the gates of paradise and shows us glimpses far inward. By and by, in a little time, the outward world puts on a drear austerity. On some October morning there is a heavy hoarfrost on the grass and along the tops of the fences; and at sunrise the leaves fall from the trees of our avenue, without a breath of wind, quietly descending by their own weight. All summer long they have murmured like the noise of waters; they have roared loudly while the branches were wrestling with the thunder-gust; they have made music both glad and solemn; they have attuned my thoughts by their quiet sound as I paced to and fro beneath the arch of intermingling boughs.

Now they can only rustle under my feet. Henceforth the gray parsonage begins to assume a larger importance, and draws to its fireside — for the abomination of the air-tight stove is reserved till wintry weather — draws closer and closer to its fireside the vagrant impulses that had gone wandering about through the summer. When summer was dead and buried the Old Manse became as lonely as a hermitage. Not that ever — in my time at least — it had been thronged with company; but, at no rare intervals, we welcomed some friend out of the dusty glare and tumult of the world, and rejoiced to share with him the transparent obscurity that was floating over us.

In one respect our precincts were like the Enchanted Ground through which the pilgrim travelled on his way to the Celestial City. The guests, each and all, felt a slumberous influence upon them; they fell asleep in chairs, or took a more deliberate siesta on the sofa, or were seen stretched among the shadows of the orchard, looking up dreamily through the boughs. They could not have paid a more acceptable compliment to my abode nor to my own qualities as a host.

I held it as a proof that they left their cares behind them as they passed between the stone gate-posts at the entrance of our avenue, and that the so powerful opiate was the abundance of peace and quiet within and all around us. Others could give them pleasure and amusement or instruction — these could be picked up anywhere; but it was for me to give them rest — rest in a life of trouble.

What better could be done for those weary and world-worn spirits? And when it had wrought its full effect, then we dismissed him, with but misty reminiscences, as if he had been dreaming of us. Were I to adopt a pet idea as so many people do, and fondle it in my embraces to the exclusion of all others, it would be, that the great want which mankind labors under at this present period is sleep.

The world should recline its vast head on the first convenient pillow and take an age-long nap. It has gone distracted through a morbid activity, and, while preternaturally wide awake, is nevertheless tormented by visions that seem real to it now, but would assume their true aspect and character were all things once set right by an interval of sound repose. This is the only method of getting rid of old delusions and avoiding new ones; of regenerating our race, so that it might in due time awake as an infant out of dewy slumber; of restoring to us the simple perception of what is right and the single-hearted desire to achieve it, both of which have long been lost in consequence of this weary activity of brain and torpor or passion of the heart that now afflict the universe.

Stimulants, the only mode of treatment hitherto attempted, cannot quell the disease; they do but heighten the delirium. Let not the above paragraph ever be quoted against the author; for, though tinctured with its modicum of truth, it is the result and expression of what he knew, while he was writing, to be but a distorted survey of the state and prospects of mankind.

There were circumstances around me which made it difficult to view the world precisely as it exists; for, severe and sober as was the Old Manse, it was necessary to go but a little way beyond its threshold before meeting with stranger moral shapes of men than might have been encountered elsewhere in a circuit of a thousand miles. These hobgoblins of flesh and blood were attracted thither by the widespreading influence of a great original thinker, who had his earthly abode at the opposite extremity of our village.

His mind acted upon other minds of a certain constitution with wonderful magnetism, and drew many men upon long pilgrimages to speak with him face to face. Young visionaries — to whom just so much of insight had been imparted as to make life all a labyrinth around them — came to seek the clew that should guide them out of their self-involved bewilderment.

Gray-headed theorists — whose systems, at first air, had finally imprisoned them in an iron framework — travelled painfully to his door, not to ask deliverance, but to invite the free spirit into their own thraldom. People that had lighted on a new thought or a thought that they fancied new, came to Emerson, as the finder of a glittering gem hastens to a lapidary, to ascertain its quality and value.

Uncertain, troubled, earnest wanderers through the midnight of the moral world beheld his intellectual fire as a beacon burning on a hill-top, and, climbing the difficult ascent, looked forth into the surrounding obscurity more hopefully than hitherto. Such delusions always hover nigh whenever a beacon-fire of truth is kindled.

For myself, there bad been epochs of my life when I, too, might have asked of this prophet the master word that should solve me the riddle of the universe; but now, being happy, I felt as if there were no question to be put, and therefore admired Emerson as a poet, of deep beauty and austere tenderness, but sought nothing from him as a philosopher.

It was good, nevertheless, to meet him in the woodpaths, or sometimes in our avenue, with that pure, intellectual gleam diffused about his presence like the garment of a shining one; and be, so quiet, so simple, so without pretension, encountering each man alive as if expecting to receive more than he could impart. And, in truth, the heart of many an ordinary man had, perchance, inscriptions which he could not read. But it was impossible to dwell in his vicinity without inhaling more or less the mountain atmosphere of his lofty thought, which, in the brains of some people, wrought a singular giddiness — new truth being as heady as new wine.

Such, I imagine, is the invariable character of persons who crowd so closely about an original thinker as to draw in his unuttered breath and thus become imbued with a false originality. And now I begin to feel — and perhaps should have sooner felt — that we have talked enough of the Old Manse. Mine honored reader, it may be, will vilify the poor author as an egotist for babbling through so many pages about a mossgrown country parsonage, and his life within its walls, and on the river, and in the woods, and the influences that wrought upon him from all these sources.

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My conscience, however, does not reproach me with betraying anything too sacredly individual to be revealed by a human spirit to its brother or sister spirit. How narrow-how shallow and scanty too — is the stream of thought that has been flowing from my pen, compared with the broad tide of dim emotions, ideas, and associations which swell around me from that portion of my existence! How little have I told! Has the reader gone wandering, hand in hand with me, through the inner passages of my being? I have appealed to no sentiment or sensibilities save such as are diffused among us all.

So far as I am a man of really individual attributes I veil my face; nor am I, nor have I ever been, one of those supremely hospitable people who serve up their own hearts, delicately fried, with brain sauce, as a tidbit for their beloved public. Glancing back over what I have written, it seems but the scattered reminiscences of a single summer. Now came hints, growing more and more distinct, that the owner of the old house was pining for his native air. Carpenters next, appeared, making a tremendous racket among the outbuildings, strewing the green grass with pine shavings and chips of chestnut joists, and vexing the whole antiquity of the place with their discordant renovations.

Soon, moreover, they divested our abode of the veil of woodbine which had crept over a large portion of its southern face. But the hand that renovates is always more sacrilegious than that which destroys. In fine, we gathered up our household goods, drank a farewell cup of tea in our pleasant little breakfast-room — delicately fragrant tea, an unpurchasable luxury, one of the many angel gifts that had fallen like dew upon us — and passed forth between the tall stone gate-posts as uncertain as the wandering Arabs where our tent might next be pitched.

Providence took me by the hand, and — an oddity of dispensation which, I trust, there is no irreverence in smiling at — has led me, as the newspapers announce while I am writing, from the Old Manse into a custom-house. As a story-teller, I have often contrived strange vicissitudes for my imaginary personages, but none like this.

The treasure of intellectual gold which I hoped to find in our secluded dwelling had never come to light. No profound treatise of ethics, no philosophic history, no novel even, that could stand unsupported on its edges. All that I had to show, as a man of letters, were these, few tales and essays, which had blossomed out like flowers in the calm summer of my heart and mind. Save editing an easy task the journal of my friend of many years, the African Cruiser, I had done nothing else. With these idle weeds and withering blossoms I have intermixed some that were produced long ago — old, faded things, reminding me of flowers pressed between the leaves of a book — and now offer the bouquet, such as it is, to any whom it may please.

These fitful sketches, with so little of external life about them, yet claiming no profundity of purpose — so reserved, even while they sometimes seem so frank — often but half in earnest, and never, even when most so, expressing satisfactorily the thoughts which they profess to image — such trifles, I truly feel, afford no solid basis for a literary reputation.

