How are you planning to commemorate the completion of your project in a few months?” asked the Urban Monk after one of our evening meditation sessions.
“I’d like to plan an event where I invite representatives from all the places I’ve been this year and maybe do a ceremony of some kind.”
“An interfaith rally?”
“A cross between an interfaith rally and a baptism . . . except not a baptism. Something symbolic of my journey.”
“Have you thought about using rocks?”
Strangely (or maybe not so strangely considering how things had been going), I had considered rocks. “How do you always read my mind?” He smiled. “Yes, I was thinking maybe I could get a slab of bedrock to represent my Christianish past, and thirty smaller, unique rocks to represent what I’ve added to my faith from each place I’ve been this year. During the ceremony, each representative could carry a rock to the front, say a few words about faith, and drop it on the bedrock.”
He stroked his beard. “An altar of sorts.”
I smiled. “Just one thing; you have to officiate.”
He nodded. “We’ll do a prayer and invite Jesus, Allah, Buddha, and Krishna . . . and they’ll all come to honor your journey.”
I thought he was poking fun at me until I realized he was dead serious. It was settled before I left the chapel: We would do a rock ceremony; the monk would officiate; I would find the rocks. The obvious question—Where the heck am I going to find a bedrock?—entered my mind.
“Godiverse,” I said. “I’m countin’ on you for the bedrock.”
TRENT AND I WERE packing for a weeklong ski trip with my in-laws when I received my fifth blanket rejection e-mail from a Native American tribe. “No one wants me,” I informed him. “How am I going to find a medicine man if no one will even talk to me?”
“Maybe you’ll meet one in Colorado,” he said.
I shoved my ski helmet into the suitcase. “Doubtful.”
“You never know.”
It didn’t seem like Trent’s words were going to come true during the first few days of the trip, which I spent mostly in bed while everyone else went skiing. But the words came back to me several days later when, buoyed by a temporary abatement of the Sickness, I felt well enough to go souvenir shopping.
I passed a store in the Mountain Mall and felt the Energy buzz. I walked forward and it faded; I about-faced and it started up again, a cosmic game of Marco Polo.
I’ll bite, I thought, turning into a store that had rocks everywhere I turned: nothing but rocks. An old guy reclined on a stool in the back, reading a magazine. I tried to act casual, an act that lasted forty seconds, until he looked up and smiled. I, Reba the Tactful, blurted, “Are you a Medicine Man?”
He boomed out a hearty laugh full of streams and mountains. “I dabble,” he said. “What can I do for you?” His name was River, just River. With skin like tanned hide, white hair, and a stout, almost square frame, his intense face transformed into a valley of happiness when he smiled. “I’m not a shaman,” he apologized, “but I do teach guided animal totem meditation.”
Okay, I steeled myself. This is where he shakes me down for money. Instead, he puttered behind the counter.
“I know it’s around here somewhere . . . Aha!” He blew dust off the cover of an old book. “Let me make a photocopy.” He headed to the back room and returned with stapled pages and a CD. “Read this, listen to this, and come back tomorrow to tell me what happens.”
I RECRUITED BECKY FOR River’s meditation, because, really, isn’t it every mother-in-law’s dream to bond with her son’s wife by meditating together in the dark basement of a ski lodge? We read the back of the CD and photocopy together.
“ ‘Shamanic drumming and sacred music will help you find your Animal Totem,’ ” Becky read. She looked up. “What’s an Animal Totem?”
I Googled it. “Looks like it’s a power animal. Do you remember that scene in Fight Club, where the guy’s power animal is a penguin?” She nodded. I dimmed the lights and we lay on the floor. Though trying hard to stay solemn, we burst out laughing. I knew I should be taking this more seriously; how often do old men in rock shops give out CDs like candy? (Answer: Not nearly often enough.)
“Okay,” I looked at Becky. “Get ready to quiet your mind.”
