Ghost Dance: Behind the Facade of Normalcy

I was all alone on top of that hill. Just sitting there in my vision hole—this little pit dug right into the ridge. My hands were clamped tight around my knees, gripping them like crazy.

I watched Old Man River, the doctor who brought me up here, as he disappeared down into the valley. He looked like nothing more than a tiny black speck moving through the pines until, before long, he was gone from sight entirely.
It felt just like the ending of Ken Kesey’s ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest’…
So, there I was, left entirely to my own devices. Four days and four nights on this hilltop without a drop of water or a bite to eat, just waiting for him to come back and check on me.
You know, we Americans aren't really built like some of your typical suburban families—you know, the whole setup with a mom, a dad, two kids, and a babysitter glued to the TV while the parents are out at dinner.

American kids are never truly on their own. They’re constantly surrounded by grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and basically every relative you can think of, all playing with them, singing, and telling stories. Wherever the parents go, the kids are right there with them.

But right then, I was crouching in my vision hole, feeling completely, utterly alone for the first time in my life. I was sixteen years old, still carrying my childhood name, and—believe me when I tell you—I was terrified. It wasn't just the cold making me shiver. The nearest human being was miles away, and four days and four nights? That is a looooong time. But I knew one thing: once this was over, I wouldn't be a boy anymore. I’d be a man. I’d have my vision. I’d earn my adult name.

American men don't fear hunger, thirst, or solitude. And right then, I was only ninety-six hours away from finally becoming a man. The thought was comforting, much like the warmth of the star-patterned quilt Old Man River had draped over me to cover my nakedness. My grandmother had made it specifically for my first hanblechia, my very first vision quest. It was this beautiful, intricately decorated white quilt with a massive, colorful patchwork star. If wakan tanka, the Great Spirit, grants me a vision and the strength to become a healer, then this quilt will be my tool as I lead ceremonies. Even now, as an old man and a grandfather myself, I still have my grandmother's star quilt. I keep it safe; one day, I'll be laid to rest in it.

The medicine man left me a pipe of peace, along with a small pouch of kinnickinnick—our sacred tobacco made from red willow bark. This pipe was more than just a star-patterned blanket to me; it was my closest companion. For us, a pipe is like an open Bible. White people need a church, a priest, and all that prideful ceremony just to get into a prayerful state. There are always so many distractions: who else is sitting in the pew, whether anyone notices you’re even there, the paintings on the walls, the sermon, how much cash you should drop in the collection plate (or if the priest needs a new Lincoln Town Car), and whether you can even afford to be there at all. In our view, you can't really have a vision when you're juggling all that.

For us Americans, there’s just the pipe, the earth beneath us, and the wide-open sky. Spirit is everywhere. Sometimes it reveals itself through a living thing—a bird, the trees, or a rolling hill. Other times, it speaks through the desert, a stone, or even the water. The smoke from the pipe rises straight up toward the spirit world. It’s all a constant flow, up and down.
That power travels through the smoke, down the stem of the pipe, right to us. You feel that strength while holding it; it moves from the pipe directly into your body. It’s enough to make the hair on your neck stand up. This isn't just some trinket; this pipe is alive. When I smoke, I feel better; with its help, my fears just fade away.

As my fingers traced the head of the red stone pipe, the fear just vanished. This pipe belonged to my father, and before him, his father. One day, I’ll pass it down to my son, and then to my grandkids. As long as we hold onto the pipe, the Sioux will endure.

"As long as hearts beat, there will be the USA"—graffiti from the late '80s.

Touching the pipe like that, feeling how smooth it had become from years of use, I felt like my ancestors—the ones who carved this very thing—were right there with me on this hill, in the vision quest. I wasn't alone anymore.

Besides the pipe, the medicine man handed me a little gourd container. Inside were forty tiny, square bits of meat that my grandmother had carefully carved from her own arm using a razor blade. I just watched her the whole time; blood was streaming from her shoulder down to her elbow. She was incredibly precise with that razor, placing every single morsel onto a cloth, making sure not to lose a single scrap.

I can see how something like that would drive anthropologists absolutely ballistic. You can’t even imagine—centuries of tradition being carried out with a modern razor instead of a traditional stone knife. Honestly, though? I didn't care one bit. Someone I loved, someone precious to me, was enduring physical pain just for my sake, giving a piece of herself, a part of her very body, to help my prayers and strengthen my heart. How could I possibly feel afraid when there were so many people—both living and dead—standing right there on my side?

