(December 17, 2007)
Father, I come;
Mother, I come;
Brother, I come;
Father, give us back our arrows.
She'd asked him to meet her at the house; at least in part because she figured he'd be driving and it was difficult to get to the clearing by car. She'd also thought to warn him about the brightness of the lights her sons (quite often she forgot to call them foster-sons anymore) and she had strung up almost everywhere along the eaves of the wrap around porch, up the squared support pillars and around the railing.
Winter had come in fat, fluffy flakes of snow to coat the lawn and woods in a thick blanket of white. The fairy-tale gardens she'd created were nothing more than lumps and mounds under the muffling layers. Despite the crystal edged quality of the night air, the type that could and often did, give the impression that the star studded sky might shatter like so much black and silver glass, there was a definite warming once the short, split-log steps were mounted from the walk to the porch.
The physical warmth of a hand offered in friendship and welcome; frost and waning moonlight danced across an intricate spider's web that might seem artistically placed at just the right juncture of beam and eave and support to catch the light as it did.
Though their plans didn't involve being inside much, if at all, he was welcomed inside with hugs and cheek kisses by the redneck at least for a short time. Coffee, tea, hot chocolate, spiced cider and mulled wine offered to shake the chill from his flesh and bones, though the house held an emotional, spiritual warmth to go with the physical offered by the fire in the hearth and the warmth of the kitchen just off the main room. Two boys were sleeping on the couch and love seat in the living-room, neither of which looked as though they had any blood relation to Thorn. Sixteen and ten in their ages and both of them having copper skin, and jet black hair that fell straight as rain. Thorn's dogs were curled and tucked beside the boys, a tangle of fancy colored skunks snoring in front of the fire, and what looked, sort of, like an iguana was tucked up with the youngest of the boys. Blankets and furs draped here and there over the backs of the couch and love seat and over stuffed chairs.
Thorn's home had no specific style, no specific theme beyond comfort for mind and body. A comfort and warmth and welcome she was more than willing to share with those she invited past the doors.
During the walk from the house she'd done her best to explain the differences between her version of the Dance and the original, as well as explaining to the best of her knowledge the rituals involved with the full Dance.
"Like I said, I don't dance to renew the earth, or to see the faces of the ones who've passed on. I'm not out to drive the white man back and return the world to the Natives. I dance to reconnect with myself and the world around me on a deeper level than just living in it. It starts slow, and after a while the drum speeds up, gets hell'a fast kinda frantic. Then it'll slow down again after a while. The pattern'll repeat that way. There's no set way to place your feet really." The redneck was wearing comfortable and warm clothing in light colors and soft textures; tonight wasn't a night for the painted muslin. Her hair was bound back in a wrapped tail that swung almost listlessly down her spine while they walked down a well traveled path through the woods that grew thick and peaceful around her home.
"Just let the drums guide you, that's all you really have to do. Don't think about the wheres and why-fores. It's a round dance, we'll face the tree and step to the right. When the drum's slow it's a shuffle step, let your body flow with it. When the drum's fast let your feet choose how they lift and land, and still let your body flow. Keep the beat of the drum with your feet and make sure you're facin' the tree." Simple, so very simple. And yet so many things can and often did come out of the simple things.
"Traditionally we hold hands until one of us falls into a trance, the other keeps dancin' until they either trance, or can't dance anymore. Then again, traditionally there's more than two dancers, sometimes there'd be two, three hundred dancers in the circle with shamans guidin' the call of it and we'd be doin' this over five, six days." The grin she flashed aside was at once sheepish and humorous. "We don't have a shaman to call it out, and I dunno 'bout you, but five or six days doesn't exactly work for me."
There were other reasons of course, Thorn was a fairly straight forward person on a course that tended to circle while it moved forward. It wasn't easy for her to explain either her spirituality, or the odd way her own instabilities provided a stability for her emotionally and mentally as well as spiritually and physically.
Through the trees fire light could be seen as they approached; four fires set at the peak of the directions for both light and warmth.
It was a quarter of a mile from the house to the clearing where the Tree waited; an old lightning blasted oak that still bore the scars of its demise.
