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It was back in the autumn of 1774. Out in the open fields near the Mississippi River, in what we now call Ohio, two men were walking together, deep in conversation—one a Native American, the other a white man.
The Native American was Chief Logan, leader of the Mingo people. The white man was General John Gibson, who had been sent by the Governor of Virginia, Lord Dunmore, to bring the tribal chief to peace negotiations.
When the two men reached the edge of the woods, they stopped. Chief Logan spoke his message to the General in his own tongue (since the General actually understood the language well enough to follow along):
He turned down the invitation to the peace talks, even while making it very clear how much he actually wanted peace.
General Gibson headed back to the settlement and delivered Logan's message to the Governor:
***
"I challenge any white man to say they ever entered Logan's cabin without being offered food; or that they came to him freezing and hungry without being offered clothing.
Throughout that last long, bloody war, Logan stayed right in his cabin—he was always an advocate for peace. I was so fond of the white settlers that my own people used to point at me as I passed by and say, 'Logan is a friend to the whites.'
I even thought about living among you—if it hadn't been for the injustice caused by one man.
Colonel Cresap ruthlessly slaughtered Logan's entire kin, showing no mercy even to my wife and children.
Not a single drop of Logan's blood flows anymore, nor does the blood of any living soul.
That is what drove me to vengeance; I sought it out, I killed many, and there has been plenty of revenge.
It brings me joy to see peace becoming likely for my land. But don't go thinking my joy comes from fear. Logan never felt fear. He doesn't just run away to save his skin.
Who else is going to mourn Logan?
No one."
The President in Washington is sending word that he wants to buy our land. But how on earth do you buy or sell the sky or the warmth of the soil? It’s just not how things work for us. If we don't even own the freshness of the air or the clarity of the water, how could anyone possibly put a price tag on them?
Every tiny fragment of this country is a whole world to my people. Every shimmering pine needle, every grain of sand on a riverbank, every wisp of mist in the dark woods, even every little bug—it’s all sacred in our minds and our lived experience. Even the sap running through the trees is soaked with the memories of my people.
When pale ghosts pass away and wander among the stars, they tend to forget where they were born. But our dead never forget this beautiful land, because she is the mother of my people. We are part of the land, and the land is a part of us. The fragrant grasses are our sisters; the deer, the stallions, the great eagle—they are our brothers. The rocky peaks, the lush pastures, the warmth of a living body, and humanity itself—it’s all one big family.
When the Great Chief in Washington sends his voice out saying he wants to purchase our territory, he’s asking way too much of us. He tells us he’ll find us a nice place to live, acting like a father providing for his children. We’ll take your offer to buy our land under consideration, I suppose. But let me tell you, it won't be easy. This land is sacred to us.
This bright water rushing over rapids and through rivers isn't just H2O; it's the lifeblood of our ancestors. If we ever did sell this land, you’d have to remember that this water is holy. You’d have to teach your kids that it’s sacred—that every single reflection in a clear lake tells a story from the lives of my people. The babbling of the water is the voice of a father, my father. These rivers are our brothers; they quench our thirst. They carry our canoes and feed our children. If we sell you this land, you have to remember and teach your children that these rivers belong to us, but they belong to you, too. They are your brothers. So, you better treat these waters with the same kindness you'd show a sibling.
We know that the white man just doesn't get it. To him, this place is no different than any other patch of dirt. He’s a stranger who rolls in at night and strips the land of everything he can grab. To him, the earth isn't a brother; it’s an adversary to be conquered, and once he’s done, he just moves on. He leaves the graves of his fathers in his wake without a second thought. He takes the land away from his own children and doesn't even blink.
The graves of his fathers and the very soil that births his children—it all gets forgotten. Toward the Mother—the Earth—and toward the Brother—the Sky—he acts like they are mere commodities to be looted or sold off like cattle or flashy jewelry. His greed is going to wreck this land and leave nothing behind but a wasteland.
