3-2 Floating on Rose Petals

August 1-2, 2014

Black Hawk Park - Mississipp River

Desoto, WI

My memory cries out in pain and begs my soul to take its hand,

And sullen clouds replete with rain cast shadows on a sodden land.

No more, say I - Be gone!  Depart!  Let solace grow, and comfort feel.

Take shelter now, my aching heart.  The rain is gone.  It's time to heal.

Brock Jansen

There are days on the calendar that cause people to remember the past.  Some days bring a collective joy - birthdays and holidays.  Some bring pain - December 7th, 1941 (Pearl Harbor), November 22, 1963 (John F Kennedy died), September 11, 2001 (World Trade Center terrorist attacks).  These dates exist on the calendar to mark the passage of time, but they also serve to remind us of important events that have occurred, and to bring them closer to the present.  For Native Americans time is circular and the events of the past are no further behind now than they were 100 years ago, and 100 years from now the stories and their lessons will remain just as fresh.

August 2nd, for me, will always be a day of remembrance.  I liken it to the day that my father died - a date I will always remember, and remember with sadness, but a date that will bring to mind for me ALL the stories of my father, and all that he was and is.  My father's story goes on, and no single date on the calendar can diminish the incredible sphere of energy that radiates from his existence.  Even now, no matter how tragic were the events that happen to coincide with this date, it helps me to remember both the joy and the sorrow.  What I choose to do with these memories is of my own doing.

Today is August 2nd, and today I choose to celebrate.  I am celebrating the lives of a band of people I have come to know and love.  They were a hardy people, who lived difficult and uncertain lives in a time of unstoppable change.  Theirs is a story of challenge, heroic struggle, and untimely death in the face of a relentless and merciless foe.  Should Hollywood ever choose to make a movie of this story, August 2nd would be the day when the orchestra would play its most moving, most inspiring, most dramatic and saddest music in the whole score as the weary and bedraggled protagonists succumb to their enemy.  So - in the midst of the tragedy - why is the music in my head of the inspiring category?  Why do I feel hope instead of despair?  It is because as I stand here, in front of the sign that commemorates the horrific massacre that took place on this soil, I am surrounded by people who are laughing, playing and enjoying life.  It is because life and love go on, and they are precious.

Yesterday I was excited to learn that every year there is a gathering of Native Americans here at Black Hawk Park on August 2nd, and that they would be here today.  After visiting the park this morning and offering my prayers, all within view of the nefarious Battle Isle, I went over to the place where the Indians had started to gather.  I didn't really know what to expect.  Drumming?  Singing?  A commemorative speech?  I found none of that.  They weren't there to be sad, or angry.  Instead, I found families having a large picnic.  Children were running around playing together - some parents were fishing with their children, mothers were busily preparing the food and beverages for the many more who would be coming to the event and bringing their own laughter and joy.  This was not a day of mourning for them, it was a time to get together and make new memories - it was a day to celebrate life.  There was a children's fisheree going on, where parents helped their children compete in fishing contests, seeing who could catch the most or the biggest fish.  With games and laughter, they were passing on skills much the same way Black Sparrow Hawk and his band had taught their children to coax sustenance from the water in more peaceful times.  There were people swimming - splashing around in the warm water as it eased down the sandy shoreline.  Some of the children were digging for clams.  They playfully tossed them back into the water after the patient mollusks squirted their indigence out at their would-be predators.  Nothing has changed but the faces. 

There was certainly no question why they chose this date to gather in this place, but it was what they chose to do with that opportunity that filled me with such hope.  I would have loved to have joined with them, listen to their perspective, heard them tell their story from their point of view.  Instead, I felt privileged just to be nearby and to learn from them.  They were here to celebrate survival.  They were here because even though a tragic blow had been dealt to their people, they ultimately survived, and survive still to this day.  They taught me that it is not always necessary to mourn the past.  Mourning is the period where lessons are taught and truth is learned.  Then - life and love go on. 

I left them in peace, with no more than a few shared smiles.  I am glad they could be happy. It gave me courage and strength to meet this day with at least equal measures of happiness and grief.