“Breathe Deeeeeply and Exxxhaaaaale,” said a dangerously hypnotic voice, all fluffy clouds and waving feathers. If the owner of this voice told me to “Driiiink the Kooool-Aiiid,” I would consider it.
The shamanic drums beat out Boom-BOOM, Boom-BOOM, growing ever louder as the voice guided us through a series of visualized caves, oceans, and waterfalls. By the time we reached our destination, “A bright clearing deeeep in the foooreeeest,” I was asleep—or something like asleep; with meditation it can be hard to tell.
In my dream, or whatever, I entered a clearing. I was barefoot, feeling the dew on the emerald grass. I heard the wind rustle the trees gently. And then I saw it: My strong power animal, my Spirit Totem, my . . . bird that can’t fly?
My power animal was a peacock?
I didn’t even like peacocks. They always struck me as more vainglorious roosters.
The peacock studied me, and before my eyes its plumage grew until it was much larger than me. Then things got weird. (If you’re thinking, “Reba . . . things were already a little weird!” I’m right there with ya.)
A man walked out from behind the feathers; his identifying feature was silver-white hair that fell to his waist. He leveled his wise brown eyes, looking into mine. And then Poof! he disappeared.
Ba-ba-boom-boom!—I woke to the sound of drums.
My mother-in-law was already rubbing her eyes, so I asked her what she saw. “A buffalo,” she breathed. “It was very majestic. What about you?”
“A peacock,” I sighed, annoyed that the exercise hadn’t worked.
“At least it’s . . .” Becky searched for the upside. “Pretty?”
THE NEXT DAY, I trooped back to River, CD and photocopy in hand.
“What happened?” he inquired, leaning forward on his stool.
I told him the short version, ending with one hand on my hip. “What kind of person gets a peacock as a power animal? Did I do something wrong?”
“Animal Totem,” he corrected, reaching for another old book and donning his glasses. “Ah yes, the peacock,” he read. “Those with peacock as a totem are powerful healers.”
At the word healer, my mouth went dry with disbelief.
“Because the peacock sheds its feathers only to grow more beautiful plumage, it has become a symbol for rebirth and renewal,” River continued. “Shamanic cultures use peacock feathers in healing rituals, and many religions feature peacock imagery around deities . . . In Christianity, the peacock symbolizes the resurrection of Christ. . . . The ‘eyes’ on the peacock’s feathers represent a strong energetic connection, the ability to see beyond the physical world . . .” Pausing to look up at me, River laughed at my astonishment. “Just wait until you hear this next part: ‘The peacock is considered by many to be the physical manifestation of the mythical phoenix, rising from the ashes of its grave.’ ”
With every sentence, my eyes got wider. “A phoenix?” I sputtered, knowing that even if I searched for a thousand years, I would never find a better image of spiritual healing than this peacock-phoenix, my peacock: set on fire, burned up . . . and reborn from the wreckage.
Life, resurrected from flames.
An image arose, emblazoned like a tattoo on my mind: vibrant feathers emerging from blackness; beautiful plumage materializing out of gray ashes. Strength born of fire.
My Peacock Rising.
River smirked at my stunned expression. “Not bad for a bird you claim ‘can’t fly,’ is it?”
My mind brimmed with questions, but only one tumbled quickly out, as though it couldn’t wait one second longer.
“Do you happen to have a bedrock in here?” I asked. If he was as surprised by the subject change as I was, it didn’t show.
“I do,” he answered, walking behind the counter. “But it’s not for sale.” He retrieved the bedrock from a low cabinet and told me the story. “My son and I were hiking ten years ago when we found this rock covered in cobwebs. I noticed it had an unusual shape so I dusted it off.” He placed the rock on the counter and I saw what he meant. It resembled an arrowhead with gray-white markings throughout. Large and flat, a bowl-like shape had been worn down in its center by dripping water. It was apparent from the depth of the indentation that this was one old bedrock.
“And see these black ashes here?” I nodded. “These were already in there. I showed it to my Chief friend—don’t get too excited, he’s in Wyoming now—and he thought it had been used in spiritual ceremonies.”
