I moved into my apartment 8 years ago.  A renter once again, I decided I would not plant a garden.  It would be silly to spend time, energy and money making things grow in the yard when I'd be moving again - soon.  I'd just left a home where I'd spent thousands of hours and hundreds of dollars creating several lovely gardens. Then I sold it all. I knew I would never put that much effort into something I'd have to leave behind again.  After all, I'd only be there a short while.

That short while flew by.  Each year I fell more in love with the quiet, peaceful neighborhood.  I took long walks admiring other people's gardens. I had no desire to move.  And after eight years passed,  I couldn't resist putting in a few fall bulbs in anticipation of a colorful spring.  I learned then what many people already know:  plant a garden wherever you go. You never know how long you'll stay and if you have to leave someone else will enjoy the flowers.  Next time I won't waste time thinking there will be a better time or place to plant a garden.

Such a beautiful day outside and in.  Sun is shining which makes me want to take a walk before lunch.
Also, the joy I am feeling inside is giving me cause to celebrate.  Sandra Ingerman writes about transmutation; but I'm feeling an inner transformation.  It's as simple as feeling my strength returning; as complex as the concepts of soul retrieval she writes about and I study.

I'm reading one of Sandra's books, "How to Heal Toxic Thoughts."  It's helping me remember who we all are and how to love.

I read a story once.  The main character had been raised with the stories of her ancestors.  As a child she listened to them.  In early adulthood she recited them.  She knew facts about the life of her mother's mother's mother.  She knew who she was because she knew who she came from.  Knowledge of the hopes, dreams, aspirations and accomplishments of the woman who preceded her presence on earth gave her strength, courage, self-awareness.

Awareness of my ancestors, family ties and the realization of what branch of the family tree I'd sprouted from wasn't something I grew up with.  We  moved a lot.  My last name changed. Ties were cut.  On purpose.

Today I started by writing names across the top of a blank sheet of paper.  Drawing lines for descendants. Making connections as though those actions will solve the mystery.

Went to a writers' workshop yesterday.  Anne Chisled Barnhill gave a wonderful presentation about the strength of  the memoir as a tool for personal and social transformation.

She led the group into a writing exercise without knowing that one member of her audience (me) had for several years refused to let her muse be tested by such a technique. 

Yesterday I surrendered and took up the challenge to imagine myself at 8 or 9 entering a favorite room in my house.

"After dinner I loved to escape to a small sitting room off my parent's bedroom.  There was a large overstuffed chair in there with a floor lamp alongside.  I was slender and shorter then and my whole body fit snugly into the seat of that chair.

Mom and my brother and sisters would head upstairs to the t.v. room and I would be left in peace and welcome silence to open my book and enter into the world of the story I was reading.

There was nothing wrong with the world I was living in.  The house was large and homey.  My reading room had a battered wooden dresser that held extra linens.  A gray blue rug covered the floor.  A trunk with a rounded top sat nearby and sometimes when I needed a rest from reading I would study the scroll work on it and admire the intricate carvings some careful woodworker had chiseled long ago."

I went to a spot by the river where I could sit and write and listen to the water rushing over the rocks.  It made a sweet sound.  Not the roar of Niagara but the hum of a steady flow that when I struggle to describe it just reminds me of the sacred om.

I leaned back on the bench some loving soul had set on high ground above where the river makes a bend.  The force of its movement washed away earth and rock and left sandy beach below my feet.  It was too chilly to go wading.

The day before had been sunny and hot with not a cloud in the sky. I had chores and errands to run then.  In the middle of them I promised myself I would go to this place far from town and breathe in the smell of woods and water.  I would have a day of rest in this beautiful spot; but by the time I got there the weather had turned.  It was damp and cold.  The view at the river's bend was beautiful.  Rock cliffs protect both sides of the valley the river formed through the ages.  But it was hard to enjoy because I sat wondering how long it would be before the clouds burst open soaking me to my skin before I made the walk back to my car.