I don't know. Our way of life is just... different from yours. Looking at your cities makes my eyes ache. Maybe that's because my people are wild and don't see things your way. In those white man's cities, there isn't a single quiet corner. There’s nowhere to hear the leaves unfurling in the spring or the flutter of an insect's wings. Maybe it’s because I’m "wild"—I just don't grasp it. The noise hurts my ears. What’s the point of living if you can't hear the lonely cry of a mountain goat or the nightly chatter of frogs in the marsh? I'm a simple man, and I don't understand much... I just love the soft sound of the wind playing over the swamp and the scent of a breeze freshened by midday pine. The greatest treasure my people have is the air. Everyone shares the same life, the same trees, the same animals. We all need that same breath. It’s like the white man doesn't even notice the air he's breathing. He’s like someone near death who’s become numb to the smell. If we sell you this land, you have to remember that the air is precious to us—that the air shares its spirit with every living thing. The wind that gave my grandfather his first breath will also carry his last. If we sell this land to you, you have to protect it like a sanctuary, a place where even a white man can come to catch a breath of wind sweetened by the scent of wildflowers.
We’ll think over your offer to buy the land. And if we decide to say yes, I’m going to insist on one condition:
The white man must treat the animals of this country just like his own brothers. I’m a wild man, and I don't understand any other way of living. I’ve seen thousands of buffalo left scattered across the prairies by those pale men, gunned down from their speeding trains. I may be "wild," but I don't understand how a smoking iron horse can be worth more than the buffalo, which we only hunt to stay alive.
What is a person without the animals? If they were to vanish, we’d all just wither away from a profound loneliness of the soul. Whatever happens to the wildlife, humanity isn't far behind. Everything in this world is tied together.
You’ve got to teach your kids that the very ground beneath their feet is built from the ashes of our grandfathers. To truly respect the land, you have to show them that it’s teeming with the life of those who came before us.
You need to pass down the same lesson we teach ours: that the earth is our mother. When the land suffers, her children suffer right along with it. If a person spits on the ground, they’re really just spitting on themselves.
We don't own the land; the land owns us. We know that deep down. Everything is interconnected, much like how a family is bound by blood. We aren't the weavers of the fabric of life—we’re just one single thread within it. Whatever you do to the fabric, you're doing to yourself.
Even the white man, whose God walks beside him and speaks to him like a close friend, won't be able to dodge our shared fate. Maybe we are brothers after all. We'll see.
There is one thing we know for certain, and it's something the white man will eventually have to face: our God is the same God. You might think you can possess Him, just like you're preparing to take all of our land. But you won't! He belongs to all people, and His grace is given equally to both the red man and the white man. This land means everything to Him. To desecrate it is the same as insulting its Creator. The white people will fade away; perhaps even sooner than the other tribes.
We can't wrap our heads around why the buffalo are being slaughtered, why the wild horses are being broken, why there's so much human scent lingering in the depths of the forest, or why the view of those green hills is being torn apart by barbed wire.
Where did the thickets go? They're gone.
And where is the eagle?
Gone.
So, what does it mean to say goodbye to the swift pony and the hunt?
It's the end of living and the beginning of just surviving.
When the last red man vanishes along with his wilderness, and his memory becomes nothing more than a passing cloud shadow over the prairie, will these shores and forests still remain? Will any spirit of my people linger here?
We love this land the way a newborn baby loves the beat of its mother's heart. So, if we sell our land to you, love it the way we loved it. Take care of it the way we took care of it. Hold onto the memory of what this land was when you first received it. Protect it for all the children, and love it as God loves us all.
As we part ways with this land, remember that you are also a part of it. This earth is dear and precious to us, and it should be just as precious to you. We know one thing for sure: there is only one God. No man, whether he is red or white, can ever truly be separated. We are brothers at the end of it all.
by Chief Seattle
Wiwanyanka Wacipi
A TRIBUTE TO LEONARD PELTIER
by Coyote Red Hawk
Hawk There is an INNOCENT man in Kansas in PRISON.
He’s been stuck in this iron cage for over two decades now.
Despite everything, this man remains unshakable in his wisdom.
Even though the conditions he’s living in wouldn't be fit for a mouse.