“So it’s not for sale,” I verified, already knowing: This is my rock. I told River about my project, the Urban Monk, and the rock ceremony we’d planned.
“Take the rock,” he said. “It was obviously meant for you all along.”
I convinced him to let me pay for it, or at least buy the other rocks I would need for my ceremony. We spent a pleasant half-hour picking out thirty rocks and crystals in varying shapes and a rainbow of colors, and he sold me the whole lot, bedrock included, for twenty dollars.
“Good luck,” River said as I left. “I hope you find everything you’re looking for.”
I looked at the bedrock balanced in my arms and back at him. “I’m well on my way.”
“HOW’S YOUR PROJECT GOING?” asked Trent’s Aunt Mindy the following week over home manicures with the girls in the family.
“Not well. I think my Native American visit is cursed. I found an online advertisement for an urban drum circle, but no one showed up while I was waiting except for a catawampus guy who mistook me for a hooker—even though I was wearing a trench coat. Then it started to rain and I got drenched!”
“That’s too bad,” sympathized Grandma Joan, blowing on her OPI Rosy Future–colored nails. Aunt Mindy applied a second coat of Red My Fortune Cookie to my fingernails. “What are you going to do now?”
“I have no idea,” I shook my head. “I’ve asked every tribe I could find within driving distance, and I’m not getting any response from my e-mail to the drum circle guy, Chief Hoopwatcher, a.k.a. Iggy Garcia.”
“Did you say Chief Iggy Garcia?” Aunt Mindy asked, missing my pinky. “We know him! He coached Will’s soccer team. Do you want his cell phone number?”
“YES!” After so many months spent trying to find a shaman, could it be that easy? I spilled an open bottle of sparkle pink polish in my excitement. Cousin Emma, whose lacquer was already dry, came to the rescue with paper towels.
“Emma,” I said, “how fast can you dial?”
And just like that, Chief Iggy Hoopwatcher Garcia—Suburban Shaman, Shahaptian Guide Medicine Man, and Natural Healer of Good Intention in the Native American Church of Nemenhah—invited me to Itsipi.
IF THE GODIVERSE HADN’T given me such a clear thumbs-up about Chief Hoopwatcher, I would have chickened out when I Googled “Itsipi sweat ceremony” the night before the gathering. (Helpful hint: This is a one-way ticket to hyperventilation. Googling anything scarier than a stubbed toe after midnight always results in a terminal diagnosis.)
“People have died in sweat ceremonies,” I informed Trent on the morning of Itsipi while loading my gear in the car: a blanket for sitting, several gallons of water for drinking, clothes that could be ruined by mud, and a towel for patting dry. “Granted, the people who died were in the desert and hadn’t had food or water in a couple of days . . .”
In my head, I knew the chances of my personal demise were slim—about equal to the chance of a Canadian invasion—but in my heart it was like our friends to the north were already armed with hockey sticks and crossing the border. Hide your women and children!
To participate in the sweat ceremony, I would have to crawl into a tiny, hot, crowded hut and, in doing so, face several fears at once.
1. Claustrophobia: On my honeymoon, I passed out in the airplane bathroom. A flight attendant had to force her way through the door so the plane could land. I refused to get on the next flight until my brand-new husband plied me with booze and the promise of a Caribbean beach.
2. Severe heat: Two hundred degrees Fahrenheit is for slow-cooking pork chops, not roasting Rebas.
3. Crowds: My idea of hell is a flash mob.
4. Strangers: Half-naked ones, sitting close to me in the dark.
5. The unknown: I had no idea what awaited me during Itsipi. (Possibly death, according to Google.)
Just add in snakes and spiders, and I’d have almost all my fears covered.
Oh wait, Itsipi is outside. There might be snakes or spiders—eek!
My husband was unsympathetic. “You’re not going to die.” He studied the item in my hands. “Wait, why are you packing up pieces of Andre’s Christmas tree?”