I'd been at that same bend in the river on blistering hot days.  I had walked into the water.  Sat in a tube and floated the current downstream.  The mountain spring water was warmer then.

I'd come back in early fall.  The leaves had not brightened into their full seasonal glory.  Even if they had, I knew I'd be thinking about when I'd been there in the spring and had seen the dogwoods displaying their delicate pink and sacred white blooms among the early green dotting the ridge tops.

I watched the water flow past me.  It reminded me of that morning's Sunday service.  Nothing is permanent.  There is always movement.  Change.  An eddy here or there may give the appearance of stillness and rest.  But don't be fooled.  Underneath the seeming stillness there is movement and the sometimes stagnant water will work its way back into the mainstream when its time.

I didn't get up to the farm for Her birthday this year.

That made me sad for a couple of reasons.   One, I want to connect with people whose lives were touched by Her.  Also, I wanted to recharge simply by being where She once was physically.

Why is it that not having something always teaches me something about what I do have and what I think I need and what I actually want?

Stories inspire me, they always have.  Those handed down through the generations often obtain mythical stature.  One assumes the retellings may have embellished whatever truth the tale originally contained.  There is no guarantee of authenticity.  Still, I listen.

 

            Old stories offer explanations for things unknown or misunderstood; they provide answers to questions that have puzzled humanity for ages.  But if they can’t be proven, how will readers, seekers of knowledge, know what is or was or may be true?  Can fact be separated from fiction, reason from legend?  In today’s world can meaning be found in mythology?

 

            I ask these questions because I think I met a living legend.  She stood at our first meeting in a muddy pen surrounded by several dusty brown beasts just like Her.  Thousands of people, ranging from the religiously reverent to the merely curious, had come to gaze at Her before I saw Her in the Summer of 1995.  By that time, she had lost the snowy fur of her infancy.

 

            I’d made the sojourn to Her farm after reading about Her on the pages of the Washington Post.  But She was not an every-day news item.  She was Miracle, the White Buffalo of Janesville, Wisconsin.  To some Native Americans, a White Buffalo is a sacred being, a stature earned through Her role in tribal history.  Miracle was born in the early morning hours of August 20, 1994 and died September 19, 2004.  Her father died shortly after She was born.  The Medicine Men who know about such things say his departure so soon after Her arrival was in accordance with Her prophesies.  But I didn’t know of ancient forecasts for Her life or the future.  I experienced Her in the present and that was enough for me. The time I spent with Her changed my life.  It left me feeling blessed by Her mystery.  I’ve spent several years trying to tell the tale of the only part of Her truth that I understand.

 

            Her legend, handed down from the time when the Lakota people followed herds of bison across the prairies, is premised upon an understanding of how those life-sustaining mammals provided everything native peoples needed to survive:  Their hides were cured for shelter and clothing, their meat consumed for sustenance.  Bones and sinew became tools for hunting and internal organs were used as carrying pouches.  The presence of the animal on the plains predates human existence.  Thus, it is understandable that the people dependent upon them for survival were certain their own demise would follow their disappearance.  And when the buffalo had become scarce and the people were famished, their hope was in two young braves sent from camp to search for traces of a herd.

 

            The young men walked for days.  Weak from hunger, they no longer trusted their vision when they saw a cloud forming on the horizon.  Was it a rain cloud or only their imagination?  It appeared to be moving toward them and they stopped to watch it float across an otherwise lucid sky.  Instead of passing over them, the cloud descended before them.   As it touched the earth, they stared in disbelief as a beautiful maiden appeared in the midst of the mist and stepped out of the haze.  When Her feet touched the ground, the vapor vanished.

 

            She was dressed in dazzling white deerskin robes.  Her long black hair hung in perfect braids on each side of a face more radiant than any they’d seen.  Tempted, one of the men stepped toward Her.  He disintegrated into a pile of bones at Her feet before She explained to the remaining warrior that She had a message for his people.