Do you even know who he is? Does his name ring a bell?
Do you sit your kids down and tell them the story of this man?
His legacy isn't built on movie stardom or piles of gold,
It’s not found in violence, and it certainly wasn't bought or sold.
His greatness comes from his unwavering faith in his people and the land.
It’s time we reach out and take Leonard Peltier's hand in solidarity.
We need to pull together and demand justice right now.
We need to turn to God and ask for guidance on how to make this happen.
If we actually unite, we can stand as one single force, and
our voices will finally be heard before the sun sets on us all.
So, I’m asking you today—stand with me.
Maybe by tomorrow at dawn, Leonard could finally be free.
🙂
hiddenpuma75 said:...
the world would be a much more harmonious place
...
Even though this feels like it belongs in one of those old Sufi parables, here goes nothing:
There was once this guy, Hadschdschadsch, a tyrannical governor ruling over both Iraq and Syria, who asked a local dervish to recommend a piece of wisdom that would please God and benefit both him and his people.
The wise man simply advised him to sleep until noon every single day!
Caught totally off guard, the governor replied, "I had no idea God was such a fan of sleeping in. Where on earth is that written? I need to see the source!"
The man replied, "If you sleep until midday, you leave yourself only half a day to commit sins, and your poor people get at least half a day of peace!"
In that spirit—goodnight, everyone. 🙂
Well, there it is. The damage is done. We went ahead and took a bite of that forbidden fruit, didn't we? There’s no undoing it now.
And just like that, the warm, living pulse of reason basically turned into ice.
It’s funny how things work out sometimes. You think you have this massive, overwhelming force in front of you—something huge and blinding, like the sun of Adam—and then suddenly, this tiny, insignificant little grain of wheat just rolls in and eclipses the whole thing. It’s wild, really. Just one small thing completely changing your entire perspective on what's actually standing in front of you.
It’s just like as The Dragon's tail dulls The brightness of The moon.Maulana Jallaludin Rumi Maulana Jallaludin Rumi: Masnavi I Ma'nav *** Quote
***
beeli said:Hey, Jason Johnson4. Since I actually dig your writing style, I’ve gotta ask—where are you pulling all this from? Is it just hands-on experience, or do you have a specific reading list you swear by? I’d love to at least become well-read on the subject, if not go a bit deeper.
Well... I have to say, hearing something like that actually makes my day.
Look, I’ve definitely had my fair share of run-ins with the deep end. Honestly, I usually prefer to just sit on the sidelines and stay out of these debates entirely, but I feel like I have some skin in the game here. Not all of my past experiments were exactly what you'd call "recommended," if you catch my drift, but I know exactly what kind of demons I was dancing with back then. I was already on very familiar terms with them.
Just to be crystal clear: this isn't some kind of recommendation or an invitation to go out and start using similar substances.
Look, the thing is, most people just won't admit to themselves that they aren't actually ready for that kind of experience. They fall into this trap of thinking, "Well, if everyone else can handle it, I definitely can too." Then, once things get heavy, they swear they’re "expanding their minds," only to end up cursing plain old marijuana because they couldn't handle the ride.
I mean, honestly, the alpha and omega of any experience with—even the most mellow psychoactive substances—is Leary’s whole postulate regarding SET and SETTING. But does anyone actually stop to think about them? Seriously, lay it on me, give me some guidance so I can actually fly instead of crashing. If people just paid a little more attention to their set (you know, their headspace right before and after they take something) and their setting (the actual environment they're in), there would be so much less paranoia and that weird, heavy lethargy you get after hitting a bong or a joint. Heck, if they were careful, they might even avoid a total meltdown when dealing with something much heavier.
Anyway, back to the heavyweights:
I personally know a few people who are total Oedipus types. 🙄 I almost completely trashed my life plans... Honestly, that whole Oedipus thing—not even the Freud version, just the core concept—is this fundamental conflict that really shouldn't be hanging around when you're heading out on expeditions like this.