I pushed the logs into the trunk. “I’m supposed to bring wood for the ceremony, but—surprise!—grocery stores don’t carry firewood in the spring.” Andre’s Christmas tree, parts of which had been languishing in our shared yard since January, was the next-best option.
“I’m also supposed to bring an offering and a covered dish,” I sighed. “But I don’t know what constitutes an offering, and I was too tired to make a casserole.” I held up some cash and pointed to a platter of chips and dip.
He stared at me doubtfully. “You’re going to bring the Chief a Christmas tree, Hint of Lime Tostitos, and some cheese dip?”
I realized this was almost worse than my Salade d’Shame, but I’d had enough Sickness self-doubt. Store-bought nacho cheese was the best I could do, so store-bought nacho cheese I would offer to God.
“The Godiverse works in mysterious ways,” I told Trent. “Who knows what It can do with Hint of Lime Tostitos?”
Promptly at noon, I pulled into Chief Hoopwatcher’s driveway, a winding gravel path that led to a brick ranch on a few acres of wooded land. In a clearing beyond the house, I glimpsed the wooden skeleton of what I assumed was the Itsipi. I gulped. If I was slightly terrified to pile into a tiny space with strangers, only to be plunged into darkness and possibly fatal heat before surveying the structure, which was approximately the size and shape of the model igloo in my fourth-grade classroom, I could definitely feel the claustrophobia pressing in now.
I have to crawl into that thing. My pulse raced and my blood pressure skyrocketed. A lot of things in Thirty by Thirty had been emotionally scary, but aside from the drive home from the Hindu temple, I’d never been afraid for my physical safety.
Still frightened, I grabbed my gear and marched myself around the corner of the house before I lost courage.
And the first thing I saw around that corner? The very first thing?
A miniature disco ball, reflecting all the colors of the blazing sunlight.
THE BABY DISCO BALL sat on a blanket, surrounded by the things you might expect to see at a tribal ceremony: feathers, rocks, tribal jewelry, and a ceremonial pipe.
Chief Hoopwatcher looked up from where he knelt in the grass near the blanket.
“Hello,” he greeted, his tanned, practiced hands arranging the items just so. Joy showed in the lines around his wide-set cocoa-colored eyes. Wearing casual clothing, a dark goatee, and a grin, he looked infinitely approachable, but his beaded leather necklaces and woven poncho lent an air of spiritual authority. He reminded me of a wrestler: compact yet powerful, serene but strong. I’d want to share a pitcher of beer with this guy, but I also wouldn’t want to mess with him.
“I’m Reba,” I offered. “Mindy’s niece?”
“I thought that’s who you might be.” He extended his hand and I put down my bags to shake it. “Welcome to the Condor Eagle chapter of the Nemenhah.”
“You have no idea how glad I am to finally be here.” I gave him the CliffsNotes version of my project and the Divine Disco Ball. It was a lot to squeeze into five minutes, but we had some major déjà-forward going on. He caught up fast.
Chief Hoopwatcher looked down at his small disco ball thoughtfully. “A friend gave this to me,” he said, palming it. “He meant it to remind me of dancing, because dancing is part of my medicine.” He spun it around on his finger. “You should have it now.” He tossed it my way.
I caught it. “Are you sure?” I sputtered. “It seems like a meaningful gift.”
“The things that bless the altars of our lives are meant to be shared. We are only caretakers. Your journey inspires me, so today I give the disco ball to you. Someday you will pass it on.”
I gripped it with both hands. “I find it hard to believe that I’ll ever want to part with it.”
“One day you will,” he smiled. “But for now use it to start your own Bundle.” He gestured to the collection of items grouped on the blanket, and I divined that a Bundle meant a collection of sacred items.
“I already have something for my Bundle.” I produced my bedrock from one of the bags and related the story of its origin.
“Cool,” he grinned. “Very cool.”
I felt someone pass behind me. The Chief stopped him. “Tony, come meet my new friend. Reba, this is Tony ‘Silver Bear.’ He is also a medicine man, a powerful healer.”