 

            The respectful messenger returned to his village and informed the elders of the maiden’s manifestation.  They began preparations for Her visit which included the construction of a ceremonial tent.  Four days later, She arrived on foot and stood before the villagers.  Greeting them, She presented the parcel cradled in her arms to the elders.  They thought She held a baby; but when the coverlet was removed, the startled chiefs saw a smoking pipe for the first time.  The woman explained the symbolism contained in Her gift:  how the bowl represented the earth yet the smoke that came out of it would reach the heavens.  She taught the men about its spiritual significance; words spoken in the presence of the pipe must be honored because they would be known by the Great Spirit.

 

            The Holy Woman met with the village women and explained how important the care and nurture of the children were to the welfare of their society.  When She had finished speaking, the women understood that the work they did was just as essential to the survival of their nation as the braves’ hunting expeditions.  The community was admonished to give thanks for the bounty of the earth, to celebrate the sustenance it provided and the promise it afforded.  Their land would nourish them if they lived according to certain principles and practiced the ceremonies She taught them. 

As the beautiful woman prepared to leave the villagers, She promised to return to them if they were again in need of Her message.  Then She fell and rolled upon the earth.  With each tumble She reflected a color symbolic of the directions of the universe.  First She was black, then yellow, and then red.  When She ran from them, Her people saw Her as a White Buffalo Calf.  After Her visit, peace and prosperity prevailed.

 

            Some Native Americans believe Miracle was the reincarnation of the Holy Woman who appeared to their people long ago.  Having awaited Her return with the same passion Christians sustain for Christ’s second coming, many indigenous people believed Her arrival foretold a new age of planetary harmony.  Some believers interpreted Miracle’s birth as a simple reassurance that the Great Spirit had not forsaken them.  To those who may have abandoned their traditional faith practices, Her presence designated a time to recommit to ethnic beliefs.  There are others who believed Her appearance held hope for reconciliation between the races.  Her return meant white men would begin to accept the truths contained in traditional Native American values.

 

            I can’t vouch for the authenticity of Her legend; I’ve retold it as I learned it.  I make no claims to understanding Her sacred mystique, I can only say that the time I spent with Her brought me new ways of comprehending bits of the great mystery and left me with a sense of trust (faith if you will) in things unseen.  There are many perspectives regarding Her spirituality, but I didn’t have any preconceived notions about Her.  I went to visit Her when I was in the Midwest for a summer visit with my family.  I prayed to Her.  And however it is that one hears answer to prayer, I heard Hers.  For nearly a decade, I returned to Her farm as often as I could wanting only to sit alongside Her pasture and be blessed by Her magic.  At first it was difficult to assimilate my experiences at the farm with my non-native suburban upbringing; but I’ve been aided in understanding by other writers who’ve shared their stories and their levels of understanding with their readers.  One of my favorites is Doug Boyd.  He wrote of the time he spent with the Medicine Man, Rolling Thunder.  Dee Brown begins the introduction to that tale like this:  “Almost everyone who has ventured even slightly into the spiritual world of the American Indian can relate inexplicable happenings.” Spending time with Miracle was how my “inexplicable happenings” began. She brought me hope I want to share.  

I am really looking forward to presenting my workshop, Intuitive Grace, at Jubilee! Community Church this Thursday.  It is a guided meditation to the farm of Miracle, the sacred White Buffalo of Janesville, Wisconsin. When I invited people from my faith community to attend, I said this about how and why the workshop came into being:

"If you’ve ever wondered what people were talking about when they mentioned hearing their still small voice within or their Spirit Guide, I will be talking about how and what I learned about those aspects of spirituality when I went to see Miracle, the sacred White Buffalo of Janesville, Wisconsin.

Being with Her taught me a few things about humility and the wisdom of listening and I’d like to share the experience of being with Her with you through the use of a guided meditation."

I am hoping for a good turn out and that people have a good experience.  And that everyone there feel a bit of that sacred inner peace we are all seeking.

Changing settings, picking colors, how many changes can be made to basic templates?  The techniques, the technical stuff this getting started is really tough.

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