I've honestly had it up to here. Seriously, screw everything. 😁
I’ve actually "facilitated" a few mushroom-fueled DSL sessions myself—mostly because people kept asking me to, of course. And honestly? Not a single person had a massive meltdown. I just made sure to convince anyone who looked even slightly shaky that it was better to frame the whole experience as simple fragmentation and defragmentation. It keeps things manageable, you know?
***
Let's talk about literature.
I honestly don't even know where to start with recommendations—there's just way too much good stuff out there to pick just one thing.
Maybe start with Louis Lewin’s stuff on psychedelics. It’s pretty tough to track down, but hey, if you're actually interested in diving deep and you happen to be fluent in German, I might be able to scan a PDF over to you one of these days... just let me know.
You know, I was just sitting here thinking about Aldous Huxley's *The Doors of Perception* and *Heaven & Hell*. It’s one of those books that really sticks in the back of your mind, isn't it? It makes you wonder about the way we perceive everything around us.
Then there’s MOKSHA, written by that same author.
So, I was diving back into some Stanislav Grof lately—you know how it goes, one minute you're looking for something specific and the next you're three hours deep into a rabbit hole. I ended up revisiting some of his stuff on LSD psychotherapy. It’s wild how much he pioneered in that space; he really laid the groundwork for understanding how those kinds of intense experiences can actually be used for healing rather than just being some chaotic trip. It’s heavy stuff, but incredibly fascinating.
If you're looking to get a real look under the hood of the human psyche, you should definitely check out that character analysis by Wilhelm Reich I mentioned earlier. It's worth the read.
Just a quick heads-up: you really ought to read Reich within a real-world context—something like David Boadella’s *The Life and Work of Wilhelm Reich*. If you don't, his whole set of theses and theories might end up sounding a little ridiculous or just plain unbelievable.Look, you have to understand that I’ve got a few secrets tucked away. They aren't exactly hidden—I mean, the books are out there for anyone to find if they bother looking—but I'm not about to just drop their titles on you right here.
Honestly, most of this stuff was already covered back when I was studying under my old mentor:
Dostoevsky. 🙏 🙏 🙏 🙏
***
Best of luck out there—and seriously, keep your eyes peeled. You never know when things might get a little dicey.
shadowgardener12 said:Come on, man, please explain how psychedelics actually work—on both a psychological and physiological level.
If you’re talking about drugs, I have to tell you that they destabilize the personality; they suppress and distort (even more than just ordinary reality) our original impulses, create mental gloom, and ruthlessly drain your energy.
In exchange, they might give you a "peak experience," which just fuels the illusion of gaining energy, but the actual energy loss is massive due to those effects mentioned above; plus, it increases your attachment to whatever random things surface from the subconscious (without any real understanding of your primary impulses).
Shadowgardener12, look, I'm no expert capable of giving you a concise breakdown of how psychedelics function... I mean, I could try, but honestly, you'd be better off looking into some professionals for that.
You claim that "drugs" destabilize personality. That isn't quite right. It might be more accurate to say they temporarily strip away certain filters:
* A first attempt (semi-scientific): 😉
1 - For an individual to exist independently within an environment and communicate with others, they have to be able to separate their "SELF" from their surroundings (both physically and psychologically).
2 - Furthermore, they have to take the flood of optical, acoustic, and other stimuli and, by comparing them to previous stimuli (or info from memory and the subconscious), filter and interpret them before letting them in—but doing it just enough so they can still function normally.
It seems the thalamus—basically the "gatekeeper to the cerebral cortex"—plays the decisive role here.
Sensory information (from the eyes, ears, etc.) travels through the thalamus to reach the cerebral cortex,
where it gets decoded and then PROJECTED BACK to the thalamus (a feedback loop)
so the thalamus can feed it back into that strange loop known as the CSTC (cortico-striato-thalamo-cortical) circuit.
This mechanism protects the brain from being overwhelmed by external stimuli, as the information projected back to the thalamus regulates how much new incoming information is let in (a negative feedback loop on the thalamus filter).
This is
just a model based on the idea that psychedelic states of consciousness are products of misinterpreted internal and external patterns of stimuli.
