As I write, the wind blows fiercely through the trees outside the home of my guests. I recall the Oso Mario telling us, in the temazcal, that in the wind whispered the "ancianos," or the "ancient ones."
Sometimes, the wind, especially on days when I need something to motivate me, reminds me of the importance of mindfulness. I try to think of it as calling to me to tell me, "Listen, Shunka Wakan." I try to imagine it as the voice of the ancianos.
Often, on these windy days, I recall the vision quest. Having had recently separated myself from my family ... my wife, at the time and my daughters, Aliric and Sunny ... for an answer to my situation with my daughters. It was one of those wordless questions, which, put into words, would perhaps translate to, "What should I do to be closer to my daughters?" or "What can I do about this situation with my daughters?"
The morning had been still, or so I thought, and, at that moment, a gust of wind blew through the pines above my head. Had I been a believer in some greater being, I would have immediately thought that it was an answer from the heavens. Even so, I listened.
The gusts continued: "los suspiros de los abuelitos ... los ancianos" (the whispers of the grandparents ... the ancient ones). I continued to listen, and, as if the abuelitos conversed with me, and I heard the gusts come and go.
Shortly, a pair of crows flew from above the hill behind me. Two crows ... one Aliric, one Sunny ... flew out above the enormous barranca before me, into great blue stage above. It was spring, of course, ... the year of the Haiti earthquake, I believe ... 2010.
The crows flew from the east, side by side, toward the west, playfully swirling, as they went. Each little loop in their otherwise smooth pair of flight paths was perfectly synchronized with perfect equidistance between them.
Once they reached the center of the big blue sky stage, they dove, ... again, always together, ... and climbed ... together also. They danced in the sky for a long while, as the wind whispered in the trees and I watched, hoping for an answer in their sky dance.
Eventually, their dives and ascents turned into tiny curly-cues, and they flew, again with equidistant perfection, forming curls off and on, to the south and, eventually beyond the dark green curtain of the treeline before me.
And the wind whispered.
This morning I hear the gushing wind and watch the hardwoods and evergreens of the DeKalb, Illinois neighborhood wave in response to its force. I am thankful for the wind that reminds me of the importance of mindfulness ... simply paying attention.
I am grateful to those who walked the great prairies of this land and their brothers and sisters. I am grateful for the cultural inspiration and wisdom the Native Americans left us.
I do not understand it, as they did, but it helps me. It helps me imagine that there is someone who cares for me and has words just for me, as if it were truly so.
How helpful it must be to believe ... how admirable.
... con todas mis relaciones.
Sometimes, the wind, especially on days when I need something to motivate me, reminds me of the importance of mindfulness. I try to think of it as calling to me to tell me, "Listen, Shunka Wakan." I try to imagine it as the voice of the ancianos.
Often, on these windy days, I recall the vision quest. Having had recently separated myself from my family ... my wife, at the time and my daughters, Aliric and Sunny ... for an answer to my situation with my daughters. It was one of those wordless questions, which, put into words, would perhaps translate to, "What should I do to be closer to my daughters?" or "What can I do about this situation with my daughters?"
The morning had been still, or so I thought, and, at that moment, a gust of wind blew through the pines above my head. Had I been a believer in some greater being, I would have immediately thought that it was an answer from the heavens. Even so, I listened.
The gusts continued: "los suspiros de los abuelitos ... los ancianos" (the whispers of the grandparents ... the ancient ones). I continued to listen, and, as if the abuelitos conversed with me, and I heard the gusts come and go.
Shortly, a pair of crows flew from above the hill behind me. Two crows ... one Aliric, one Sunny ... flew out above the enormous barranca before me, into great blue stage above. It was spring, of course, ... the year of the Haiti earthquake, I believe ... 2010.
The crows flew from the east, side by side, toward the west, playfully swirling, as they went. Each little loop in their otherwise smooth pair of flight paths was perfectly synchronized with perfect equidistance between them.
Once they reached the center of the big blue sky stage, they dove, ... again, always together, ... and climbed ... together also. They danced in the sky for a long while, as the wind whispered in the trees and I watched, hoping for an answer in their sky dance.
Eventually, their dives and ascents turned into tiny curly-cues, and they flew, again with equidistant perfection, forming curls off and on, to the south and, eventually beyond the dark green curtain of the treeline before me.
And the wind whispered.
This morning I hear the gushing wind and watch the hardwoods and evergreens of the DeKalb, Illinois neighborhood wave in response to its force. I am thankful for the wind that reminds me of the importance of mindfulness ... simply paying attention.
I am grateful to those who walked the great prairies of this land and their brothers and sisters. I am grateful for the cultural inspiration and wisdom the Native Americans left us.
I do not understand it, as they did, but it helps me. It helps me imagine that there is someone who cares for me and has words just for me, as if it were truly so.
How helpful it must be to believe ... how admirable.
... con todas mis relaciones.
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