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Grandfathers of the North - who hold the secrets of life's beginning - we honor you and call you to our sacred circle.  Bring to us the healing energy of new life to strengthen us for the journey we must all travel. 

Grandfathers of the East - who hold the passion of youth in your breasts and guide us until we come to know ourselves and our life's purpose - we honor you and call you to our sacred circle.  Bring to us the untamed enthusiasm for new paths and new things, and the wonder to enjoy the miracle that is each dawning day and every being that wanders the earth.

Grandfathers of the South - who hold the richness of reward for skills well-learned and life well-led - we honor you and call you to our sacred circle.  Bring to us the confidence and strength to do the things we must do, knowing that we and those around us will continue to grow and thrive as a result of our hard work.

Grandfathers of the West - who hold the wisdom gleaned from life's lessons - we honor you and call you to our sacred circle.  Bring to us the vision of a peaceful nation where honesty, truth, humility, love, respect, courage and wisdom guide our paths and our people.

Grandfathers of the North - who span the bridge between ancient wisdom and all that is new again - we honor you and call you to our sacred circle.  Bring to us the serenity of the elders and hope for our future, so that our footfalls may be made softer by the influence of those who have gone before us.


*******************

On my journey, I collected items that spoke to me in prayerful whispers, asking to join me.  I collected nuts and seeds, sticks, rocks, feathers and even water, always mindful to give an offering whenever such items were taken.  Some of these items were given back in thanks along the way - burned in small ceremonial fires, affixed to the prayer sticks - but many were stored and saved for today.  Saved for the time when I would release back to the sky and the river the accumulated pain and suffering I had experienced along the way and allow the healing water to refresh my spirit. 

For our final ceremonial fire, we drew a medicine wheel upon the sandy shores near the water, and placed our burning vessel in the center.  The fire was made with sticks and leaves and bark that we had gathered along the way, and fed with natural materials close at hand.  As the ceremonial fire burned, carrying our prayers to father creator, we gave a portion of each of the items we had collected, placing each in turn upon the flames.  As water slipped slowly past on the shore, the fire crackled and converted each such offering to ash and smoke.

One item, a paper zentangle meditation drawing given to us by our friend Joni, was meant to be burned in this way, but after leaving it on the open flames and coals for over thirty seconds, we pulled it from the fire, unblackened.  And so, we sent it down the river.

This was my signal that it was time to release everything else we had collected to the waters.  Most items had been collected along the way, but there were also things that had been given to us to use as a part of the river ceremony, both to help us in our quest and to give as a prayerful offering.  I knew, too, that the offering to the sky , the earth, and the river would not be complete without objects that were personal and meaningful to me.  Before I made this final trip, I gathered up the dozens of dried rosebuds that had been given to me over the years by my husband.  Each fragile flower, withered but somehow still perfect in its beauty, held a precious memory for me that could not be replaced with all the gardens of the world.  Each tiny bud was a chalice full of the love I have received in abundance throughout my life.  Now, they were a gift for the spirits, floating vessels of hope and healing to carry them down the waters of the Great River back to their home in Saukenuk.  As my sage stick smoldered we placed all that we had to give into the lapping waves, finally ending with the roses, whose dried shells rode high in the water, defying gravity with the lightness of their love.

When the fire had burned to ash, we gave the ashes to the river and returned to the shore.  Moments later, waves washed high on the sand and wiped away the memory of the medicine wheel.  Everything had returned to the way it was.

Oh great Mississippi - you are the waters of birth and the waters of death for the souls of the Sauk and Meskwaki people who have traveled here.  If any remain in your care, treat them with gentle kindness and lead them to a place of safety, where they can live with their ancestors and once again be in the familiar loving arms of their families.  Ah-ho.