Under this model, psilocybin or LSD, which possess structures similar to serotonin, mimic serotonin and thereby activate specific serotonergic receptors on the nerve cells of the thalamus and other parts of the brain.
So, after taking a psychedelic, the CSTC mechanism is temporarily disconnected, and the thalamic filter is left wide open—which leads to a flood of stimuli:
information is no longer constantly interpreted, leading to a fundamental shift in the perception of the SELF and the environment. In extreme cases, the brain (the body) experiences the world as a series of independent images with altered meanings—or as one fluid whole, a constant stream of visions.
***
Psychedelic substances (agents) like LSD create a dreamlike state while maintaining clear consciousness and exceptional memory recall: events buried deep in the subconscious are transported to the surface—they become conscious.
Activated subconscious conflicts are suddenly laid out on a platter, waiting for psychotherapeutic processing.
Internal defense structures collapse like houses of cards, and that's exactly why I believe such powerful psychoactive agents shouldn't just be banned outright.
In short, we aren't talking about
treating people with psychedelics, but rather about the
instrumental use of psychedelics. Just like you'd use a microscope or an endoscope, except here, it's an instrument for exploring the psyche.
If you have experiences that aren't actually integrated into long-term psychotherapy (or handled through some mystical or religious lens), they’re pretty much worthless. They just vanish—poof—like a dream you forget the second you wake up or a patch of morning fog burning off...
But clearly, even having an honest conversation about this rubs someone (specifically 🙂) the wrong way. I guess it touches a nerve. When you look at public research in this field, it doesn't just crack open a patient's psyche; it provides a massive amount of data that makes it so much easier to decode
history—both the stuff happening inside us and the world around us.
Anyway, thanks for reading, and sorry if I'm rambling a bit too much here. 🙂
Every day, I see patterns hidden in the roots and the branches. I read the messages written in the stones. I pay them special attention because I am yuwipi, and that’s just part of my work. But I’m certainly not the only one; plenty of Americans do the same thing. Rock—the great mass—is sacred. Every person needs a stone to guide them. There are two kinds of pebbles used for medicine: some feel cold as ice, while others are just ordinary stones that you seek out because their shape is unique. You pray to the rocks when you’ve lost something and need to find it, or when you need a heads-up about an enemy or a stroke of bad luck. For the winds, we use raven symbols and tiny egg-shaped pebbles. Rock-sha—the heart stone for the pipe—is probably the most sacred of all; its deep red color is the very embodiment of our people's blood.
Back in the old days, we had many stones painted and adorned with feathers; we used them as altars for prayer. Sometimes, a dog would even be sacrificed for such a stone. Up north in Montana, near the town of Busby, there’s this massive rock formation. We call it Deer Rock Medicine. It’s huge, big enough to climb right to the top. It’s covered in carvings of people, animals, and abstract shapes like rings, spirals, and zig-zags. Some are painted, others are etched deep. The lines overlap constantly because every generation of Americans has come to leave their own mark on that stone.
Just before the battle where the Little Bighorn Sioux and the Cheyenne performed the Sun Dance at Deer Rock Medicine, Sitting Bull offered up a hundred small pieces of meat from his hand and received a vision. He saw “many white soldiers falling backward in camp”—which was the omen of Custer's defeat. Whenever I’m out in Montana and get the chance, I head out to Deer Rock Medicine to pray. It sits right in the middle of some rancher's pasture. He’s actually a pretty decent guy, that rancher. He always swings the gate open for us and invites us in. Honestly, I think he finds it a little hilarious when a group of Americans just rolls up onto his land.
The rock fits perfectly into our world of symbols; it is round and without end. All round things pull toward one another, much like wagmuha—that sacred gourd rattle filled with 405 tiny pebbles gathered from an anthill.