Nevertheless, the public — if my limited number of readers, whom I venture to regard rather as a circle of friends, may be termed a public — will receive them the more kindly, as the last offering, the last collection of this nature which it is my purpose ever to put forth. Unless I could do better, I have done enough in this kind. For myself the book will always retain one charm — as reminding me of the river, with its delightful solitudes, and of the avenue, the garden, and the orchard, and especially the dear Old Manse, with the little study on its western side, and the sunshine glimmering through the willow branches while I wrote.

Let the reader, if he will do me so much honor, imagine himself my guest, and that, having seen whatever may be worthy of notice within and about the Old Manse, he has finally been ushered into my study. There, after seating him in an antique elbow-chair, an heirloom of the house, I take forth a roll of manuscript and entreat his attention to the following tales — an act of personal inhospitality, however, which I never was guilty of, nor ever will be, even to my worst enemy. In the latter part of the last century there lived a man of science, an eminent proficient in every branch of natural philosophy, who not long before our story opens had made experience of a spiritual affinity more attractive than any chemical one.

He had left his laboratory to the care of an assistant, cleared his fine countenance from the furnace smoke, washed the stain of acids from his fingers, and persuaded a beautiful woman to become his wife. In those days when the comparatively recent discovery of electricity and other kindred mysteries of Nature seemed to open paths into the region of miracle, it was not unusual for the love of science to rival the love of woman in its depth and absorbing energy.

The higher intellect, the imagination, the spirit, and even the heart might all find their congenial aliment in pursuits which, as some of their ardent votaries believed, would ascend from one step of powerful intelligence to another, until the philosopher should lay his hand on the secret of creative force and perhaps make new worlds for himself.

He had devoted himself, however, too unreservedly to scientific studies ever to be weaned from them by any second passion. His love for his young wife might prove the stronger of the two; but it could only be by intertwining itself with his love of science, and uniting the strength of the latter to his own. Such a union accordingly took place, and was attended with truly remarkable consequences and a deeply impressive moral.

One day, very soon after their marriage, Aylmer sat gazing at his wife with a trouble in his countenance that grew stronger until he spoke. No, dearest Georgiana, you came so nearly perfect from the hand of Nature that this slightest possible defect, which we hesitate whether to term a defect or a beauty, shocks me, as being the visible mark of earthly imperfection. You cannot love what shocks you! In the usual state of her complexion — a healthy though delicate bloom — the mark wore a tint of deeper crimson, which imperfectly defined its shape amid the surrounding rosiness.

When she blushed it gradually became more indistinct, and finally vanished amid the triumphant rush of blood that bathed the whole cheek with its brilliant glow. But if any shifting motion caused her to turn pale there was the mark again, a crimson stain upon the snow, in what Aylmer sometimes deemed an almost fearful distinctness.

Its shape bore not a little similarity to the human hand, though of the smallest pygmy size. Many a desperate swain would have risked life for the privilege of pressing his lips to the mysterious hand. It must not be concealed, however, that the impression wrought by this fairy sign manual varied exceedingly, according to the difference of temperament in the beholders.

But it would be as reasonable to say that one of those small blue stains which sometimes occur in the purest statuary marble would convert the Eve of Powers to a monster. Masculine observers, if the birthmark did not heighten their admiration, contented themselves with wishing it away, that the world might possess one living specimen of ideal loveliness without the semblance of a flaw. After his marriage, — for he thought little or nothing of the matter before, — Aylmer discovered that this was the case with himself.

It was the fatal flaw of humanity which Nature, in one shape or another, stamps ineffaceably on all her productions, either to imply that they are temporary and finite, or that their perfection must be wrought by toil and pain. The crimson hand expressed the ineludible gripe in which mortality clutches the highest and purest of earthly mould, degrading them into kindred with the lowest, and even with the very brutes, like whom their visible frames return to dust. At all the seasons which should have been their happiest, he invariably and without intending it, nay, in spite of a purpose to the contrary, reverted to this one disastrous topic.

Trifling as it at first appeared, it so connected itself with innumerable trains of thought and modes of feeling that it became the central point of all. Georgiana soon learned to shudder at his gaze. It needed but a glance with the peculiar expression that his face often wore to change the roses of her cheek into a deathlike paleness, amid which the crimson hand was brought strongly out, like a bass-relief of ruby on the whitest marble. I wonder that you can forget it. Is it possible to forget this one expression?

The mind is in a sad state when Sleep, the all-involving, cannot confine her spectres within the dim region of her sway, but suffers them to break forth, affrighting this actual life with secrets that perchance belong to a deeper one. Aylmer now remembered his dream. Truth often finds its way to the mind close muffled in robes of sleep, and then speaks with uncompromising directness of matters in regard to which we practise an unconscious self-deception during our waking moments.

Until now he had not been aware of the tyrannizing influence acquired by one idea over his mind, and of the lengths which he might find in his heart to go for the sake of giving himself peace. Perhaps its removal may cause cureless deformity; or it may be the stain goes as deep as life itself. Danger is nothing to me; for life, while this hateful mark makes me the object of your horror and disgust, — life is a burden which I would fling down with joy.

Either remove this dreadful hand, or take my wretched life! You have deep science. All the world bears witness of it. You have achieved great wonders. Cannot you remove this little, little mark, which I cover with the tips of two small fingers? Is this beyond your power, for the sake of your own peace, and to save your poor wife from madness?

I have already given this matter the deepest thought — thought which might almost have enlightened me to create a being less perfect than yourself. Georgiana, you have led me deeper than ever into the heart of science. I feel myself fully competent to render this dear cheek as faultless as its fellow; and then, most beloved, what will be my triumph when I shall have corrected what Nature left imperfect in her fairest work!

Even Pygmalion, when his sculptured woman assumed life, felt not greater ecstasy than mine will be. Her husband tenderly kissed her cheek — her right cheek — not that which bore the impress of the crimson hand. The next day Aylmer apprised his wife of a plan that he had formed whereby he might have opportunity for the intense thought and constant watchfulness which the proposed operation would require; while Georgiana, likewise, would enjoy the perfect repose essential to its success.

They were to seclude themselves in the extensive apartments occupied by Aylmer as a laboratory, and where, during his toilsome youth, he had made discoveries in the elemental powers of Nature that had roused the admiration of all the learned societies in Europe. Seated calmly in this laboratory, the pale philosopher had investigated the secrets of the highest cloud region and of the profoundest mines; he had satisfied himself of the causes that kindled and kept alive the fires of the volcano; and had explained the mystery of fountains, and how it is that they gush forth, some so bright and pure, and others with such rich medicinal virtues, from the dark bosom of the earth.

Here, too, at an earlier period, he had studied the wonders of the human frame, and attempted to fathom the very process by which Nature assimilates all her precious influences from earth and air, and from the spiritual world, to create and foster man, her masterpiece. The latter pursuit, however, Aylmer had long laid aside in unwilling recognition of the truth — against which all seekers sooner or later stumble — that our great creative Mother, while she amuses us with apparently working in the broadest sunshine, is yet severely careful to keep her own secrets, and, in spite of her pretended openness, shows us nothing but results.

She permits us, indeed, to mar, but seldom to mend, and, like a jealous patentee, on no account to make. Now, however, Aylmer resumed these half-forgotten investigations; not, of course, with such hopes or wishes as first suggested them; but because they involved much physiological truth and lay in the path of his proposed scheme for the treatment of Georgiana. As he led her over the threshold of the laboratory, Georgiana was cold and tremulous.

Aylmer looked cheerfully into her face, with intent to reassure her, but was so startled with the intense glow of the birthmark upon the whiteness of her cheek that he could not restrain a strong convulsive shudder. Forthwith there issued from an inner apartment a man of low stature, but bulky frame, with shaggy hair hanging about his visage, which was grimed with the vapors of the furnace. When Georgiana recovered consciousness she found herself breathing an atmosphere of penetrating fragrance, the gentle potency of which had recalled her from her deathlike faintness.

The scene around her looked like enchantment. Aylmer had converted those smoky, dingy, sombre rooms, where he had spent his brightest years in recondite pursuits, into a series of beautiful apartments not unfit to be the secluded abode of a lovely woman. The walls were hung with gorgeous curtains, which imparted the combination of grandeur and grace that no other species of adornment can achieve; and as they fell from the ceiling to the floor, their rich and ponderous folds, concealing all angles and straight lines, appeared to shut in the scene from infinite space. For aught Georgiana knew, it might be a pavilion among the clouds.

