When I was young, shores
of the ocean is where I would be.
Mangoe, quava, coconut.
Dolphins and humpback whales.
They were all great friends of mine.
Now the rivers do not flow free.
Trash and garbage along the shores.
I watch the flower of my life unfold.
I know the rivers will run free again.
I am old now.
I went on a search to find a shaman, medicine man, who would take me on as an apprentice.I heard about a man named rolling thunder, a Shoshoni tribal shaman, someone wrote a book about him. I read it and was inspired to go find this man who could tickle a beetle and get rain. When I got there, he was not welcoming. I could stay the night and leave in the morning.
For some years I kept looking, each time it was the same thing. A feather in their braids, moccasins, brown skin, some of their people’s chants, stories, history. And calls himself a shaman. Or medicine man. Their own people call them potatoes, brown on the outside, white on the inside. I learned that a medicine person is someone who has lived along time, seen many droughts, storms. Has tracked animals all their walking days, observed nature intensely.
Then when they become old, the younger people seek their guidance. “Grandmother, should we plant the corn now or wait till the new moon?”. They were living pillars of wisdom gained by experience, not magicians.