But there was one thing that kept gnawing at me. I wanted to become a medicine man, like those among the Sioux who possess the healing power passed down through generations. But being an American Indian, you don't learn the craft of a medicine man the way a white man studies medicine at some university. A spiritual guide from the tribal elders might teach you about plants or the exact mechanics of a ceremony—where things need to be placed, how every word and every movement carries its own specific, heavy significance. You can learn all of that—just like learning to spell or how to ride a horse. But if you strip those things away from the soul, they mean nothing. Without a vision and without true strength, all that technical knowledge is useless. It wouldn't make me a medicine man any more than memorizing a textbook would.

What happens if I fail? What if I don't receive a vision? Or what if I dream of thunder beings, or lightning strikes the hill? In that moment, I’d just be a heyoka—one of those "contrary" people, the wise fools who walk upside down, the clowns.

"You'll know if you're granted the power," my uncle Chest told me. "If you aren't, you won't try to lie to us or cheat our people. If you did, it would kill you, or someone close to you—someone you love."

Night fell. My head was still clear, and I felt a bit lightheaded from the first sweat lodge session I’d taken before climbing up the hill.
I’d never been in a sweat lodge before. I was sitting in a small, beehive-shaped structure made of willow branches and draped in blankets to trap the heat. Old Chest and three other men were in there with me. I sat with my back against the wall, trying to stay as far as possible from the glowing hot stones in the center.

When Chest poured water over the stones, a hissing cloud of white steam enveloped me, filling my lungs. For a second, I thought the heat was going to kill me, or burn my eyelids and face right off. But then, through the steam, I heard Chest singing. I figured, okay, maybe this isn't as bad as I thought. I didn't scream—*mitakuye oyasin*—all my ancestors! I didn't want to scare him into opening the lodge door and letting in the fresh air. I actually felt proud of myself for staying quiet. Then I heard him praying for me: "Sacred stones, we take your breath. It is the breath of life. Let this boy breathe it too. Let him grow strong."

The sweat lodge had prepared me for the vision quest. An hour later, my skin was still stinging. My brain felt completely empty. Maybe that was for the best—more room for new insights to move in.

Everything went dark on the hill. I knew, happy wi had finally come out—that nighttime sun we call the moon. I was squeezed tight into my little hole, unable to see a thing. The darkness wrapped around me like a heavy, lonely shroud. It felt like I’d been cut off from the rest of the world, maybe even from my own skin.

It started making me hear things inside my head. My mind drifted to my ancestors, those who had struggled right here on this very hill long before me. My family’s medicine men chose this spot as a sanctuary for meditation and vision quests back when they crossed through Missouri to hunt buffalo across the White River Land over twenty years ago. I figured I might actually feel them there, connected through the very earth I was pressed against. I could almost feel them moving into my body, swirling through my spirit and settling deep in my heart.

Then, sounds started bleeding through the gloom: the howling wind, the whispering trees, the raw voice of nature, animal calls, the screech of an owl. Suddenly, this overwhelming presence just hit me. Down here, cramped in my tiny little crevice with me, was this massive bird. Now, the hole was barely big enough for me to fit in—and I was a scrawny kid—but this huge bird was circling me as if it owned the entire sky. I could hear its cries, sometimes right in my ear, sometimes drifting far away. I could actually feel its feathers, its wings, brushing against my back and head. It was so intense I just couldn't take it anymore. I was shaking; I felt like my bones were turning to ice. I reached for my grandmother's medicine bag, the one with forty pieces of meat inside. It also had all those tiny little pebbles in it that she used to collect from anthills—you know, how ants gather them for reasons nobody really understands? People say those stones hold power. I shook the bag, and it made this soothing sound, like rain hitting a stone floor. It was talking to me, but it didn't do much to settle my nerves. I grabbed my pipe with my other hand and started singing, praying, "Tunkashil, Grandfather Duša, help me." But the song didn't work. I don't know what took hold of me, but I wasn't myself anymore. I just started sobbing. And even my voice sounded different—not mine. It sounded like an old man's voice; I didn't even recognize it. I found myself using ancient words in my prayers, words that aren't even spoken anymore. I tried to wipe the tears away, but they just kept coming. Eventually, I pulled my blanket tight and wrapped myself up completely, but I could still feel those wings brushing against me.