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(Key Terms: Ma-Ka-Tai-Me-She-Kia-Kiak, Black Sparrow Hawk, Black Hawk, 1767, Saukenuk, Pyesa, Rock Island, Black Hawk’s Watch Tower, Black Hawk State Historic Site, Hauberg Museum, Sauk, Sac, Meskwaki, Fox, Rock River, Sinnissippi River, Mississippi River, War of 1812, British Band, Great Britain, Treaty of 1804, Treaties, Ceded Land, William Henry Harrison, Quashquame, Keokuk, Fort Armstrong, Samuel Whiteside, Black Hawk War of 1832, Black Hawk Conflict, Scalp, Great Sauk Trail, Black Hawk Trail, Prophetstown, Wabokieshiek, White Cloud, The Winnebago Prophet, Ne-o-po-pe, Dixon’s Ferry, Isaiah Stillman, The Battle of Stillman’s Run, Old Man’s Creek, Sycamore Creek, Abraham Lincoln, Chief Shabbona, Felix St. Vrain, Lake Koshkonong, Fort Koshkonong, Fort Atkinson, Henry Atkinson, Andrew Jackson, Lewis Cass, Winfield Scott, Chief Black Wolf, Henry Dodge, James Henry, White Crow, Rock River Rapids, The Four Lakes, Battle of Wisconsin Heights, Benjamin Franklin Smith, Wisconsin River, Kickapoo River, Soldier’s Grove, Steamboat Warrior, Steamship Warrior, Fort Crawford, Battle of Bad Axe, Bad Axe Massacre, Joseph M. Street, Antoine LeClaire, Native American, Indian, Michigan Territory, Indiana Territory, Louisiana Territory, Osage, Souix, Potawatomi, Ojibwe, Ottawa, Ho-Chunk)

3-1 A Sign from the Past

August 1

Vernon County, WI

When I looked at my busy calendar, trying to figure out exactly when I would be able to take my 'Journey Home', with all the memories that I had collected along the way and the spirits who heard my prayers and decided to guide me and walk with me, there was a moment of enlightenment that struck me with the force of a wave crashing into my consciousness.  Of course, the trip must take place on August 1st.  I pulled out a calendar to check, and against all odds, it conveniently fell on a Friday.  I was so excited I could hardly wait to tell my husband about it when he got home.  He was a little slower to comprehend, but eventually he agreed that it was the perfect time, and so we made our vacation and travel plans.  August 1st was the anniversary of the start of the final massacre.  There could be no better day to be there, to revisit the important places, to give prayers and offerings for the lost and healing for the earth.

For months we made plans for taking our boat and our bicycles and spending hours and days traveling south along the river, hugging the Great River Road.  It was meant to be a celebration of life, a rejoicing and reunion of spirits, a grand, and enthusiastic adventure south along the great and mighty Mississippi.  Of course, as the days grew closer, life interceded and we were not able to make the final preparations necessary to carry off our ambitions, but there was no question about taking the trip - it just needed to change a little.  Gone was the boat - our journey would have to be on land.  Gone were the carefully laid plans, the daily itinerary - we would have to take it as it came, letting our path be guided by the forces of the universe and the spirits of The People.  As always, trips turn out better that way.

As you may recall, our previous journeying left a few things undone.  When we reached the edge of the Mississippi River earlier this year it was swollen beyond its banks, leaving us unable to visit the last sign in the C.V. Porter series.  The river finally receded in mid July but before we took those final steps together to stand in front of that last, terrible sign on August 1st, we decided to revisit the other signs along the way and leave more prayer sticks as we went.  Also - if at all possible, we were bound and determined to reach the edge of Six Sisters Pond and spend some time with them and Two Eagles.

On the morning of August 1st, my husband and I loaded up and drove to Vernon County, where the rest of our adventure was set to begin.  I felt no need to revisit the first sign, though I cannot explain why.  Instead we drove straight to markers 2 and 3, the place which told the story of the Six Sisters, as I have come to know them.  Of course we stopped and spent time at the sign, but we really wanted to find the pond. We drove carefully around the area again, and looked for the place where Two Eagles had called to us, and I'm fairly positive we found it, but we also found directly across the farm road a farmer in his front yard doing earthwork, and he gave us long, hard stares as we slowed down to stare into his fields.  He was not going anywhere, and he did not give the impression of being a man willing to let two weirdos on a spiritual journey cavort around on his land.  There was too much negative energy, so we decided instead to drive to the other side of the property and come in from the south.  We drove to the Cemetery, parked in the back and started walking downhill towards the field.

