Council Bluffs stirs to life this morning, wanting to spin out
a second story…
Heavy ghostly fog moves stealthily like a thief through its
valley before sunrise today, through the trees, across its quiet running waters.
Witness trees…perhaps spirits, perhaps the Great Spirit Himself,
Herself, seductively whispering…
Two new friends of mine find an arrowhead, a “tip”, a name aptly
double-entendre’ed (sp?) this go round.
A tip.
Over a year ago they find this half, a fragment, nothing
more, abandoned in a field.
They file it away.
Not knowing.
Faithful, if not explicitly realizing their role.
A year later, same place, save spirit time has rolled
forward and changed the landscape, replaced their next clue, they walk down into
their valley, the bustling place of tee pees, women and children camping,
warriors coming in only at night after the days’ hard hunt. Dog soldiers coming
down from the high bluff’s signal fires, hallucinogens, marker trees, council
fires, holy spirits.
Looking down to the ground beneath their feet, these post-modern
time travelers find another half an arrowhead…fine, detailed, delicate.
Something that much time and Native care went into…the nurturing of a fine jewel
from a flake of rock so rough its polished result is a surprise every time.
Not from here, are you?
This new tip fits the first one. A perfect match. God’s will
be done.
The flat field by the creek has been plowed at least three
times between tip one and tip two finally being reunited, what, from its
breakup 300 to 10,000 years ago. No one, save the Great Spirit walking these
woods could’ve predicted that outcome. “A God sent miracle,” a recently
departed older brother would say.
A medicine man, himself.
One piece, useless alone.
Another piece. Where, hiding, lost, without function.
Found.
No one knew the long circle, the hundreds or thousands of years
circle of loneliness and want, that these new friends brought back together,
least of all the broken pieces themselves.
Who was the warrior who lost that tip?
What did its finding, its reuniting mean?
More than random.
More whispers.
More delusions.
Another message, this foggy morning…
I like most the God of resurrection, of healing. Brokenness
as message. As a destiny. That’s a tough case to preach to the Penetekah
camping far to our north, methinks, but this morning seems like I should try.
I hope they are well.
Delusion in these woods, in this country, though a path
through the tangle to the treasure starts to become clear.
A beautiful point, arrowhead, Once Upon a Time, the Happily
Ever After put back together.
Reunited. Miraculous. Ready finally, and again, for
its original purpose.
Its original, whispered lesson.
Native spirits speak.
Native Spirits listen.
Stay tuned…
3.
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