Those pebbles are small and unassuming, but they house a special spirit. Wakan Tanka breathed that spirit into them. Tunkan would be the "god of stone" in your language, though he is also a part of the Great Spirit. Gods and spirits are distinct beings, yet they are all unified within Wakan Tanka. It’s a tough concept to wrap your head around, sort of like the Holy Trinity. It’s impossible to explain without going back to the idea of circles within circles: the spirit divides itself into the rocks, the trees, and the tiny insects, making them part of the WAKAN presence. This endless array of things that make up the universe eventually flows back to the source, uniting once again in the Grandfather Spirit.
I believe Tunkan—the stone god—is the oldest of them all because he is the hardest. He symbolizes creation—you know, like the masculine essence. Hard, upright, ready—shaped like spearheads or spring arrows.
Inyan Wasicun Wakan—the sacred-white-man-stone—is what we call Moses. We really like him. He climbs the mountain by himself just to seek a vision, to be alone with his God who speaks to him through fire, thunder, and stone. That Moses, when he finally descends the hill clutching stone tablets—slabs etched with markings—he could honestly be a pretty good American medicine man.
Tunkan, the spirit of stone; Wakinyan, the spirit of thunder; Taskuskanska, the moving spirit; Unktehi, the spirit of water—they are all wakan; mysterious, miraculous, incomprehensible, and sacred. They all belong to the Great Mystery. These are our four supernatural forces, which leads us to the next layer of symbolism: the incredible power of numbers, a concept we share with many other nations.
“Four” is the most sacred number. Four represents Tatuye Topa—the four corners of the earth. One of the primary symbols is the Umane, and it looks like this (check the attachment (15))
It represents the untapped forces of this earth. What I mean is that the Great Spirit endowed all things—pebbles, ants, leaves, tornadoes, whatever you can imagine—with an infinite, unimaginable amount of power. Yet, there is always a reserve of unused strength left over, a surplus of energy offered to us that a person must use wisely and with deep thought.
This kind of power is really best captured by... Humanity.Back in the old days, whenever we had a significant event happening on this earth, we’d set up a sacred altar. That spot was so incredibly wakan that you wouldn't even dare touch it—you wouldn't even let your hand hover over it. Even today, we still make altars like that, say for our yuwipi ceremony: just a mound of earth, decorated with tobacco, ribbons, and flags.
The number four just has this weight to it, you know? It’s everywhere—the four winds, the four corners of the world, even that whole cross symbol. It feels fundamental.
The medicine bag holds some pretty massive secrets—we're talking four sets of four things in there. UntekhiWater is the soul of everything—it’s what breathed life into this land and everyone living on it. It all starts with water. Untekhi handed us this bag filled with pure wonders. Inside, there were symbols for every corner of existence: swan feathers for the world of birds, bison hair for the four-legged creatures, grass for all the plants, and bark and roots for the trees. The bundle holds four different bird feathers, four different animal hides, four different plants, and four stones.
There are four fundamental elements that make up the universe: earth, air, water, and fire. Among the Little Bighorn Sioux, we talk about four core virtues a person needs to carry themselves with dignity: courage, freedom, perseverance, and wisdom. For a woman, those pillars shift slightly to courage, freedom, honesty, and fertility.
We Sioux folks do just about everything with the number four. When we’re sitting around smoking a pipe, we take four puffs. For those of us in the Native American Church, during our prayer nights, we take four spoonfuls of peyote, four times over. Even in the bathhouse, we pour water over the sacred stone four times. And when someone goes out on a vision quest, they head out for four full nights— I don't know what to tell you, folks. I'm just sitting here thinking about how things used to be versus how they are now. It’s a lot to process.Before any major ceremonies kick off, the men stay clear of the women for four days straight. On the flip side, the women make sure to steer clear of the men's camp for those same four days when things are underway. I can't quite make heads or tails of that one. What are we talking about? Give me a little more to go on! It’s happened when they’re on their period—or right after they give birth. Honestly, it’s been that way for a long, long time.
Seven is also a sacred number—it represents the seven council fires of the Sioux people, their seven holy rituals, and the seven groups that make up the Teton Sioux. But even then, four feels more deeply Wakan to me. It’s a constant in our ceremonies; we always use ribbons in those four specific colors. Honestly, it always brings my mind back to the symbolism of the colors themselves.