Strips of leather, bundles of feathers, the taloned foot of a hawk, a bundle of dried herbs hung from the Tree as decoration and connection. Personal things that held some, something for Thorn and most likely the boys as well. Snow lay thick on the ground even here, though it had recently been tamped down and sanded in a wide circle around the base of the Tree. Fur-blankets were scattered here and there on the inner track of the circle, hide side down against the ground. "That way, in theory, if we fall we'll land on or close to somethin' that'll help keep us warm until we're back. There's no drugs involved with this, we only bring ourselves and our questions or doubts with us, nothing more."
The dogs had followed from the house, like shadows ghosting free of their source they settled beside the Northern fire and turned their golden eyes to watch and guard. They'd performed this duty before and took it very seriously.
"If you trance try not to trip out. You're safe here, the only things that come here are what we bring. The only demons here are our own, the only guardians are our own. If you don't trance, don't trip either, a lot of people even when the Dance was at its height and the People needed something to believe in, didn't trance. There's no goal in this other than the drum, the dance and the experience. There's no failure." A tip of her head backward on the column of her neck tilted her face to the sky while pale lids were drawn closed as curtains over the warm amethyst of her eyes. Thorn's entire countenance softened after a fashion; gone was the near manic energy that bounced her through the cycle of day and night on a regular basis. Gone were all the masks she'd built through her life to wear as need directed. Just the redneck at complete and open ease; loose limbed and half dreaming already.
"There is no winning, no losing. No one is better here, no one is worse here. We are equals you and I and the world around us." Tender tone of voice flooded with her natural flood of warmth waiting to break free.
She'd stopped just outside the tramped down circle of sanded snow to speak and answer any questions he might have. As before, as nearly always she listened with everything in her, with every portion of her being and did her best to answer without wandering verbally. For whatever reasons she'd never thought to put up walls between herself and the musician, never thought to keep him at arm's length. When he was ready for it, she moved to push the play button on a small but clear and strong portable stereo with a chagrinned smile. "Don't have a drummer either and I wasn't sure if you'd be comfortable keeping time in your head."
The drum was deep voiced, the cadence slow and measured. Nearly a monotone really. There was of course a deep seated reason for that.
"There's a chant too. Can't call it a song really 'cause it's not really singing." In an inflectionless tone she repeated the chant as it'd been taught to her in Lakota. "Translates to: Father I come. Mother I come. Brother I come. Father, give us back our arrows." Depending on whether or not he wanted to learn the chant in Lakota she'd repeat it in that language until his throat and tongue grew accustomed to the weight and feel of the words.
"I don't think the arrows are about war or fighting really. I know they're not for me. For me they're about the ability to live and survive without being dependent on someone else to provide for me. They're about being able to get what I need for myself without someone else telling me how it should be done, or doing it for me. They're about being able to choose how I'll walk my path in life and whether or not I'll choose to give up my right to live and be as I am." Only when he was ready would she lead him into the circle; her feet fell automatically into the rhythm and cadence of the drum.
Once Thorn crossed the bordering line into the circle she gave herself up completely to the moment, to the experience and held absolutely nothing back. For the blond woman the circle held no fear, no worry; only possibilities that numbered in the thousands.
The drum was lulling, soothing in some fashion, the steps the same. The chant's monotone combined with the drum and the steps were meant to be hypnotic, to ease the mind and body into a receptive state. When the overall cadence sped up the state was meant to be heightened by the sudden jarring of a person back into the moment, back into themselves and the driving need to keep up and keep going in time with the drum beats.
The pattern of soothing lull and frenetic pace continued on in a continuous loop until conscious though dropped away. Continued until the dancer's body and mind were operating on two completely separate levels. Until the dancer slid over the edge into his or her trance. Some could and did trance and continue dancing, others fell to the ground and rode the paths of their mind and beyond while their bodies lay crumpled on the ground and the drum served as a beacon to hold them. Served as the cord along which they'd be brought back.
A dancer's vision was something private since there was no shaman in attendance to help them interpret it. Something to be shared only if they felt the need to, the desire to. Their vision was personal and as such could only fully be interpreted by themselves, for themselves.
That is of course, if the dancer had a vision at all.