It was starting to sink in: there was this one voice trying to reach me. It sounded like a bird’s cry, but trust me, I was actually beginning to make sense of it. This kind of thing happens sometimes. I know a woman who once had a butterfly perched right on her shoulder—that butterfly told her everything she needed to know, and she went on to become a legendary healer.
I also heard a human voice, but it was at such an incredibly high pitch that it couldn't have possibly come from any normal person. Suddenly, I was up there with the birds. The vision hill sat high above everything else. I could look straight down toward the stars, with the moon hanging off to my left. It felt like the Earth and the stars were just swirling beneath me. Then, a voice spoke: "You are making this sacrifice here so you can become a medicine man. When the time comes, you will be one of us. You will teach others how to heal. We are the winged people—the eagles and the owls. We are one people, and you will be our brother. You will never harm or kill one of us. You'll understand our voices every single time you climb this hill seeking a vision. You will learn the secrets of plants and roots to heal the people, and you won't ask for anything in return. A person's life is short; make sure yours is at least worth something." I could tell these voices were good, and that fear just sort of drained out of me. I lost all sense of time. I didn't know if it was day or night. I was sleeping, yet somehow, I was wide awake. Then, a figure appeared in front of me. It rose out of the darkness and the swirling mist drifting into my hollow. I realized it was my great-grandfather, Tahca Ushte, Jason Johnson4, the old chief of the Sioux. I could see the blood flowing from my ancestor's chest, right where a white soldier had struck him. It hit me then—my grandfather wanted me to take his name. It filled me with this inexplicable, overwhelming joy.

We Sioux believe there is something inside us that guides us, something almost like a second person living within. We call it nagi, though others might call it a soul, a spirit, or an essence. You can't see it, feel it, or taste it, but during that journey on the hill—and only during that journey—I knew it was inside me. Then, I felt this surge of power. I can't quite put it into words, but it filled me to the core. Now, I was certain. I was going to become a wisaca wakan, a medicine man. I started crying again, but this time, it was out of pure happiness.

I had no idea how long I’d been up on that ridge—whether it had been a single minute or an entire lifetime. I felt a hand on my shoulder giving me a gentle shake. It was Old man Chest, coming to check on me. He told me I’d been in the vision hole for four days and four nights and that it was time to head down. He said he’d get me some food and water, and then I could tell him everything that happened during my hanblechia. He would help interpret my vision. He told me the ritual had changed me in ways I couldn't even grasp yet. He also said I wasn't a little boy anymore. I was a man. I was Jason Johnson4.

😉

😲
😎 😎 😎
Honestly, hats off to them...
😉

Total garbage 🙄

Kudos, honestly 🙂 🙂 🙂

it feels like this Christian guy is just being jealous 😁 😁

Solaris said:it feels like this Christian fellow is acting out of pure jealousy😁 😁

Honestly, he’s green with envy! 😁

As far as the topic goes: I found it quite charming 😲 😁

Solaris said:It feels like this Christian is just acting out of jealousy 😁 😁

What on earth are you tripping about? Did you smoke something crazy?🙂

Growing up, I read a ton about Native Americans. I always felt a real connection to them, and it honestly breaks my heart how brutally they were pushed out of their lands.

But, looking back, I can't help but think that maybe the tribes of the Great Plains should have tried to adapt to the new way of life more than trying to fight an uphill battle against overwhelming force. That resistance ended up costing them everything.

Old Man.

I’m with you on this one. Hats off to you!

Now, I know I might sound like some kind of ego-maniac giving myself a standing ovation, but appearances can be deceiving. You see...

That text above is actually the first chapter from the book Jason Johnson4: Seeker of which I personally—and admittedly, not very professionally—translated from Chinese.😉

What? 😕Copyright
etiquette?
😁 Oh, please, give me a break.

I figured it would serve as a solid intro to a topic I’ve been planning for a while now. My goal is to gradually introduce the customs and worldviews of other civilizations—things that feel foreign to us—while also exploring the life paths of some truly extraordinary people from our hemisphere... among many other things.

But for that to work, you guys—you stubborn types—really need to tilt your heads like a confused puppy when something doesn't click. You have to try reading more than just the literal words; you have to catch all those layers of subtext. What is he *actually* saying, and what does it mean for who he is? Then, connect all of that back to the main theme.

Of course, that’s only if you’re actually interested.

Is that a little clearer now?
Come on, do me a favor, and maybe one day we can all dance the dance of spirits
alongside the Witches and the prophets.
🙏

Jason Johnson4 said:It's all up to you, really. If that's what you want to do...

I'm on board. I'm actually really liking how this is starting out, so if you've got the drive, just keep it going... 🙂

Jack Harris3 said:I’m really digging how this starts. If you're up for it, please keep going. 🙂

You clearly care more about dancing with demons than facing the truth about Jesus.😁

Look, you already said you aren't interested, that this is all a waste of time, whatever. We get it, we heard you, we don't care... so you can just stop now. Goodbye. 🙂
Nobody is forcing you to read any of this, and if you think you're going to leave snarky comments like that under every single post, just know how I'm going to react... so save your breath. 🙂

Jason Johnson4 said:Come on, be reasonable, and maybe one day we can all dance the dance of spirits alongside the Witches and the prophets.

🙏

Thanks, but I’ll pass. 😛

Like I said before, I actually feel for the Native Americans. In my opinion, they shouldn't have tried to fight back against white colonization with force, even though it was incredibly brutal. I think their struggle stemmed from the fact that their religion was centered on idols, which led them astray in so many ways.