And Aylmer, excluding the sunshine, which would have interfered with his chemical processes, had supplied its place with perfumed lamps, emitting flames of various hue, but all uniting in a soft, impurpled radiance. Believe me, Georgiana, I even rejoice in this single imperfection, since it will be such a rapture to remove it. I never can forget that convulsive shudder.

In order to soothe Georgiana, and, as it were, to release her mind from the burden of actual things, Aylmer now put in practice some of the light and playful secrets which science had taught him among its profounder lore. Airy figures, absolutely bodiless ideas, and forms of unsubstantial beauty came and danced before her, imprinting their momentary footsteps on beams of light. Though she had some indistinct idea of the method of these optical phenomena, still the illusion was almost perfect enough to warrant the belief that her husband possessed sway over the spiritual world.

Then again, when she felt a wish to look forth from her seclusion, immediately, as if her thoughts were answered, the procession of external existence flitted across a screen. The scenery and the figures of actual life were perfectly represented, but with that bewitching, yet indescribable difference which always makes a picture, an image, or a shadow so much more attractive than the original.

When wearied of this, Aylmer bade her cast her eyes upon a vessel containing a quantity of earth. She did so, with little interest at first; but was soon startled to perceive the germ of a plant shooting upward from the soil. Then came the slender stalk; the leaves gradually unfolded themselves; and amid them was a perfect and lovely flower.

The flower will wither in a few moments and leave nothing save its brown seed vessels; but thence may be perpetuated a race as ephemeral as itself. But Georgiana had no sooner touched the flower than the whole plant suffered a blight, its leaves turning coal-black as if by the agency of fire. To make up for this abortive experiment, he proposed to take her portrait by a scientific process of his own invention. It was to be effected by rays of light striking upon a polished plate of metal. Georgiana assented; but, on looking at the result, was affrighted to find the features of the portrait blurred and indefinable; while the minute figure of a hand appeared where the cheek should have been.

Aylmer snatched the metallic plate and threw it into a jar of corrosive acid. Soon, however, he forgot these mortifying failures. In the intervals of study and chemical experiment he came to her flushed and exhausted, but seemed invigorated by her presence, and spoke in glowing language of the resources of his art. He gave a history of the long dynasty of the alchemists, who spent so many ages in quest of the universal solvent by which the golden principle might be elicited from all things vile and base. He more than intimated that it was at his option to concoct a liquid that should prolong life for years, perhaps interminably; but that it would produce a discord in Nature which all the world, and chiefly the quaffer of the immortal nostrum, would find cause to curse.

At the mention of the birthmark, Georgiana, as usual, shrank as if a redhot iron had touched her cheek. Again Aylmer applied himself to his labors. She could hear his voice in the distant furnace room giving directions to Aminadab, whose harsh, uncouth, misshapen tones were audible in response, more like the grunt or growl of a brute than human speech. After hours of absence, Aylmer reappeared and proposed that she should now examine his cabinet of chemical products and natural treasures of the earth. Among the former he showed her a small vial, in which, he remarked, was contained a gentle yet most powerful fragrance, capable of impregnating all the breezes that blow across a kingdom.

They were of inestimable value, the contents of that little vial; and, as he said so, he threw some of the perfume into the air and filled the room with piercing and invigorating delight. It is the most precious poison that ever was concocted in this world. By its aid I could apportion the lifetime of any mortal at whom you might point your finger. The strength of the dose would determine whether he were to linger out years, or drop dead in the midst of a breath. No king on his guarded throne could keep his life if I, in my private station, should deem that the welfare of millions justified me in depriving him of it.

With a few drops of this in a vase of water, freckles may be washed away as easily as the hands are cleansed. A stronger infusion would take the blood out of the cheek, and leave the rosiest beauty a pale ghost. Your case demands a remedy that shall go deeper. In his interviews with Georgiana, Aylmer generally made minute inquiries as to her sensations and whether the confinement of the rooms and the temperature of the atmosphere agreed with her. These questions had such a particular drift that Georgiana began to conjecture that she was already subjected to certain physical influences, either breathed in with the fragrant air or taken with her food.

She fancied likewise, but it might be altogether fancy, that there was a stirring up of her system — a strange, indefinite sensation creeping through her veins, and tingling, half painfully, half pleasurably, at her heart. Still, whenever she dared to look into the mirror, there she beheld herself pale as a white rose and with the crimson birthmark stamped upon her cheek. Not even Aylmer now hated it so much as she.

To dispel the tedium of the hours which her husband found it necessary to devote to the processes of combination and analysis, Georgiana turned over the volumes of his scientific library. In many dark old tomes she met with chapters full of romance and poetry. They were the works of philosophers of the middle ages, such as Albertus Magnus, Cornelius Agrippa, Paracelsus, and the famous friar who created the prophetic Brazen Head. All these antique naturalists stood in advance of their centuries, yet were imbued with some of their credulity, and therefore were believed, and perhaps imagined themselves to have acquired from the investigation of Nature a power above Nature, and from physics a sway over the spiritual world.

Hardly less curious and imaginative were the early volumes of the Transactions of the Royal Society, in which the members, knowing little of the limits of natural possibility, were continually recording wonders or proposing methods whereby wonders might be wrought. The book, in truth, was both the history and emblem of his ardent, ambitious, imaginative, yet practical and laborious life.

He handled physical details as if there were nothing beyond them; yet spiritualized them all, and redeemed himself from materialism by his strong and eager aspiration towards the infinite. In his grasp the veriest clod of earth assumed a soul. Georgiana, as she read, reverenced Aylmer and loved him more profoundly than ever, but with a less entire dependence on his judgment than heretofore.

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Much as he had accomplished, she could not but observe that his most splendid successes were almost invariably failures, if compared with the ideal at which he aimed. His brightest diamonds were the merest pebbles, and felt to be so by himself, in comparison with the inestimable gems which lay hidden beyond his reach. The volume, rich with achievements that had won renown for its author, was yet as melancholy a record as ever mortal hand had penned.

It was the sad confession and continual exemplification of the shortcomings of the composite man, the spirit burdened with clay and working in matter, and of the despair that assails the higher nature at finding itself so miserably thwarted by the earthly part. So deeply did these reflections affect Georgiana that she laid her face upon the open volume and burst into tears. In this situation she was found by her husband. Take heed lest it prove as detrimental to you. I shall deem myself hardly unworthy of it. But come, I have sought you for the luxury of your voice.

Sing to me, dearest. So she poured out the liquid music of her voice to quench the thirst of his spirit. He then took his leave with a boyish exuberance of gayety, assuring her that her seclusion would endure but a little longer, and that the result was already certain. Scarcely had he departed when Georgiana felt irresistibly impelled to follow him. She had forgotten to inform Aylmer of a symptom which for two or three hours past had begun to excite her attention.

It was a sensation in the fatal birthmark, not painful, but which induced a restlessness throughout her system. Hastening after her husband, she intruded for the first time into the laboratory. The first thing that struck her eye was the furnace, that hot and feverish worker, with the intense glow of its fire, which by the quantities of soot clustered above it seemed to have been burning for ages.

There was a distilling apparatus in full operation. Around the room were retorts, tubes, cylinders, crucibles, and other apparatus of chemical research. An electrical machine stood ready for immediate use. The atmosphere felt oppressively close, and was tainted with gaseous odors which had been tormented forth by the processes of science. The severe and homely simplicity of the apartment, with its naked walls and brick pavement, looked strange, accustomed as Georgiana had become to the fantastic elegance of her boudoir.

But what chiefly, indeed almost solely, drew her attention, was the aspect of Aylmer himself. He was pale as death, anxious and absorbed, and hung over the furnace as if it depended upon his utmost watchfulness whether the liquid which it was distilling should be the draught of immortal happiness or misery. Aylmer raised his eyes hastily, and at first reddened, then grew paler than ever, on beholding Georgiana.

He rushed towards her and seized her arm with a gripe that left the print of his fingers upon it. Have you no trust in your husband? It is not well done. Go, prying woman, go! You mistrust your wife; you have concealed the anxiety with which you watch the development of this experiment. Think not so unworthily of me, my husband. Tell me all the risk we run, and fear not that I shall shrink; for my share in it is far less than your own.

