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| "Crazy Horse," by Mario Torero |
Perhaps, I've always known.
My psyche has certainly been talking ever since I was a little girl. Even then, my subconscious, dream life was potent, vivid and filled with re-occurring images, such as a home that I always returned to, with secret doors, hidden passageways and dead ancestors; a turbulent ocean that I had to fight, tooth and nail, just to arrive, exhausted and spent, upon a washed up shore; and crumbling cliffs from which I would fall great heights, only to land upon hard ground, get up again, and repeat the process.
As I grew through the difficulties of being only and ever this - human - my gift for listening faded like a yellow Bermuda Buttercup in the heat of a summer's sun. The onslaught of popular culture attacked my sense of well-being, encouraging within me a gross desire to fit in, to be liked and to not be "different" from my peers around me. The voices of right and wrong, of who's who and what's what, began competing for my attention, snuffing out the echoing calls of timeless ancestry that had surged up and flowed from the deep pits of my bodymind and soulspirit.
In college, I had to be re-taught how to listen - how to tune out the chatter of that endless monkey mind that wants to jump up and grab at every offering of a sound; how to empty my brain, like a blank canvas once again, so that I can be fully present to what is being shared; and how to recall key words, once it is my turn to speak, for continuing the thread of conversation. Today, I discover great joy in simply be-ing with others, in listening to our shared story - or some semblance of it. For I no longer believe in coincidence - there is great meaning found underneath any rock so long as I take the time to stop
and notice.
So, last week, Dad brought up Crazy Horse and I listened. He spoke of Custer and connection and, if you know us Cadwallader's then you know we got something about this letter 'C' (community, contact, communication, cooperation - the list goes on). One week later and one of my main men carried his paintings in through our Hive's doors. He unrolled and unveiled, "Crazy Horse." Synchronicity, indeed!
What's it to mean?
Who's to know?
Though, last night, while walking through Florida Canyon, on my way up to a local shaman's home in University Heights, a white owl flew overhead. Upon my arrival, I was presented with a plate of locally-grown and organic food. I had been invited in to bear witness to the story of a visionary leader who is committed to preserving the traditions and values of a native way of life as it is found in the Amazon. I glimpsed images of painted faces. I giggled at hand-crafted, emotive masks and I stroked the fur of pure, animal magnetism.
Dear God, I hear you.
I am listening...