Father, I come;
Mother, I come;
Brother, I come;
Father, give us back our arrows.
She'd asked him to meet her at the house; at least in part because she figured he'd be driving and it was difficult to get to the clearing by car. She'd also thought to warn him about the brightness of the lights her sons (quite often she forgot to call them foster-sons anymore) and she had strung up almost everywhere along the eaves of the wrap around porch, up the squared support pillars and around the railing.
Winter had come in fat, fluffy flakes of snow to coat the lawn and woods in a thick blanket of white. The fairy-tale gardens she'd created were nothing more than lumps and mounds under the muffling layers. Despite the crystal edged quality of the night air, the type that could and often did, give the impression that the star studded sky might shatter like so much black and silver glass, there was a definite warming once the short, split-log steps were mounted from the walk to the porch.
The physical warmth of a hand offered in friendship and welcome; frost and waning moonlight danced across an intricate spider's web that might seem artistically placed at just the right juncture of beam and eave and support to catch the light as it did.
Though their plans didn't involve being inside much, if at all, he was welcomed inside with hugs and cheek kisses by the redneck at least for a short time. Coffee, tea, hot chocolate, spiced cider and mulled wine offered to shake the chill from his flesh and bones, though the house held an emotional, spiritual warmth to go with the physical offered by the fire in the hearth and the warmth of the kitchen just off the main room. Two boys were sleeping on the couch and love seat in the living-room, neither of which looked as though they had any blood relation to Thorn. Sixteen and ten in their ages and both of them having copper skin, and jet black hair that fell straight as rain. Thorn's dogs were curled and tucked beside the boys, a tangle of fancy colored skunks snoring in front of the fire, and what looked, sort of, like an iguana was tucked up with the youngest of the boys. Blankets and furs draped here and there over the backs of the couch and love seat and over stuffed chairs.
Thorn's home had no specific style, no specific theme beyond comfort for mind and body. A comfort and warmth and welcome she was more than willing to share with those she invited past the doors.
During the walk from the house she'd done her best to explain the differences between her version of the Dance and the original, as well as explaining to the best of her knowledge the rituals involved with the full Dance.
"Like I said, I don't dance to renew the earth, or to see the faces of the ones who've passed on. I'm not out to drive the white man back and return the world to the Natives. I dance to reconnect with myself and the world around me on a deeper level than just living in it. It starts slow, and after a while the drum speeds up, gets hell'a fast kinda frantic. Then it'll slow down again after a while. The pattern'll repeat that way. There's no set way to place your feet really." The redneck was wearing comfortable and warm clothing in light colors and soft textures; tonight wasn't a night for the painted muslin. Her hair was bound back in a wrapped tail that swung almost listlessly down her spine while they walked down a well traveled path through the woods that grew thick and peaceful around her home.
"Just let the drums guide you, that's all you really have to do. Don't think about the wheres and why-fores. It's a round dance, we'll face the tree and step to the right. When the drum's slow it's a shuffle step, let your body flow with it. When the drum's fast let your feet choose how they lift and land, and still let your body flow. Keep the beat of the drum with your feet and make sure you're facin' the tree." Simple, so very simple. And yet so many things can and often did come out of the simple things.
"Traditionally we hold hands until one of us falls into a trance, the other keeps dancin' until they either trance, or can't dance anymore. Then again, traditionally there's more than two dancers, sometimes there'd be two, three hundred dancers in the circle with shamans guidin' the call of it and we'd be doin' this over five, six days." The grin she flashed aside was at once sheepish and humorous. "We don't have a shaman to call it out, and I dunno 'bout you, but five or six days doesn't exactly work for me."
There were other reasons of course, Thorn was a fairly straight forward person on a course that tended to circle while it moved forward. It wasn't easy for her to explain either her spirituality, or the odd way her own instabilities provided a stability for her emotionally and mentally as well as spiritually and physically.
Through the trees fire light could be seen as they approached; four fires set at the peak of the directions for both light and warmth.
It was a quarter of a mile from the house to the clearing where the Tree waited; an old lightning blasted oak that still bore the scars of its demise.