Nothing shall be concealed. Know, then, that this crimson hand, superficial as it seems, has clutched its grasp into your being with a strength of which I had no previous conception. I have already administered agents powerful enough to do aught except to change your entire physical system. Only one thing remains to be tried. If that fail us we are ruined. There is but one danger — that this horrible stigma shall be left upon my cheek! In a little while all will be tested. He conducted her back and took leave of her with a solemn tenderness which spoke far more than his words how much was now at stake.

After his departure Georgiana became rapt in musings. She considered the character of Aylmer, and did it completer justice than at any previous moment. Her heart exulted, while it trembled, at his honorable love — so pure and lofty that it would accept nothing less than perfection nor miserably make itself contented with an earthlier nature than he had dreamed of. She felt how much more precious was such a sentiment than that meaner kind which would have borne with the imperfection for her sake, and have been guilty of treason to holy love by degrading its perfect idea to the level of the actual; and with her whole spirit she prayed that, for a single moment, she might satisfy his highest and deepest conception.

Longer than one moment she well knew it could not be; for his spirit was ever on the march, ever ascending, and each instant required something that was beyond the scope of the instant before. He bore a crystal goblet containing a liquor colorless as water, but bright enough to be the draught of immortality. Aylmer was pale; but it seemed rather the consequence of a highly-wrought state of mind and tension of spirit than of fear or doubt.

Life is but a sad possession to those who have attained precisely the degree of moral advancement at which I stand. Were I weaker and blinder it might be happiness. Were I stronger, it might be endured hopefully. But, being what I find myself, methinks I am of all mortals the most fit to die. The draught cannot fail. Behold its effect upon this plant. On the window seat there stood a geranium diseased with yellow blotches, which had overspread all its leaves.

Aylmer poured a small quantity of the liquid upon the soil in which it grew. In a little time, when the roots of the plant had taken up the moisture, the unsightly blotches began to be extinguished in a living verdure. Thy sensible frame, too, shall soon be all perfect.

It allays a feverish thirst that had parched me for many days. Now, dearest, let me sleep. My earthly senses are closing over my spirit like the leaves around the heart of a rose at sunset. She spoke the last words with a gentle reluctance, as if it required almost more energy than she could command to pronounce the faint and lingering syllables.

Scarcely had they loitered through her lips ere she was lost in slumber. And first he will see the shadows best, next the reflections of men and other objects in the water, and then the objects themselves; then he will gaze upon the light of the moon and the stars and the spangled heaven; and he will see the sky and the stars by night better than the sun or the light of the sun by day?

Last of all he will be able to see the sun, and not mere reflections of him in the water, but he will see him in his own proper place, and not in another; and he will contemplate him as he is. He will then proceed to argue that this is he who gives the season and the years, and is the guardian of all that is in the visible world, and in a certain way the cause of all things which he and his fellows have been accustomed to behold?

Clearly, he said, he would first see the sun and then reason about him. And when he remembered his old habitation, and the wisdom of the den and his fellow-prisoners, do you not suppose that he would felicitate himself on the change, and pity them? And if they were in the habit of conferring honors among themselves on those who were quickest to observe the passing shadows and to remark which of them went before, and which followed after, and which were together; and who were therefore best able to draw conclusions as to the future, do you think that he would care for such honors and glories, or envy the possessors of them?

Would he not say with Homer, Better to be the poor servant of a poor master, and to endure anything, rather than think as they do and live after their manner? Yes, he said, I think that he would rather suffer anything than entertain these false notions and live in this miserable manner. Imagine once more, I said, such a one coming suddenly out of the sun to be replaced in his old situation; would he not be certain to have his eyes full of darkness? To be sure, he said. And if there were a contest, and he had to compete in measuring the shadows with the prisoners who had never moved out of the den, while his sight was still weak, and before his eyes had become steady and the time which would be needed to acquire this new habit of sight might be very considerable , would he not be ridiculous?

Men would say of him that up he went and down he came without his eyes; and that it was better not even to think of ascending; and if any one tried to loose another and lead him up to the light, let them only catch the offender, and they would put him to death. No question, he said. This entire allegory, I said, you may now append, dear Glaucon, to the previous argument; the prison-house is the world of sight, the light of the fire is the sun, and you will not misapprehend me if you interpret the journey upwards to be the ascent of the soul into the intellectual world according to my poor belief, which, at your desire, I have expressed--whether rightly or wrongly God knows.

But whether true or false, my opinion is that in the world of knowledge the idea of good appears last of all, and is seen only with an effort; and, when seen, is also inferred to be the universal author of all things beautiful and right, parent of light and of the lord of light in this visible world, Here Plato describes his notion of God in a way that was influence profoundly Christian theologians. I agree, he said, as far as I am able to understand you. Moreover, I said, you must not wonder that those who attain to this beatific vision are unwilling to descend to human affairs; for their souls are ever hastening into the upper world where they desire to dwell; which desire of theirs is very natural, if our allegory may be trusted.

And is there anything surprising in one who passes from divine contemplations to the evil state of man, misbehaving himself in a ridiculous manner; if, while his eyes are blinking and before he has become accustomed to the surrounding darkness, he is compelled to fight in courts of law, or in other places, about the images or the shadows of images of justice, and is endeavoring to meet the conception of those who have never yet seen absolute justice?

Anything but surprising, he replied. Any one who has common sense will remember that the bewilderments of the eyes are of two kinds, and arise from two causes, either from coming out of the light or from going into the light, which is true of the mind's eye; and he who remembers this when he sees any one whose vision is perplexed and weak, will not be too ready to laugh; he will first ask whether that soul of man has come out of the brighter life, and is unable to see because unaccustomed to the dark, or having turned from darkness to the day is dazzled by excess of light.

And he will count the one happy in his condition and state of being, and he will pity the other; or, if he have a mind to laugh at the soul which comes from below into the light, there will be more reason in this than in the laugh which greets him who returns from above out of the light into the den.

That, he said, is a very just distinction. But then, if I am right, certain professors of education must be wrong when they say that they can put a knowledge into the soul which was not there before, like sight into blind eyes. They undoubtedly say this, he replied. Whereas our argument shows that the power and capacity of learning exists in the soul already; and that just as the eye was unable to turn from darkness to light without the whole body, so too the instrument of knowledge can only by the movement of the whole soul be turned from the world of becoming into that of being, and learn by degrees to endure the sight of being and of the brightest and best of being, or in other words, of the good.

Translated by Benjamin Jowett. Yet perspective, by its very nature, has its limits. Thus, each religion has the limits of its perspective and each limit is butted to the next like a shared county line — my town here, your town there — the limit of our perspectives drawn thinly between us. Thinking about limitations in your own religion is worrisome! It is hard to imagine that what you've been taught is limited; even harder to know where the limit is if you have not thought to look for it.

And why look for it? We live where it is safe, established, away from the edge. Even so, now is the time. We must make the trip to the edge of town with openness and trust: In this place, each at the limit of his or her unique spiritual perception, we will begin to learn from each other. A senseme is a frozen moment. The baby is teaching us how to listen and laying the groundwork for their own learning of sounds that become the common language in the house.

Spirit has no need for religion. Spirit exists within and without us. Religion is manufactured by us. Humans create in religion the illusion of spirit, that which exists naturally, to legitimize its great smoke-and-mirror factory. Spirit, however, is within every human, wholely holy. But religion fools us into believing it has created the only way to access spirituality, that which is already completely accessable at every moment of our being.

As religion employs spirit then regulates it, so humans employ religion and then subjugate humans. Take away ego and there is stillness, spirit. Add ego and now we foolishly believe we have accomplished something: The one sacrifices for the many and therefore has done something special; good for ego but worthless for spirit.

With spirit alone we simply commune. With religion we influence. But why influence what is better shared naturally without an exhaustive list of conventions Without monopolizing spirit, religion is nothing. With no need for religion whatsoever, spirit is everything. Today, the new tribal members are planetary citizens, and the threat to the quality of life -- indeed, to its very survival -- goes far beyond the constricted view shaped by military consideration.