I'm not saying the white settlers weren't flawed too, but at that time, people were arriving in the USA fleeing persecution in Europe, and God had His own people established in these lands.

The Native Americans really should have embraced true Christianity, which was already present in this region—unlike in Latin America.

Jack Harris3, your writing isn't quite hitting the mark for me, but there's definitely room for discussion here. 🙂

You’re missing one small detail here... from what I gather, the author isn't trying to tear down Native American beliefs just to push Christianity. He just wanted to show us how other cultures experience faith.
It might seem hard to believe, but there are people out there who find this stuff genuinely fascinating, without immediately labeling it as satanic or acting all self-righteous because something different exists.
I mean, none of us are going to go out and dig a hole in a hillside to hide in for four days, but why shouldn't we be allowed to understand how the Native Americans viewed the spiritual realm?
Plus, there are actually quite a few parallels with our own faith.
If you really want my take, I think they were actually closer to nature and to God than we are... and they only started heading down a dark path once they encountered white settlers and picked up some of their worst traits. 😁

Jack Harris3 said:If you really want my take, I think they were much closer to nature and to God than we ever were. They only lost their way once they encountered white settlers and started picking up some of those toxic traits. 😁

They were just one with nature, plain and simple. 🙂

The first American settlers were actually religious exiles from Europe looking for a place where they could practice their faith without being persecuted. Later on, the greedy adventurers showed up, and honestly, they’re the ones to blame for why so many Native Americans chose conflict over trying to live peacefully alongside white society.

Still, centuries of idolatry had a deep impact on them, making it hard to embrace what was truly meant for them; they found "firewater" from the "silver horseshoe" much more tempting.

😁

Seriously, why should anyone be forced to adopt someone else's religion when they already have their own? It makes zero sense! 😲 🙄 🙄 🙄

Even those half-hearted Christians who migrated to the USA were incredibly brutal during their conversion efforts.

But what if we actually asked the Legion what really went down back then? 😉

Christian! Honestly, I can’t bridge the gap between your words and the actual thoughts of our brother Jesus, whose name you carry so proudly. My friends and family here really value the core tenets of Christian, Buddhist, Islamic, Jewish, vegetarian, consumerist, rationalist, and even Masonic thought—but while a lot of other religions try to force their way in with a monopoly on the truth, ours suggests that every person's heart follows its own unique path.

It’s the same deal with our hearts here on this forum; one person thinks this, another thinks that, but goodness me, aren't we all supposed to be driven by heart?

I won't get too bogged down in your diplomatic, historical diagnosis regarding the meeting of the white and red man or that whole "fire water" business this time. Let's move on! For now, I'll just say this:

Just because you quote Native American lore like a child doesn't mean you actually understand them. Quoting something—anything, really—just means you've repeated words someone else wrote under certain conditions and with certain perspectives. And...

well, *vide non est* is probably better.

Besides, from what I can tell, you aren't exactly a kid anymore! You're far from a child, both outwardly and inwardly. Though, maybe you haven't even received an adult name yet?
A leader with a broken heart? 😢

Idolatry?

Do you even see these people?

>

Do you have any clue what’s actually going through them? What’s happening inside them and all around them?

Are they even thinking about what they're going to buy for the winter solstice?
Will they head over to the Native American version of Lourdes to buy a statue of the White Buffalo Calf Lady made out of a hundred or two shiny little pebbles?
Will they spend their time reading a Catholic pamphlet, some niche newsletter, or perhaps the Journal of Foreign Affairs?

Man, you clearly don't have a clue about the concept.

*

There's a saying from our Cheyenne brothers:

A nation cannot be defeated as long as the hearts of its women remain strong. Once that happens, it's over—no matter how brave the warriors are or how powerful their weapons might be.

Uncle Sugar and Solaris, thanks for the support. 🙂

Look, it isn't my goal to declare any Native American belief as the absolute truth that lights up everything around it; nor do I want to call a Christian a moron just because they naively believe a bad price, and I certainly don't want to fight for my own reputation on this forum... No, those aren't my goals at all...

My only goal is to talk—to tell the stories I've heard from my ancestors and yours. I hope you'll understand if I'm not around as often as usual, and if you find yourselves waiting for my replies until well after sunset—longer than there are fingers on two hands... but hey, the Great Spirit will be with us.

*

Ever since my people were forced onto the reservation, we've had to endure hunger.
So, you can't threaten me with starvation anymore.
Yesterday, I saw children eating grass out of pure desperation;
are you planning on taking that away from them, too?

Oh'Kum kha'kit—to the Indian Affairs agent, John D. Miles.

Just ignore the religious aspect during the holiday season and keep on writing; this is great 🙂