Strips of leather, bundles of feathers, the taloned foot of a hawk, a bundle of dried herbs hung from the Tree as decoration and connection. Personal things that held some, something for Thorn and most likely the boys as well. Snow lay thick on the ground even here, though it had recently been tamped down and sanded in a wide circle around the base of the Tree. Fur-blankets were scattered here and there on the inner track of the circle, hide side down against the ground. "That way, in theory, if we fall we'll land on or close to somethin' that'll help keep us warm until we're back. There's no drugs involved with this, we only bring ourselves and our questions or doubts with us, nothing more."
The dogs had followed from the house, like shadows ghosting free of their source they settled beside the Northern fire and turned their golden eyes to watch and guard. They'd performed this duty before and took it very seriously.
"If you trance try not to trip out. You're safe here, the only things that come here are what we bring. The only demons here are our own, the only guardians are our own. If you don't trance, don't trip either, a lot of people even when the Dance was at its height and the People needed something to believe in, didn't trance. There's no goal in this other than the drum, the dance and the experience. There's no failure." A tip of her head backward on the column of her neck tilted her face to the sky while pale lids were drawn closed as curtains over the warm amethyst of her eyes. Thorn's entire countenance softened after a fashion; gone was the near manic energy that bounced her through the cycle of day and night on a regular basis. Gone were all the masks she'd built through her life to wear as need directed. Just the redneck at complete and open ease; loose limbed and half dreaming already.
"There is no winning, no losing. No one is better here, no one is worse here. We are equals you and I and the world around us." Tender tone of voice flooded with her natural flood of warmth waiting to break free.
She'd stopped just outside the tramped down circle of sanded snow to speak and answer any questions he might have. As before, as nearly always she listened with everything in her, with every portion of her being and did her best to answer without wandering verbally. For whatever reasons she'd never thought to put up walls between herself and the musician, never thought to keep him at arm's length. When he was ready for it, she moved to push the play button on a small but clear and strong portable stereo with a chagrinned smile. "Don't have a drummer either and I wasn't sure if you'd be comfortable keeping time in your head."
The drum was deep voiced, the cadence slow and measured. Nearly a monotone really. There was of course a deep seated reason for that.
"There's a chant too. Can't call it a song really 'cause it's not really singing." In an inflectionless tone she repeated the chant as it'd been taught to her in Lakota. "Translates to: Father I come. Mother I come. Brother I come. Father, give us back our arrows." Depending on whether or not he wanted to learn the chant in Lakota she'd repeat it in that language until his throat and tongue grew accustomed to the weight and feel of the words.
"I don't think the arrows are about war or fighting really. I know they're not for me. For me they're about the ability to live and survive without being dependent on someone else to provide for me. They're about being able to get what I need for myself without someone else telling me how it should be done, or doing it for me. They're about being able to choose how I'll walk my path in life and whether or not I'll choose to give up my right to live and be as I am." Only when he was ready would she lead him into the circle; her feet fell automatically into the rhythm and cadence of the drum.
Once Thorn crossed the bordering line into the circle she gave herself up completely to the moment, to the experience and held absolutely nothing back. For the blond woman the circle held no fear, no worry; only possibilities that numbered in the thousands.
The drum was lulling, soothing in some fashion, the steps the same. The chant's monotone combined with the drum and the steps were meant to be hypnotic, to ease the mind and body into a receptive state. When the overall cadence sped up the state was meant to be heightened by the sudden jarring of a person back into the moment, back into themselves and the driving need to keep up and keep going in time with the drum beats.
The pattern of soothing lull and frenetic pace continued on in a continuous loop until conscious though dropped away. Continued until the dancer's body and mind were operating on two completely separate levels. Until the dancer slid over the edge into his or her trance. Some could and did trance and continue dancing, others fell to the ground and rode the paths of their mind and beyond while their bodies lay crumpled on the ground and the drum served as a beacon to hold them. Served as the cord along which they'd be brought back.
A dancer's vision was something private since there was no shaman in attendance to help them interpret it. Something to be shared only if they felt the need to, the desire to. Their vision was personal and as such could only fully be interpreted by themselves, for themselves.
That is of course, if the dancer had a vision at all.