Two shamans for the price of one, I thought, turning around.
For a moment, I wondered if I was experiencing a mental break. From his silver-white hair to his wise brown eyes, Silver Bear the Healer was the same man who had appeared in my peacock dream in Colorado.
“I know you!” I shrieked.
He did not know me, but to his credit, Silver Bear gave me a look that implied I should continue, instead of the look I probably deserved—more along the lines of, “Step off, crazy lady.”
I tried to settle down, as to not scare my new friends. Ahem. “Silver Bear, I don’t know any other way to tell you this; I dreamed about you three weeks ago. Except . . .” I studied his silver locks. “You had longer hair. Your hair was all the way down to your waist.”
“I just got a haircut,” Silver Bear said. “Three weeks ago my hair did reach to my waist.”
Silver Bear and Chief Hoopwatcher exchanged a knowing look.
“Welcome, my sister,” said the Chief, placing a hand on my shoulder.
MEMBERS OF THE NATIVE American Church of Nemenhah had already arrived. Some arranged blankets in a circle in the grass clearing; others milled about chatting or helping the Chief. A few did yoga poses nearer to the woods. Joining the crowd, I set up my red blanket and placed my bedrock and disco ball on top of it.
It was the kind of day I wish for in the middle of Ohio winters: air fragrant with recent rain, but not a cloud in sight; sapphire sky framing many shades of newly budded green. Sunshine streamed down extravagantly, warming my arms and feet. I stretched out on my back, crossed my arms behind my head, and breathed it all in. Looking up, I was conscious of being in nature, the greatest cathedral of all.
The smell of burning sage filled my nostrils, prompting me to sit up and look around. Wearing an outfit that looked like a karate suit, a bottle-redhead waved a fragrant, smoking stick, the source of the scent. She approached.
“I’m Joanne,” she said, her voice placid as a still lake. “Would you like to be smudged?” Imagining myself as a smudge of mascara, I must have looked unsure. “It’s a purification ritual,” she explained. “Meant to clear you of any negative energy and make way for healing.”
Healing? I thought of the Sickness. Heck, for healing I’ll smoke the stuff, bathe in it, and bake it into wholesome cranberry muffins.
“Smudge away,” I answered, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. I stood up; she waved the smudging stick around me, leaving a feathery Reba-shaped smoke trail around me.
For me the smoke acted like truth serum. I started babbling on about my claustrophobia and concern about the safety of Itsipi.
Joanne squinted at me. “Were you Googling recently, by any chance?”
“Yep,” I confessed.
She laid a gentle hand on my arm. “Poor thing, you were probably terrified!” Uh-huh. Her voice took on an authoritative tone. “Chief Hoopwatcher is highly trained, certified, and ordained. Safety is our top priority. If you feel uncomfortable at all, just wave at me and I’ll get you outta there.” She made a gesture like pulling someone off the stage. “We don’t want you to do anything that doesn’t feel right for you today.”
Just hearing I was allowed to be uncomfortable made me more comfortable. “Thanks so much,” I smiled.
Even though no one told us to sit down and be quiet, everyone eventually felt the pull to reverence and drifted to our respective blankets, waiting for the ceremony to begin.
The Chief sat on his blanket, Sacred Bundle before him. “Itsipi is where we gather to pray and purify ourselves. We gather to make way for healing, reconciliation, forgiveness, insights. The Itsipi is built with willows according to sacred geometry rules. Together we will cover the wooden structure with blankets and tarps, representing the Womb of Mother Earth, where we may enter to be reborn through the spirit of the four elements.
“The Condor Eagle chapter of the Nemenhah operates under the principle of Spiritual Adoption, meaning we welcome well-intentioned people of any race, ethnicity, color, gender, culture, or religious belief. We accept all traditions to join our circle and call on Wyakin—God, the Source, the Divine, the Universe. Together, we will smoke the ceremonial pipe to purify ourselves and create space for healing. First we share our intentions.”