As the threat changes, so too the qualities we honor in a warrior must change. Guns and swords are ineffective against the complex and varied assults of an environment thrown out of natural balance. A true earth warrior must be imbued with the determination to let nature restore her inherent harmony. Although we can expect great progress from the greening of technology and the inventiveness of the human spirit, we should not allow ourselves to be beguiled that information and technological advance will be sufficient.

The indians talk of "mystic warriors. A human being is part of the whole, called by us the Universe, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something seperate from the rest -- a kind of optical illusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.

Nobody is able to achieve this completely, but the striving for such an achievement is in itself a part of the liberation and a foundation of inner security" Albert Einstein quoted in Center For Respect Of Life And Environment. Remember that all things are connected. All things have purpose. Consider performing a "giveaway" by distributing your possessions to others who are in need. You are bound by your word, which cannot be broken except by permission of those who the promise was given to.

Seek harmony and balance in all things. It is always important to remember where you are in relation to everything else and to contribute to the Circle in whatever way you can , by being a "helper" and protector of life. Sharing is the best part of receiving. Practice silence and patience in all things as a reflection of self-control, endurance, dignity, reverence, and inner calm. Practice modesty in all things, by avoiding boasting and loud behavior that attracts attention to yourself. Know the things that contribute to your well-being, and those things that lead to your destruction.

Always ask permission, and give something for everything that is received, including giving thanks for, and honoring all living things. Be aware of what is around you, what is inside of you, and always show respect. Treat every person from the tiniest child to the oldest elder with respect. Do not stare at others; drop your eyes as a sign of respect, especially in the presence of Elders, teachers, or other honored persons. Always give a sign of greeting when passing a friend or stranger. Never criticize or talk about someone in a harmful, negative way.

Never touch something that belongs to someone else without permission. Respect the privacy of every person, making sure to never intrude, upon someone's quiet moments or personal space. Never interfere in the affairs of another by asking questions or offering advice. In another persons home, follow his or her customs rather than your own. Treat with respect all things held sacred to others, whether you understand these things or not. Treat Earth as your mother; give to her, protect her, honor her; show deep respect for those in the animal world, plant world, and mineral world.

Listen to guidance offered by all of your surroundings; expect this guidance to come in the form of prayer, dreams, quiet solitude, and in the words and deeds of wise Elders, and friends. Listen with your heart. Learn from your experiences, and always be open to new ones. Always remember that a smile is something sacred, to be shared. Live each day as it comes. The news caused some stir. Some of the monks went to see the young monk. While the master quietly served tea, the professor talked about Zen. The master poured the visitor's cup to the brim, and then kept pouring. The professor watched the overflowing cup until he could no longer restrain himself.

No more will go in! Some of these things can and should be kept holy. And after the receiving, most things wear out and lose their purpose rather quickly. The new version comes out, so what we so excitedly received soon becomes nothing, trash. So what was really received? Yes, the thrill is good, but why? This thrill mimics holiness because happiness is involved. However, if you picture the spectrum of your life or of life in general and then place somewhere on the spectrum the obtaining of product X, that moment of obtainment is nothing…an inconsequential blip.

The happiness wears off quickly and the holiness of the moment dies. Short-term happiness equals short-term holiness. Long-term holiness is in the respect we have for ourselves and the things around us: Happiness is not in the using…not really. Using something and then tossing it is not respectful — just like with people. When you show respect for an object or a person, you show respect for yourself; you show respect for the planet and beyond. This respectfulness, this holiness, most of us have forgotten. We can regain holiness with awareness, but effort will be required.

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Why not try this: It is not an object to be worshiped; it is just something with significance to you. I have a knife my great-grandmother gave me after my great-grandfather died in It is an item I keep close and use very little, although it is there should I need it for a practical purpose. Even more practically, like using the knife for what it was intended, I can also use it to call upon my memory and my respect for my great-grandparents should I need to mimic the strength which got them through the great depression in the s.

This knife is medicine. It triggers a natural response in my body called determination. And should I forget how, I know how to remember. I think of my knife. I keep it close at all times. Think about this and what is holy to you — what you respect — and start with that one thing. Grow holiness from there. Everything starts from a seed; so starts awareness of the holiness in ourselves and in everything around us.

Begin there, then get ready for the real thrill ride. Cree Prophecy Last century an old wise woman of the Cree Indian nation, named "Eyes of Fire", had a vision of the future. She prophesied that one day, because of the white mans' or Yo-ne-gis' greed, there would come a time, when the earth being ravaged and polluted, the forests being destroyed, the birds would fall from the air, the waters would be blackened, the fish being poisoned in the streams, and the trees would no longer be, mankind as we would know it would all but cease to exist.

There would come a time when the "keepers of the legend, stories, culture rituals, and myths, and all the Ancient Tribal Customs" would be needed to restore us to health, making the earth green again. They would be mankind's key to survival, they were the "Warriors of the Rainbow". There would come a day of awakening when all the peoples of all the tribes would form a New World of Justice, Peace, Freedom and recognition of the Great Spirit.

The "Warriors of the Rainbow" would spread these messages and teach all peoples of the Earth or "Elohi". They would teach them how to live the "Way of the Great Spirit". They would tell them of how the world today has turned away from the Great Spirit and that is why our Earth is "Sick". The "Warriors of the Rainbow" would show the peoples that this "Ancient Being" the Great Spirit , is full of love and understanding, and teach them how to make the "Earth or Elohi" beautiful again. These Warriors would give the people principles or rules to follow to make their path light with the world.

These principles would be those of the Ancient Tribes. The Warriors of the Rainbow would teach the people of the ancient practices of Unity, Love and Understanding.

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They would teach of Harmony among people in all four corners of the Earth. Like the Ancient Tribes, they would teach the peoples how to pray to the Great Spirit with love that flows like the beautiful mountain stream, and flows along the path to the ocean of life. Once again, they would be able to feel joy in solitude and in councils. They would be free of petty jealousies and love all mankind as their brothers, regardless of color, race or religion.

They would feel happiness enter their hearts, and become as one with the entire human race. Their hearts would be pure and radiate warmth, understanding and respect for all mankind, Nature and the Great Spirit. They would once again fill their minds, hearts, souls, and deeds with the purest of thoughts. They would seek the beauty of the Master of Life - the Great Spirit! They would find strength and beauty in prayer and the solitude of life. Their children would once again be able to run free and enjoy the treasures of Nature and Mother Earth.

Free from the fears of toxins and destruction, wrought by the Yo-ne-gi and his practices of greed. The rivers would again run clear, the forests be abundant and beautiful, the animals and birds would be replenished. The powers of the plants and animals would again be respected and conservation of all that is beautiful would become a way of life. The poor, sick and needy would be cared for by their brothers and sisters of the Earth. These practices would again become a part of their daily lives. The leaders of the people would be chosen in the old way - not by their political party, or who could speak the loudest, boast the most, or by name calling or mud slinging, but by those whose actions spoke the loudest.

Those who demonstrated their love, wisdom and courage and those who showed that they could and did work for the good of all, would be chosen as the leaders or Chiefs. They would be chosen by their "quality" and not the amount of money they had obtained. Like the thoughtful and devoted "Ancient Chiefs", they would understand the people with love, and see that their young were educated with the love and wisdom of their surroundings. They would show them that miracles can be accomplished to heal this world of its ills, and restore it to health and beauty.

The tasks of these "Warriors of the Rainbow" are many and great. There will be terrifying mountains of ignorance to conquer and they shall find prejudice and hatred. They must be dedicated, unwavering in their strength, and strong of heart. They will find willing hearts and minds that will follow them on this road of returning "Mother Earth" to beauty and plenty - once more. The day will come, it is not far away.

The day that we shall see how we owe our very existence to the people of all tribes that have maintained their culture and heritage. Those that have kept the rituals, stories, legends and myths alive. It will be with this knowledge, the knowledge that they have preserved, that we shall once again return to "harmony" with Nature, Mother Earth and mankind. It will be with this knowledge that we shall find our "Key to our Survival". Those who become close to nature, and respectful of her, discover these powerful truths.