Black stands for the West, red for the North, yellow for the East, and white for the South. Black represents the night, the darkness, the secrets, and the sun once it’s finally dipped below the horizon. Red is the earth, the stone used for a pipe, and the blood in our veins. Yellow is that morning sun rising in the East to wake up the world. White is the snow, or that blinding glare of the sun when it hits its peak at high noon. Red, white, black, and yellow—those are the colors. Colors.Think of it this way: one name gives us four directions. You could say they’re actually pointing us toward the right path for our prayers. And if that doesn't grab you, there's another reason why those colors fascinate us so much—they represent the idea of all humanity coming together as one. Black, red, yellow, and white.
Words are more than just sounds; they’re symbols that carry real weight, especially when it comes to names. Now, I’m not talking about names like Charles, Dick, or George—there isn't exactly much magic tucked away in those. But names like Red Cloud, Black Elk, Whirlwind, Two Moons, or Jason Johnson4? Those are different. Those names are tied directly to God. Behind every one of those names lies a whole saga—a vision, a quest, a deep search for dreams. A name's origin is a wellspring of blessings; it’s what bridges the gap between us and the natural world and the animal nations. It grants us power. You can lean on a name like that and draw true strength from it. Your name is something sacred, something uniquely yours. And I mean that—not your run-of-the-mill names like Dick, George, or Charles.
To outsiders, the history behind an American Indian name is usually a total mystery. You really have to sit down and explain the context first. Take our Great Chief, Man-Afraid-Of-His-Horse, for example. If you just hear that in English, it sounds a little ridiculous, right? Like a joke. But here’s the thing: "Man-Afraid" once led every single warrior into battle, and his enemies were so terrified they fled the moment they saw him coming. A medicine man wanted to honor him for that, so he gifted him that specific name. What it actually translates to is: He is so incredibly brave that his enemies are struck with fear the second they spot his horse—even if he isn't even riding it at the time. It’s a powerhouse of a name. He had to live up to that every single day.
Beyond the names everyone knows us by, there are other names—secret ones that you just don't go shouting around in public. That second name is meant to carry luck and a long life with it. Sometimes a grandfather or a medicine man will pass a secret name down to a child, but honestly, it’s always better when you're guided by it from the start. winkte.
Winkte It’s about those men who dress like women, look like women, and carry themselves just like women. Whether it’s a conscious choice to live that way or they're simply chasing a dream, they aren't like the rest of us. It's just how God made them. winkte—and we knew exactly who they were. They usually have this knack for seeing what’s coming, and the names a winkte gives a child are considered powerful and effective. Back in the day, fathers used to trade off some fine horses to the winkte in return.
To white people, symbols are just things you guess at, little mental games to pass the time. For us, they are so much more than that. Life itself is a symbol you have to actually live out. See how I’m scattering this red earth across the floor? I press it down with my palm and smooth it out using an eagle feather. With my finger, I’m tracing an endless line. Within this circle, you can see a human face. That’s me. But at the same time, it’s a spirit. Four horns grow from the head, representing the four winds. At the tips, they split—into one good part and one bad part. That dark side, well, it could be used to take someone's life. If you look closely at this infinite figure, you’ll also spot a crescent moon. I’m tapping twenty-four dots around the circle with my thumb. Those 24 points represent the 24 medicine men I’ve been told I must train. So far, there have been eighteen. One wise old woman once told me that I’ll pass away the moment I finish training the twenty-fourth. You can probably imagine I’m in no particular rush to reach that number. Take a good look at my drawing. It’s a spiritual sign that demands some real thought.
Those 24 dots also stand for the four directions of the universe—four points each for North, East, West, and South—plus the sky above us and the earth beneath our feet. I’m turning the Lulu in all six directions. Now, we are one with the universe, with every living thing; we are parts of the infinite circle. It means we were here long before the white man arrived, that we are still here, and that we will remain here until the end of time—on Indian time.
We shall live!
Let’s light it now.
He-hetchetu