Now - I am not one who is easily detracted by a few bugs, and as far as I'm concerned, fences are made for climbing.  That said, between us and the edge of the woods was a broad, mowed stretch of grass at the edge of the cemetery and a wide stretch of field absolutely swarming with gnats, and then an electric fence.  This was a daunting barrier, and I was beginning to feel that for whatever reason this just wasn't supposed to happen, or at least not today.  I felt no calling from the Six Sisters or from Two Eagles, just barriers in our way.  I knew that if I drove a quarter mile to the south I would be able to cross a cornfield and get to the back side of the fence, which wasn't electric I knew because I had been there before, but this was all wrong.  I decided to listen to what the universe was telling me and once again offer my prayers from afar.  Despite the bugs, I went as far as I could towards the pond and secured a prayer stick to the fence post, promising to return someday and conquer these barriers.  If you are disappointed reading this, you can imagine how I felt.  I cannot tell you how many people have read my blog and have told me in person or in writing how much they were looking forward to our return to Six Sisters Pond.  I'm afraid they and you and I will have to wait a little longer for that part of the story.

Thwarted, we returned to the car and made our way to each of the Porter signs, in order, leaving the last sign, the one we had not yet visited, for the very end.  Before we went there, in the heart of Blackhawk Park, we took another trip up into battle hollow to view the battle site and the hillsides.  There is something eerily fascinating about staring at a hillside and knowing that one hundred and eighty some-odd years ago to the day, a band of hundreds of exhausted Native people poured over the top of the ridge, within sight of the Mississippi River that was to be their salvation, only to be caught once again at the edge of the water.  Amazing, too, staring at the edge of Battle Bluff, a ridiculously steep and towering bluff face knowing that when the fighting between the militia and the Indians was in full force, a barely restrained brigade of Army troops plunged over the edge and somehow descended the precipice without anyone getting killed by the effort.

I kept my eyes open for signs from my spirit guides, but nothing made itself obvious to me, and so I continued my tour of the area, and the last couple historical markers.  I'm pleased to say that at one of the markers, my prayer stick was still there, the feathers blowing gently in the breeze.  Thank you, to all the people who saw it, and left it there.

So, as the day was starting to draw towards evening, I finally turned once again into Blackhawk Park, to reach and visit the very last of the Black Hawk Trail markers, even though this was not where Black Hawk himself ended his trail.  We drove slowly down the road, reaching the place where the raging river had prevented our passing earlier this year.  Though the water was gone, flowing once again within its banks, the evidence of recent flooding was obvious and everywhere.  As we passed the place where we had before seen a great blue heron fishing on the road, there was once again a tingling sense that overtook me, starting at the back of my neck.  I was here.  I was there. I was then.

The road through the park is long, and winding, and though it was obvious that the water never would have been any deeper than one or two feet, had we decided to wade along the road earlier in the year, the river could not be trusted.  There were places where whole trees, liberated by the flood waters, had washed across the road, crashing into and sometimes leveling the structures and obstacles in their path.  And then, suddenly, we were there.  A parking lot full of cars, and just a little northwest of where we parked, the last of the C.V. Porter Black Hawk Trail markers stood covered by its tiny shelter, telling a story of long ago on the evening of August 1, 1832.  With 62 carefully crafted words, Porter paints a portrait of brutal murder, intentionally or otherwise giving the false impression that the great Sac warrior's life ended on the shores of the nearby island.