By viewing the world through the crystal clear lense of this kind of value system, one can see the great power of healing, as the Grandfathers promised. It must be remembered, it is God that created nature. We are learning directly from God's creation. There is no middle person to alter, or confuse, the direct perception of real, God-designed knowledge. They are not Greco-Roman derivatives somehow revived by the French in the eighteenth century.

They entered modern Western thought as American Indian notions translated into European language and culture. The Iroquoise abhored slavery. Thomas Paine, who certainly knew of these Indian values, became one of the first Americans to call for the abolition of slavery. He went to France after the War for Independence to help the French draft their constitution. Later, the French writer Alexis de Tocqueville, writing in the first volume of Democracy in America, repeatedly used phrases such as "equal and free. He compared the social systems and the values of the Indians to those of the ancient European tribes before they became "civilized" and domesticated Eagle Man cites Jack Weatherford's Indian Givers here.

But that doesn't mean you have somehow gotten rid of your imperfections and become a perfect being. Realization lets you see perfection and imperfection simultaneously. When you can view your imperfections from the place of knowing your intrinsic perfection, your life is forever changed. Then, as you continue along the Path and experience that view more clearly and directly, you become more and more confirmed in your perfection.

You will see that your perfection is always present, whether you're striving for it or not. How trivial often the pleasure of the moment and how fatal its consequences. When I am called, then I do. When I am not, then it is time for me to learn for the next time I am called i. Even so, I slip in a little reading when possible during my music times.

This morning this six-page pdf about a white man's call to conduct inipi ceremonies struck me as indicative of the struggle to work as one out of pure spirit, all people of the earth who wish to follow the red road: The ceremony of the pipe and three of the Ptesan Win's sacred ceremonies -- the sweat lodge, the vision quest and the sun dance -- have never stopped being performed.

The pipe is the "chanupa" or the "inyan sha," the "red pipe" whose bowl is made of a red stone found only in western Minnesota. The bowl is the earth, the woman, the flesh. The stem is the sky, the man, and the spirit. The two joined bring life Crow Dog The lodge, built of willow saplings and covered with canvas and blankets, is in the shape of a turtle or womb.

Rocks "inyan"are heated in a bonfire until they glow, and after the people enter they are brought inside the lodge whose door flap is shut. The people pray and sing ancient songs to the drumbeat while the water pourer joins the four elements of water, rock, fire and air. The door is opened and the rock runner brings in more stones.

The cycle is repeated four times and the inipi ceremony is concluded by a feast. For four consecutive years -- one day the first, two the second etc--the quester fasts, after being purified in the sweat lodge, he or she sits on a blanket in an isolated place and cries through the night for a vision. Often the vision comes through an animal, plant, insect, the wind or stars who changes into human form or speaks with a human voice. It is a four day dance held yearly in mid to late summer. The dancers fast, and after a pre dawn inipi sweat, dance until evening or sometimes late into the night , when they again are sweated.

On the third or fourth day they are pierced, usually on the upper chest. Rods often carved from choke-cherry sticks or antlers are stuck through the flesh and are attached to ropes or rawhide tied to the central tree. Sometimes a dancer will be pierced in the back and drag the ceremonial buffalo skulls around the circle. Another might choose to attach to a horse, sometimes being pulled up the tree and hanging until the skin breaks. The other dancers dance to the tree pulling away from the attached ropes and blowing the sacred eagle bone whistles until the skin tears away.

Some dancers fall into a trance and are carried out of the circle by arm and leg loops made of sage wrapped in red cotton cloth--they are "wakan," holy, and must not be touched information from Buffalo Horse year sundancer, 7 years at Crow Dog's Paradise -- and from my own experience. Other ceremonies are still being observed. The Yuwipi, a healing and finding ceremony is conducted at night in a house or covered lodge. The medicine man is wrapped in a thick blanket and tied securely with rawhide. The house is darkened -- the windows covered in blankets and all reflective surfaces removed--and the observers sit in a circle around the bound man and the altar.

During the prayers and songs the spirits untie the medicine man and tell him the way to heal or find what is lost Crow Dog In the Lakota sent men to Nevada to consult with Wovoka, a Christian Paiute who proclaimed a new world and the return of the buffalo. They returned having seen the whole world inside his hat, and bringing the Ghost Dance.

The dancing spread quickly, especially as many reported going into the spirit world and meeting dead relatives at this time, due to the harsh winters and war with the "wasichu," [whites], most living Lakota had more dead friends and relatives than living ones.

Others ghost dancers went to the spirit world and brought back designs for shirts which would make the wearer impervious to bullets. The Army became extremely nervous, killing Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse who promoted the dance, and exterminating the in Big Foot's Minneconjou tribe at the battle of Wounded Knee, where the tribe was surrendering after nearly starving and freezing to death in Canada.

The Ghost Dance, and all the other "heathen" ceremonies were banned by law. Leonard Crow Dog's great grandfather Jerome was a ghost dance leader and taught the songs and ceremonies to his grandson Henry, an honored medicine man who handed the traditions down to Leonard Crow Dog, his son, who brought back the ghost dance during the Wounded Knee occupation in see chapter 5 in Crow Dog. Initially the Ceremony was conducted with a Bible and Christian imagery, but the Lakota replaced the Bible with the chanupa pipe. There evolved two kinds of ceremonies, the "moon fire" sometimes called a "crescent moon fire" or "half moon fire" conducted with a chanupa, and a "cross fire," conducted with a Bible.

The Peyote ceremonies are recognized under law as Native American Church services. The service begins at dark. The celebrants sit in a circle in a house or tipi around a central fire and pass around pieces of peyote cactus. A "door man" or "fire man," guards the door and tends the fire, and near him is the "water carrier," the wife or daughter of the road man. At dawn the people come out to see the sunrise and eat a meal together see chapter 11 in Crow Dog. Four Generations of Sioux Medicine Men. These Pipes are appearing around the world to assist us in the times of transition we face, both personally and as a planet.

Long ago it has been said that the day would come when the Pipes would be in every part of the world forming a "web" of inter-connecting influence for the benefit of all of creation. We are seeing this come true more and more every day. In this ancient prophecy it is said that the time would come, after seven generations of subjugation by a giant white serpent from across the great eastern waters, when the children from all four directions would come to the Elders of the Native Americans to learn the ways of harmony. In this time the voice of the Native people would rise to be heard again, after a time of silence.

This prophecy was to mark the time of the birth of a new world. We have seen the beginning of the fulfillment of this prophesy over the last few decades here on Turtle Island North America with the increase of young people of all four colors of humankind finding peace and purpose through walking in our ways. It is through the Pipe that the Great Mystery has made available a way to restore harmony to all things. Pipes play an integral part in ushering in of this age of interdependence of all creation.

This is why they are being dispersed throughout the world, their energies and effect interlacing like a giant spider web covering the planet. The way of the Pipe is not for everyone, but for those who are called into this sacred relationship, there is nothing more powerful in this dimension for accessing the Divine. However, using the Sacred Pipe without knowing its power or purpose is like obtaining a weapon but not understanding what it is capable of, especially if misused.

Improper care or use of such a powerful sacred object can be as disastrous as it can be beneficial. Trying to access the medicine of the Pipe without proper understanding can be as dangerous as playing with a loaded gun. Someone usually gets hurt, often a loved one. Today there is so much out there claiming to be spiritual truth. It is confusing, to say the least.

Here is my "formula" in sorting out the real from the fake, or in my terms, the spiritual from the religious: If it is real, it works; if it works, it is real! In other words, if something has, say, healing power, it will heal. A true Chinupa pipe holder has been gifted his or her pipe, which I have not. I went on the internet and bought what I consider a "practice" Chinupa.

Because pipe holders are serious about what they are holding have in their care. For me to even fathom that a pipe would "choose" me, I decided I would need to practice. So I bought a catlinite elbow pipe with a cedar stem, of similar material to those which come from Pipestone, MN. Something tells me mine was quarried elsewhere, as such a cheap "knock-off" pipe could not be the work of a master carver. I suppose it could, but these appeared to be produced in mass quantity.

So depending on your viewpoint of such things, this way of obtaining a Chanupa could be mistake number one. Good thing I am practicing! Even so, it is as close to if not actually a real Chinupa as I have ever come in contact with. Ed would consider this a personal pipe, not a ceremonial pipe, so for that reason I am doing something perhaps a little different with it because I feel I have been, in some way, called to the practice I am undertaking.

