you bet :pals: :hi:
:hug: merh :hug:
dzika, and hiley: thank you both for bringing
this to our awareness! it may be getting lost
a bit in the swamp of domestic politics
right now, but we won't let it fade away.
Because this matters so much
(and because we can do more than
one thing at a time here in this
beautiful, caring, resourceful community)
I'm copying here an aboriginal story
which makes a fine parallel
for what we are able to do, from
where we are. This story is told by
Jean Starr, Cherokee wise woman.
I hope and believe she will not mind
that I borrow her story in this cause.
The traditional Cherokee way is always
of mindfulness for the children: all Earth's
children understood to be the responsibility
of adult human beings, everywhere.
I am grateful for her wisdom and her
story-telling, reminding us again
that we are all related.
Spirit Defenders
Oh, once I was a good man in a fight,
A good hunter, too.
But now I leave that for my sons;
I am too old. Why, I have grandsons who are men,
Sitting in council.
That's why they left me in the town last fall,
When all the men went hunting.
It was a time of peace, we thought,
And so they left no defenders. Only me,
A man with a broken leg, and a few small boys.
The women were out picking corn.
I heard a scream, and here the raiders came.
I threw my tomahawk
And ran for my bow,
Hoping only to shoot down one
Before they killed me.
But when I turned to shoot
(Oh, they were close - I don't run fast any more)
I heard a bowstring twang behind me,
And at my right hand
I saw a stranger, shooting.
As I fired, and reached for another arrow,
I could see
A line of strangers, painted for battle.
Stranger still, as they fought, they sang.
In the fury of the fighting, calmness came to me,
A strange peace, strength
I never knew in my younger years.
Forward we went against them.
By this time, the women of my town
(Brave as the men of other places)
Had gathered the children in the Council House,
Had gotten their bows and blowguns,
Now were firing from behind our line, a few
Creeping through the fields,
Cutting them down from behind.
Somewhere in the fight I found an ax;
We struggled hand to hand for seeming hours,
And then they broke.
Suddenly they were running, they were gone.
Niquasi once again was safe.
I turned to speak to the strangers,
To give them thanks,
Ask where they came from, in so timely a way.
They, too, were gone, instantly, without a trace.
Then I observed
They left no footprints on the ground;
Only the bodies of the enemies they had slain
Remained behind them.
I am singing when I greet the dawn
The song the spirit warriors taught to me.
I am singing, what few dawns remain to me in life,
Until with the spirits I will praise the dawn.
- Jean Starr
Tales From The Cherokee Hills
John F. Blair, Publisher, Winston-Salem, North Carolina, 1988
It is not our way nor is it needed
that we fight with ax or blowgun or bow.
It's from compassion's courage that we're
painted for this battle: knowing what we know, of
who and what is our common enemy, what threatens our souls
as well as the peace of the village, the children and the elders
of "Niquasi" : in our awareness, what village is not "Niquasi"?
"Niquasi" is the dwelling place of our children, our elders;
the peace village of time past, time present, time future.
Awareness, our presence; ability to respond, our bow;
our willingness, the quiver filled with spirit-defenders'
justice-arrows: voice by voice, dollar by dollar, will joining will.
Hands, hearts, and minds: working as One: for the children.