I stood, facing the sign, and for the very first time on this journey, my heart was not filled with the heaviness of those dreadful events of the past.  I was saddened, certainly, as anyone would be reading about the needless slaughter of 22 people, and more so knowing that the figure was only a fraction of the final tally, but something else was there.  As I looked around, I saw people fishing, laughing, laying on the beach and wading in the water.  Some people were putting up a tent, in preparation for events scheduled the next day.  What I felt - the thing that had been missing all along my journey - was happiness and peace.  This was no longer a place filled only with the memory of great tragedy and bad energy.  The healing had started, and the celebration had begun.  I knew that there were many people, Natives like myself and others, who had come to this place to perform healing ceremonies, and to work with the spirits of the dead.  With a sudden lifting of my soul I reached out to touch the air around me, and feel the calming effect of the sun and the water, the earth and the sky coming together in this one place to draw joy like a magnet.  The very earth was using its powers to draw positive energy to this place and heal itself.  I could feel the effect washing over me like the fragrance of apple blossoms.  I walked to the edge of the river and placed my staff in the healing waters.

Makataimeshekiakiak - I have followed your footsteps to the edge of the great river. You have taught me many things along the way, and I am grateful. I once believed that I was taking this journey to help lead your spirit home. Now I have discovered that all along the way it was you who was leading me to this place of healing, so that I could learn your story and spread your message of peace.

Today, on the eve of the blackest day in the history of your people, I feel the warmth of sunlight as it touches my skin and dances off the waves. I am surrounded by the gifts of nature, that bring to me the joy that your people and family once shared along these banks.

Tomorrow I will return, and I will mourn once more for your people, and I will offer my prayers and healing energies to this place, and I will call to them and honor their memory. And then I will begin my journey anew, and I will sing your song, and I will travel to Saukenuk along the river that was your home. Tomorrow I will dance once more. Ah-ho

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(Key Terms: Ma-Ka-Tai-Me-She-Kia-Kiak, Black Sparrow Hawk, Black Hawk, 1767, Saukenuk, Pyesa, Rock Island, Black Hawk’s Watch Tower, Black Hawk State Historic Site, Hauberg Museum, Sauk, Sac, Meskwaki, Fox, Rock River, Sinnissippi River, Mississippi River, War of 1812, British Band, Great Britain, Treaty of 1804, Treaties, Ceded Land, William Henry Harrison, Quashquame, Keokuk, Fort Armstrong, Samuel Whiteside, Black Hawk War of 1832, Black Hawk Conflict, Scalp, Great Sauk Trail, Black Hawk Trail, Prophetstown, Wabokieshiek, White Cloud, The Winnebago Prophet, Ne-o-po-pe, Dixon’s Ferry, Isaiah Stillman, The Battle of Stillman’s Run, Old Man’s Creek, Sycamore Creek, Abraham Lincoln, Chief Shabbona, Felix St. Vrain, Lake Koshkonong, Fort Koshkonong, Fort Atkinson, Henry Atkinson, Andrew Jackson, Lewis Cass, Winfield Scott, Chief Black Wolf, Henry Dodge, James Henry, White Crow, Rock River Rapids, The Four Lakes, Battle of Wisconsin Heights, Benjamin Franklin Smith, Wisconsin River, Kickapoo River, Soldier’s Grove, Steamboat Warrior, Steamship Warrior, Fort Crawford, Battle of Bad Axe, Bad Axe Massacre, Joseph M. Street, Antoine LeClaire, Native American, Indian, Michigan Territory, Indiana Territory, Louisiana Territory, Osage, Souix, Potawatomi, Ojibwe, Ottawa, Ho-Chunk)

Section 3 - The Journey Home

The Journey Home - Introduction

August 1 2014

Imagine yourself standing on top of a very high hill, above the tree line.  You are far from any source of light, or any sign of humanity.  It is the very darkest time of the night, and both the sun and moon have long sunk below the far distant but still visible western horizon.  The air is cool, but it is pleasant.  The fragrance of pine fills your nose, tinged with something wild that you cannot name.   Above you is an unbroken expanse filled with stars - an eternity of emptiness and power - a void filled with unimaginable greatness.  At your feet are the grains of soil that cover the solid mantle of the earth.  You are touching the soil, and the air, and you are an integral part of the universe.