More on that after some details. In I began making a bag for myself completely of knots tied together using small hemp string. In my opinion it was a very beautiful piece, but I ran out of patience with it and hung it as a flat piece on my wall for nine years. A few months ago, as I began to contrive my experiential project, I pulled it out and finished it with a few special added features for the Chinupa which was on its way.

I made two separate sections for the bowl and the stem and an extra pocket to store tobacco. This has taken several weeks, but I completed it to my satisfaction for now a few nights ago. In the meantime, the Chanupa arrived, and in order to be respectful of it while I worked on its new home, I smudged it and let it move in to the bag though it was still under construction. I also did some research and bought a pipe cleaning kit. All that I did was in anticipation of the Vernal Equinox, and here the story takes a turn toward the musicality of my venture.

Living in Minnesota literally "smack-dab" in the middle of Lake Minnetonka , we see the seasons change very blatantly here. Perhaps because of this I feel fairly attuned to the changes the earth goes though during the course of a year. So much so that I have been studying the ancient Celtic calendar as the Celts were also a very seasonally focused people. What I am finding is the marking of the eight "ticks" of the year the first two of which have been Imbolc and The Vernal Equinox, Oestar seem very rational and spiritual at the same time.

I would say we all do a little bit here. We feel the renewing of light as February begins and the change in the air as mid-March passes and the snow begins to really start to melt. So I have decided to mark these moments with my own little ceremony involving my Chanupa. I believe a rhythm may begin to emerge: A rhythm greater than a drum beat but exactly the same. At least, that is my hypothesis. I am not set on falsely creating what I do not understand, so my learning will entail finding whether or not what I have just written is actually the case.

What I am about to learn from doing this I do not know. I expect it will take several years to begin to understand. In the meantime, eight times a year may not seem like much to those who bless with fire several times a day, but having been a heavy smoker for ten years, and with an asthmatic wife, eight times a year seems just right. Today I took my Golden Gopher seat cushion outside into the melting snow of the woods which is our back yard, sat on a log which was recently uncovered because of the melting snow, loaded the pipe, dusted a bit of my tobacco to each of the nine directions as a symbolic gesture, and struggled to keep the pipe lit as puffs of smoke rose up toward our house and then dissipatedly.

I simply tried to remain thankful as I looked at the bare and black trees, fog and drizzle in the air, both my feet in 18 inches of melting snow on either side of the log. What the experience which lasted only ten minutes did, I don't know, except for that it was a step. Perhaps a step toward respecting the earth or self, or toward becoming conscious of what is around me -- this kind of insight will only reveal itself in time, if ever, and I simply remain open to partaking and listening with my being to whatever happens.

Eagle Man says in his book that the earth needs more pipe holders, so I begin by trying to understand what it means to be one. The herds were ritually driven between two needfires fein cigin , built on a knoll. The herds were driven through to purify, bring luck and protect them as well as to insure their fertility before they were taken to summer grazing lands. An old Gaelic adage: The Bel fire is a sacred fire with healing and purifying powers.

The fires further celebrate the return of life, fruitfulness to the earth and the burning away of winter. The ashes of the Beltane fires were smudged on faces and scattered in the fields. Household fires would be extinguished and re-lit with fresh fire from the Bel Fires. Celebration includes frolicking throughout the countryside, maypole dancing, leaping over fires to ensure fertility, circling the fire three times sun-wise for good luck in the coming year, athletic tournaments feasting, music, drinking, children collecting the May: Flowers, flower wreaths and garlands are typical decorations for this holiday, as well as ribbons and streamers.

Flowers are a crucial symbol of Beltane, they signal the victory of Summer over Winter and the blossoming of sensuality in all of nature and the bounty it will bring. Strike hard, and you'll receive a loud, resounding peal. He felt his days very long attending his office and sitting stiffly to receive the homage of others. Takuan wrote eight Chinese characters and gave them to the man: Not twice this day Inch time foot gem.

This day will not come again. Each minute is worth a priceless gem. At last one moonlit night she was carrying water in an old pail bound with bamboo. The bamboo broke and the bottom fell out of the pail, and at that moment Chiyono was set free! In commemoration, she wrote a poem: In this way and that I tried to save the old pail Since the bamboo strip was weakening and about to break Until at last the bottom fell out. No more water in the pail! No more moon in the water! The written language is so beautiful and fun. It holds so many intellectual as well as spiritual and earth mysteries.

Very beautiful work preserved wonderfully in stone. Thank goodness the very few, intelligent people over the years worked so tirelessly to decipher it. These folks were from all over the world, from all walks of life: Not really the fault of missionaries, as perhaps, partially at least, they were trying to stop the practice of human sacrifice. I believe they at least has that much right. Thank goodness, though, the "baby in the bathwater" was carved in stone and therefore preserved, as throwing everything out the window is seldom good practice.

We neglect their wisdom at our peril. It is a great privilege that we have access to their knowledge on how we can live in harmony with Mother Earth. The author starts with the question why he should teach non-Indians about Native American spirituality and answers that it is time to share that spirituality because it does not belong to the Indians alone but to others with the right attitude; we all live in one world.

If kept within the Indian community their old wisdom will not be allowed to work its environmental medicine on the world where it is desperately needed. A spiritual fire that promotes a communal commitment to a worldwide environmental undertaking is needed. Native or primal ways will fuel that fire and give it great power. Mother Earth can be revered, respected and protected. He then quotes the letter from Chief Seathl Seattle to the President of the United States of America in - one of the most unusual and eloquent letters that a President can have received.

The idea is strange to us. If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them? We put a price on everything the Indians think has no value and we place no value on everything the Indians think is valuable. Sparkling water in a stream flowing through a wood has no value to us but it is the essence of life to the Indian. Having polluted our rivers and killed the fish we are at long last starting to ask ourselves those very questions that Chief Seattle asked of the President years ago. Another point made by Chief Seattle haunts me. The Whites too shall pass; perhaps sooner than all other tribes.

Continue to contaminate your bed, and you will one night suffocate in your own waste. But the heart and soul of the Indian way of life lies at the end of Seattle's letter, "So, if we sell our land, love it as we've loved it. Care for it as we've cared for it. Hold in your mind the memory of the land as it is when you take it. And with all your strength, with all your mind, with all your heart, preserve it for your children, and love it One thing w know.

Our God is the same God. This earth is precious to Him. Even the white man cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all.

If we answer 'no', then surely that means that we have something to learn from the Native Indians. I am sure that if Chief Seattle were here today he would cry to see what we have done to those lands the Indians held sacred. He would cry for the pain inflicted on the earth. He would cry for us who in our greed and selfishness have wrought such damage on ourselves and our children. I agree with and applaud Ed McGaa.

We should all learn something from this book. But not just read and think and speak. This book is nothing if we do not act on it. Powerful Lessons in Personal Change" that first we have to change ourselves, and only then we can change others and the world. Einstein told us that we need a higher level of thinking to get ourselves out of the mess than the thinking that got us into the mess. Stephen Covey tells us that in such situations as we are in today we need a quantum change that can only be brought about by a completely new paradigm.

Our current way of living is the paradigm that got us into the mess. The Indian approach is probably the paradigm that will get us out of the mess. If we read this book with an open mind and without prejudice, I believe that the Native American paradigm should be at the top of the shortlist of new paradigms from which we should make our selection for building the world we want for our children. Well, we finally made it back into court today. The day started like any other awful anxiety ridden day…anxious about going to court and worried that again our lawyer would come unprepared.

Yes, we kept Tom because he called and asked us to keep him on for free so he could win our case. It probably would have been a case of malpractice for him, and my Dad the lawyer told us no one would work harder than a lawyer who thinks he is about to get sued. Nonetheless, our confidence in him was shot and we feared he would blow it again despite our keeping close tabs on his office. We all felt the sting of that one… I Jill just wanted to barf! Luckily, our day slowly improved.