Everyone in the circle stated their names and reasons for gathering. Experiencing the Divine and walking a spiritual path were the common themes. When it was my turn, I offered my truest truth: “I’m here for healing.”
Chief Hoopwatcher lit the ceremonial pipe and passed it around. When it came to me, I followed his instructions: acknowledging the four directions, I lifted the pipe high to Father Sky and down to Mother Earth. I recognized Wyakin, set my intention to honor the Sacred Breath of life, and raised the pipe to my lips.
When all had partaken, Chief Hoopwatcher led us to Itsipi. In silence, we covered the skeleton of willows with layers of blankets and tarps, a team exercise that reminded me of building a campsite. Work completed, we gathered around the bonfire pit where Andre’s Christmas tree burned, helping to bake the rocks that would heat our ceremony. Stones glowed red and orange within the blaze.
“We dance around the fire to shake up our egos,” said Chief Hoopwatcher. “We begin by letting go of all that no longer serves us.”
Several members grabbed drums, and the Chief started a chant as we began dancing around the flames. If an exuberant wedding conga line got as serious as surgery, this procession would be the result. People of all shapes, sizes, ages, and races wriggled and shook, equal parts reverence and joy. Energy crackled in the fire and between us, the exuberance reminiscent of a pep rally right before the Big Game.
And then, we stopped. Except for the pops and snaps of the fire and the sounds of nature, all was silent.
“We enter Itsipi on all fours, showing humility. We go in backward to represent returning to the womb,” Chief Hoopwatcher said, demonstrating how to perform the entry.
The members disappeared one by one, a clown car in reverse. Except for the Chief, I was almost last in line—giving me plenty of freak-out time. But, whether it was the disco ball, the Chief, or Joanne, I was actually okay. I felt like I was pointing my skis straight down the mountain. If I wanted to move forward I had to let go.
I took a deep breath and crouched in the dirt. Nodding to the doorkeeper that I was as ready as I’d ever be, I crawled backward into the darkness.
My eyes adjusted quickly. Facing a central pit dug in the dirt, the group of about twenty sat in two rings around the perimeter. Crowded was an understatement: My head brushed the top of the Itsipi as I crawled between Silver Bear and a young guy. “Michael,” he whispered as I squeezed in next to him. I rubbed shoulders and knees with Michael and Silver Bear, but to my surprise, their closeness felt like the good kind of crowded—brothers supporting me instead of people who might trample me in a stampede. Maybe all my dread had been for nothing. Then again, it wasn’t very hot yet.
Chief Hoopwatcher entered. “Welcome to all my relations!” he whooped.
Using a set of antlers to handle the glowing rocks, the doorkeeper delivered them directly from the bonfire. Chief Hoopwatcher used a second set of antlers to pile the glowing stones in the central pit. As each addition ratcheted up the heat, we shouted, “Welcome, grandfathers!”
Within minutes sweat slicked my arms, making them a Slip ’n Slide against Tony and Michael’s limbs. Chief Hoopwatcher splashed the stones seven times. Steam sizzled around us.
“It’s good to be here!” he yelled.
“It’s good to be here!” the crowd roared back. If dancing around the fire was a pep rally, this was the cry of an army on the move.
“In the sweat, we face ourselves and meet Wyakin,” shouted the Chief. “We face the parts of ourselves we have closed off.”
If I had ever closed off my sweat glands, they were now working overtime.
“In Itsipi we will visit all four doors: west, north, east, and south,” explained the Chief. “The doors correspond to the seasons. This is the west door, the autumn, where we give thanks and seek counsel from our ancestors.”
I imagined the collective wisdom of my ancestors coalescing in the heat, which was quickly becoming thick, dense as water.
The Chief began a simple song of thanksgiving, and we joined him on the second round:
Ogou helo
Nemenhah-hemene helo
Meninshtena helo
Solistena helo
I closed my eyes against the heat, and the song made my mind silent.