Now sit back in your chair, your back straight and your body relaxed - balanced on the axis of your spine but not rigid.  Take several long, slow breaths in through your nose, and out through your mouth.  Feel your neck and shoulders begin to relax.  Now close your eyes and keep breathing until you can feel the night air on your skin, and hear the whisper of the wilderness that surrounds you. 

Now imagine yourself as one, tiny, quiet drop of water in a large, still pond.  You are not moving, and yet you are connected to all that surrounds you.  Gently, slowly, the sun rises and begins to warm you, charging the hidden strength within.  The air above you begins to flow, and inexorably you are awakened, and begin to stir with life, in perfect harmony with all that surrounds you, a wave of perfect energy that flows through you, and beyond you, until the sun goes down, the waves diminish, and you are left silent and still, waiting for the next cycle of life to begin.

The sun rises because it is the nature of the sun to rise.  Water flows, and dances with the wind, because that is how it must be, and always will be.  The way things are is the way they have always been.  Time is like the energy that flows through the waves in open water.  One can measure the height and length of the waves, and ships may pass, but after time has passed by, water is still water.  Nothing has changed.

I am just beginning to grasp the concept of non-linear time.  It is that concept that enables me to stand in front of a tree and feel connected with all the events that have occurred since seed became leaf and branch.  It is that concept that helps me to understand that if I am connected with the earth and the sky, I am a part of everything that has ever happened, and everything that ever will happen.  It is that concept that leads me to walk in the footsteps of another, and give comfort where there is pain; to offer understanding where there is confusion; to offer love where there is only hatred.  It is that concept that convinces me it is never too late to do the right thing for a person, or a people. 

I didn't know what I was seeking when I started my journey.  In that way, I suppose, my mind was open for whatever gifts or wisdom awaited me, without expectation for the form they would take.  Along the way I have listened to the wind, and touched the stars.  I have dreamed of both past and future, and I have tasted both the sweetness and bitter agony that life has to offer.  As I write these last few posts, I will try to share some of what I have learned.  My first lesson is that it matters.  It matters what happened 200 years ago.  It matters because the ripples of those events linger today in the hearts and minds of the descendants of those who were involved.  It matters how I react to those events, because whatever I do is felt by those around me, like birds in a flock or drops in the ocean.  I cannot act or even think without affecting those around me.  And the things I do and say will go on forever, echoing in the corners of our universe.

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(Key Terms: Ma-Ka-Tai-Me-She-Kia-Kiak, Black Sparrow Hawk, Black Hawk, 1767, Saukenuk, Pyesa, Rock Island, Black Hawk’s Watch Tower, Black Hawk State Historic Site, Hauberg Museum, Sauk, Sac, Meskwaki, Fox, Rock River, Sinnissippi River, Mississippi River, War of 1812, British Band, Great Britain, Treaty of 1804, Treaties, Ceded Land, William Henry Harrison, Quashquame, Keokuk, Fort Armstrong, Samuel Whiteside, Black Hawk War of 1832, Black Hawk Conflict, Scalp, Great Sauk Trail, Black Hawk Trail, Prophetstown, Wabokieshiek, White Cloud, The Winnebago Prophet, Ne-o-po-pe, Dixon’s Ferry, Isaiah Stillman, The Battle of Stillman’s Run, Old Man’s Creek, Sycamore Creek, Abraham Lincoln, Chief Shabbona, Felix St. Vrain, Lake Koshkonong, Fort Koshkonong, Fort Atkinson, Henry Atkinson, Andrew Jackson, Lewis Cass, Winfield Scott, Chief Black Wolf, Henry Dodge, James Henry, White Crow, Rock River Rapids, The Four Lakes, Battle of Wisconsin Heights, Benjamin Franklin Smith, Wisconsin River, Kickapoo River, Soldier’s Grove, Steamboat Warrior, Steamship Warrior, Fort Crawford, Battle of Bad Axe, Bad Axe Massacre, Joseph M. Street, Antoine LeClaire, Native American, Indian, Michigan Territory, Indiana Territory, Louisiana Territory, Osage, Souix, Potawatomi, Ojibwe, Ottawa, Ho-Chunk)