Our lawyer arrived with a positive outlook even after the disastrous December hearing. We quickly went over all the last minute details and before we knew it, it was time to go in. Our reason for requesting the TPR is abandonment. Douglas has not contacted Christian in 23 months: Seems Doug sent 6 magic disappearing letters per year in the last 23 months.

He accused us of hoarding them and keeping them from the court. Thankfully our judge was much smarter than he. The judge wasn't buying it. By the end of our hearing he was saying that if we could only all talk about it then maybe he would agree to the termination of rights. The judge asked us if we would be willing to do so and we nodded yes. He is bravely ready to voice his wishes. The teleconference may determine whether he will sign his rights away. His agreeing to sign the termination of rights next Wednesday may void a third hearing, so we will try our best with Lou's best interest in mind!

Thanks for listening and we will update you all again next week. Cross your fingers for good news! Though short-lived, Puafua's output, scope of songwriting, and live performance feats were unparalleled in the Twin Cities; the mammoth eight-piece group often breaking into spontaneously composed, complete songs as if at will. Inception Puafua began in the early s with two rival bands from bordering towns west of Minneapolis: Bone Orchard , which had Pink Floyd undertones: Nau, Puafua's first principal songwriter, grew up a friend of the Zimmerman family Bob Dylan's family , and spent his formative years making use of Dylan's Minnesota recording studio with the Zimmermans, developing his unique guitar and vocal style during that time.

Dylan Nau and Jeff Siegfried in front of The Cabooze, By his graduating summer, , Nau's band would join forces with Rockford rivals in a battle of the bands show. Their meeting would create a musical respect among the four core Puafua players Dylan, Casey, Eric, and Jake three years before they would form a band together. Later that summer, Nau would coincidentally meet his soon-to-be college buddy and Puafua's second principal songwriter, Jeff Siegfried, while Siegfried played his saxophone on the street in Downtown Minneapolis.

Though the two only spoke briefly, they would soon find themselves together in the classroom at Augsburg College , as well as in their own hybrid Jazz-Fusion band, Ear Train , through the mids. Siegfried, from Minneapolis-based Alternative band The Uh, melded his lyrics well with Nau's writing style, the two inking several minor college hits during their time at Augsburg.

Siegfried is the cousin of No Wave pioneer James Chance a. James Siegfried , and, like Chance, would wield both saxophone and keyboards on stage. Augsburg buddy, Steve Olmstead, and Kashiemer's friend, Aaron Stoehr, would round out the band roster as it grew from a four-piece to a seven-piece from to By the group would have gained and lost multi-instrumentalist Scott Holzinger who eventually found a home with Minneapolis Jam band Wookiefoot , as well as gaining a sound man in Eric Shosted and two fill-in players in Peter Miller and James Pope.

Accomplishments In its infancy, Puafua's first honor was being asked to open for Minneapolis band February 's final show on the Main Stage at First Avenue. Additionally, Puafua held a frequent place of honor in Vox Medusa 's Ricochet Kitchen line-up, a performance-based art coalition which was perfect for a group that, itself, dabbled in performance art. For example, it was not uncommon to see Puafua featuring spectacles such as aliens playing Theremins or the entire band sporting Puafua basketball uniforms and shooting hoops during a performance.

Additionally, before the advent of Napster , the album's joke recording "I'm in Jail" made a run to number three on one of the world's first peer-to-peer music sharing websites, MP3. In , Sweet Treats and Baker's Choice were released in limited quantity, together minutes of live recording showcasing to a larger audience the band's collective spur of the moment songwriting ability that often went a step beyond simple jamming to completely improvised songs with melody, lyrics, and harmonized horn and backing vocal parts.

In August, , Puafua was enlisted to headline for "Hemp Car Appreciation Night" which featured a stop by "A Mercedes-Benz diesel converted to run on hemp oil," en route to "Establish[ing] a world distance record for a hemp powered vehicle, and [proving] the point that automobiles need not depend entirely on fossil fuels.

Multifaceted As an additional feature, Puafua managed to delight audiences by stopping during a set to switch its instrumental line-up. Almost every member could literally change places with two other members, and the group altogether could add most any conceivable texture to its complex sound scape. Almost every band member could also jump to a lead or back-up vocal in any given song: Vocals, guitar, mandolin, bass, keyboards, accordion, saxophones, drums Jeff Siegfried: Vocals, saxophones, flute, clarinet, keyboards, percussion Aaron Stoehr: Vocals, trombone, guitar, bass, percussion Eric Bequeaith, Vocals, trumpet, trombone, didgeridoo, guitar, harmonica, percussion Casey Kashiemer: Vocals, drums, hand drums, percussion Steve Olmstead: Vocals, keyboards, hand drums Scott Holzinger: Vocals, percussion, hand drums, guitar, sitar Jake Pool: Bass marked the release of Boosh, an album whose completion would come during an increasingly troubled time for the band, several members developing separate projects and collective live appearances becoming fewer and farther between.

Even so, the units purchased by the group to promote the album sold out in less than two weeks. The band, however, failed to promote the CD any further and it had been largely lost to the public until its internet re-release in The dawning of marked the end of Puafua's live performances and recordings, the band giving up a marquee slot at the famed Cabooze bar, a slot formerly held by The Big Wu for whom Puafua was an opening act in its early days.

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A standing room only crowd at the Uptown Bar and Grill witnesses the extremely under-publicized farewell show on December 1, Wrote sound man Eric Shosted after the event: I look forward to seeing what other projects lay ahead of each one of you as your roads diverge. Small collections of band members resurfaced in the Minneapolis-based groups Spry and Gold Standard through In members of Puafua reunited in performance to celebrate the life of deceased friend Ed Tyler clip.

Puafua Logo 2 Albums In addition to studio and live recordings produced by Puafua, Eric Shosted and Rob Curtis, extensive live bootleg recordings were compiled and made available by Roger Learned, some of which appear in official albums. The official Puafua albums are: Nau's Puafua collaborator, Jeff Siegfried, has since worked arranging horns for and performing with former Wailer Devon Evans , in Spry with Puafua bandmate Aaron Stoehr, briefly in Gold Standard, and with one of the last surviving beat poets, Stephen Morse.

He currently produces The Siegfrieds as well as heading up the role of director of music under the name Roar of the Buffalo Horn for the Rainbow Warriors in San Francisco. Roar of the Buffalo Horn Jeff Seigfried just shared a new music video on the front page. He is so creative.

I would say, his creative talents bring us all closer to the "Call of Brotherhood". He is our Golden Warrior and walking with Rainbow Warriors of Prophecy who collaborate and freely distribute music to the world. Anyone wanting to share , collaborate or receive a song for your band as our gift, please write to alightfromwithin gmail. We are always pleased to hear new music and to share it with the world. Please visit our Blog.

For a complete web page with images, please link below to their page. Navarre May The Siegfrieds. Playing Rainbow Colors, a Musical Instrument! I had a strange dream last night and thought I would share. I was performing a concert with others often a theme in my dreams and was asked to play a very strange instrument. There was a young man about 30 and I was asked by the group if I could play the pores on his forehead.

So I agreed, not really knowing if I could, but thinking 'how hard can it be? If played correctly, they would produce overtones in the body When it came to actually playing the guy's face, there were fewer pores than I anticipated. Some were clogged with dirt and others I assumed would be there, weren't. Nonetheless, within the music being produced by the other musicians, I was able to learn to play this guy's face and even found a way to produce the overtones required for the piece. It just took a little relearning. The guy was not excited about any of this, but went along with it and held still.

I have had many music dreams, both performing and listening, but have never had such a dream as this! Does this mean anything to anyone? Your dream interpretation I was performing a concert with others often a theme in my dreams and was asked to play a very strange instrument. Music and Dance is a language from heaven. These are new languages that are being brought home by the people. You are the golden child, who sends the communication signal, through music.

And as such not an unusual for you. This is our cognitive centers. We speak through our third eye vision through music. This is the all around or the sonic wave, the circle. As eternal beings, we know sow very much, trusting ourselves, helps us to remember what our tools are, either from our soul or our flesh. More like harmonic vibrations, higher is considered lighter and lower is more dense In dream space, all is overtones, each of us over each other, as our rainbow colors travel together in time. Those who vibrate together are considered harmonic. The reason for this, is that most people don't have all rainbow colors.