Crow Forest

Returning to the United States of Advertising (USA) after centuries on the ground he sat down in a Crow cabin on 8,000 year old Kalapuya Indian ceremonial ground. He had a maul, a hatchet, and a double bladed axe named Laughter.

He lived inside shifting forest tides, buried beneath stoic 150 foot tall Douglas firs waving in wind, with a Fischer stove and the chopping. He worked in a room bathed in light.

The blade, edge, swinging weight, slicing through old growth, tree time rings; ferns, moss, rain, falling ladders, outhouse and the Afghan girl’s piercing green eyed image from 1984 on his wall.

Her eyes followed him everywhere.

Where he sat down spinning out his tales of control and approval ratings weaving spider webs on a loom of time. Where he rearranged mirrors to reflect everything.

He carried Omar’s palimpsest through the forest. It was a bird song, thrill immediate spring music, owls, ravens, crows, vultures circling on thermals, wild deer, ancient wisdom, shamanic visions of clarity insight and wisdom. The book gathered and collected bark leaves. A fabric of moss singing to him.

He established his refuge from the storm with simplicity, serenity and sanctuary. He lived on the edge finding shelter inside a bird’s song. He trimmed cuticles into air seeing them spiral into spring. It snowed flowers.

He looked deep into the forest of the mysterious manuscript. It was true and filled with sensory details.

He connected his narrative with Omar’s animal skins; tales, adventures, trials, tribulations, dreams, nightmares, conversations, explorations, discoveries and boredom mixed with excitement, wonder, suffering and healing energies.

People wondered and wandered, chained to the earth to pay for the freedom of their eyes. They saw through their eyes not with their eyes.

“I am an old dialect of Kalapuya tribes. I respect the spirit energies. I hear with my eyes and see with my ears. I understand your love for the spirit power guardian. I am an ancestor speaking 300 languages from our history. Now only 150 dialects remain.

“A hunting gathering people, speaking Pentian, we numbered 3,000 in 1780. We believed in nature spirits, vision quests and guardian spirits. Our shamans, called, amp a lak ya taught us how seeking, finding and following one’s spirit or dream power and singing our song was essential in community.

“I speak in tongues, in ancient dialects about love. Dialects of ancestors who lived here for 8,000 years before where you are now. In the forest near the river all animal spirits welcome you with their love. They are manifestations of your being.

“I am blessed to welcome you here. You have walked along many paths of love to reach me.

“My dirt path is narrow and smooth in places, rocky in others. I am the soil under your feet. I feel your weight, your balance - your weakness and your strength. I hear your heart beating as my ancestors pounded their ceremonial drums. I feel the tremendous surging force of your breath extend into my forest. Wind accepts your breath.

“I am everything you see, smell, taste, touch and hear. I am the oak, the fir and pine trees spread like dreams upon your outer landscape. I am your inner landscape. I see you stand silent in the forest hearing trees nudge each other. “Look,” they say, “Someone has returned.”

“I love the way you absorb the song of brown body thrush collecting moss for a nest. I am the small brown bird saying hello. I am the sweet throated song you hear without listening. At night two owls sing their distant song and their music fills your ears with mystery and love.

“I am warm spring sun on your face filtered through leaves of time. I am the spider’s web dancing with diamond points of light. I am the rough fragile texture of bark you gently remove before connecting the edge of an ax with wood. You carry me through my forest, your flame creates heat of love. I am the taste of pitch on your lips, the odor of forest in your nostrils, filling your lungs. It is sweet.

“I am the cold rain and wet snow and hot sun and four seasons. I am yellow, purple, red, blue, orange flowers from brown earth.

Language cannot be separated from who you are and where you live.

“I say this so you will remember everything in this forest. I took care of this place and now your love has the responsibility.

“Respect and dignity with mindfulness.”