The Chief led us through the west door, alternating between singing, chanting, and silence. During the course of thirty minutes, the heat grew more intense until it became an entity hanging over us. The hot air stung my skin, filled my lungs, engulfed me. My sweat turned the dirt beneath me to mud, until any movement was slippery. Sometimes it was the welcome pain of a tough workout, boot camp for the soul; but mostly I felt like a hunk of meat in a slow cooker.
What am I doing here? I wondered at a break between doors, when the members crawled out to rehydrate and ingest sea salts. I stretched out on the ground, grass tickling my toes. The answer came swiftly from somewhere else: I am offering up everything that does not serve me to be sizzled away like water on the rocks.
I groaned inwardly. Mysticism is so much easier when you’re not lying on the ground covered in hot mud.
Silver Bear noticed my struggle and knelt beside me. “If you’re too hot, suck mud,” he said, handing me some frozen watermelon (food of the gods!). “Root yourself to the earth. Put your face down in the dirt where it’s coolest, and breathe.”
Even stripped down to a sports bra and shorts, the Itsipi heat was searing. I wasn’t sure I could continue through the final session, so I followed Silver Bear’s advice: I bent over my knees and put my face down and “sucked mud,” my mouth so close to the dirt that I could lick the earth.
And then it hit me. I am every person who has ever sat in the forest or the mountains or the desert or the Arctic and called on Something More.
“This is the east door, the spring door, the ‘sees far’ door,” Chief Hoopwatcher said. “This is also the hottest door.” When he added water to the rocks, I tasted the burn.
“It’s good to be here!” we chanted, and I felt the Great Spirit swell into my words, into my very being. Created by our connection to the ground and one another, the words transformed to liturgy of the highest order. Covered in sweat and muck, I had never felt so pure. Mother Earth was beneath me, Father Sky above; the ancestors were all around, silently cheering us on. Persevere, I could almost hear them chant, my grandfather among them.
This was the euphoria of fasting, minus the thirty-day lag time.
The heat was excruciating, yet somehow secondary. The last time I experienced something like this, I was small enough to swim in a baby pool, and my cousins decided to make it into a whirlpool. The eight of us swam in one direction in shallow water, breathless with effort as we moved the water, simultaneously contributing to and being carried by the collective force. In the sweat ceremony, twenty-three of us moved as one, sending Energy swirling as we swayed together.
A hush descended like someone had ordered silence. Chief Hoopwatcher’s voice rose powerfully as he told the story of an acorn. “Through the rain and sun of every season, the seed grows from humble beginnings in the ground, until it breaks through the canopy into the sky. An eagle lands on the highest branch. You are the tree; you are the eagle. What do you see?”
Eyes closed, face in the mud, I looked within to see without. I saw that I was not an eagle. I was a peacock with a 360-degree view of the forest. The heat had driven my mind to siesta, so I didn’t fight it.
I looked to the south: miles of green trees. Summer.
I looked to the west: leaves blazed red and orange, fiery in splendor. Autumn.
I looked to the north: ice-covered, barren branches. Winter.
I looked to the east: new life burst through the forest. Spring.
“Look inside yourself for the wisdom that comes from beyond,” Chief Hoopwatcher said from somewhere far away. “In Itsipi, you will see a vision of the future.”
I opened my eyes just a sliver and gazed into the blazing rocks, my vision fading in and out of focus. In my mind, I heard strains of Nichole Nordeman’s song “Every Season”:
And what was frozen through is newly purposed
Turning all things green
Before my eyes, leaves fell, snow melted, icicles cracked, buds formed; everything changed. My peacock, the bird that I had thought couldn’t fly, lifted off, gliding in a slow circle through the seasons. The images faded with a soft swish-swish of my peacock’s feathers, leaving behind only the burn of the heat and the sweet taste of hope.
Hope was enough.
I TOLD CHIEF HOOPWATCHER about my peacock vision over our potluck supper, after offering him my Hint of Lime Tostitos.
“You said peacocks can’t fly,” he replied, “but you’re forgetting something.”
“What?” I asked, dipping into the store-bought nacho cheese.