Ghost Dance: Behind the Facade of Normalcy

Let's R'N'R !!!

I've lived it, dreamed it, and read about it... honestly, I won't exhaust myself trying to figure out where you even pulled that from...
It sounds like it truly resonates!

(Just let it grow... for now, it’s just barely peeking out from the bushes... 😉 )

Those poor pale Americans...😢 🙄

All they ever wanted was a little bit of freedom...so they carved up the entire continent just to plant
corn everywhere you look...
And now, it’s like some pagan devil is unleashing hurricanes to ravage them year after year...because there’s absolutely nothing anyone can do to stop those jet streams. 🙂

You really ought to brush up on your knowledge regarding Jesus's teachings. While I appreciate you claiming to value His message, Jesus's teachings don't exactly play nice with all those other "doctrines"—they're two completely different worlds.

Jesus taught us that we shouldn't just follow our own hearts, but rather focus on fulfilling the will of our Heavenly Father. Let's face it, our hearts aren't always aligned with God's will.

Red brother, 🙂 being a child doesn't mean you have to be naive or ignorant; that's not what Jesus meant at all. Maybe there was a misunderstanding, but I'm against those Native American groups over in Lourdes too. 😁

Go ahead and tell your stories—I've got nothing against that—but remember what our brother Jesus said: let your words be a simple "yes" or a "no," for anything more than that is often driven by evil. What he meant is that everything someone says is either coming from a good place or an evil one. Even those empty stories and idle words, if they aren't rooted in goodness, only serve to lead people down the wrong path.

Feel free to drop by anytime! I'd love it if you could tell me a bit more about this "Great Spirit" you mentioned; I'm genuinely curious.🙂

The "Great Spirit" is essentially the same thing as the Heavenly Father in Christianity. 😉

The messages our hearts send us are divine, really—it’s just that most people have no idea how to actually listen. They can't tell the difference between the true beat of their own heart and all the mindless noise coming from their fleeting desires and passions.

I have these lingering memories of being a little girl, following my father through the wilderness while our camp and my mother, who was busy gathering whatever the earth provided, stayed just behind us.
I can still see that journey clearly, accompanied by this vision where I felt as tiny as a grain of rice... In the dream, I wasn't a child anymore, but someone wearing colorful braids just like the warriors of our tribe used to wear; I found myself inside some strange, unfamiliar tent, tracing my fingers over something unusual while staring at a peculiar rock filled with moving images...

James Cruz6 said:I still remember being just a little kid, following my dad out through the brush... we’d leave the tents and my mom behind, where she’d be busy gathering whatever the earth was offering that day.

Whenever I was wandering through the woods with my old man, I’d find myself drifting off, eyes half-closed, just watching the clouds lazily stretching out across that massive blue sky above us, silently dragging their own shadows over the hills and forests. It always floored me—this total, overwhelming sense of harmony, where the way the clouds danced perfectly matched the birds singing over the nearby creeks, the crunch of pebbles under my boots, and even that tiny hum in your ears that seems to grow until it fills up the whole world when everything else goes quiet.

Just listen to the air. You can hear it, feel it, smell it, even taste it. Woniya wakan—that sacred breath that renews everything it touches. Woniya, woniya wakan—it’s spirit, life, breath, renewal, all of it wrapped into one. Woniya[/]—we sit together, not touching, but there’s something right there: we feel it between us, sensing that presence. It’s the perfect moment to just sit and reflect on nature, or talk about it. Talk to the trees, the rivers, the lakes, and the winds as if they were your own kin.

My dad wasn't much of a talker. Most of the time, he’d just keep his mouth shut and offer a little smile instead. I have such clear memories of him rubbing my head during our breaks, telling me he loved me in a hundred different ways without needing many words, and then we’d just walk for hours on end in complete silence. He never went to school, never learned to read or write, but you could learn an entire lifetime of wisdom just by watching him move. He taught me how to ride and how to settle a wild horse—that "unpredictable" beast. When he was teaching me, he’d do it this way: I’d observe him closely first, and then he’d make this hand gesture that basically meant, "Your turn! Go for it!" I was a quick study, though, so I’d often end up being faster than him. I remember once, during my very first ride, the horse reared up on its hind legs. I hit the ground pretty hard, shaking the dirt right out of my clothes. "You're gonna kill yourself, little girl," he said. That was one of those rare moments he actually gave me a warning. That's why it sticks with me so clearly.

My mother was Sally Red Blanket. She was a beautiful woman, with a lovely face and long, curly hair. She had incredibly steady hands and loved making these intricate embroideries using tiny beads that are almost impossible to find these days. Later on, as I grew up, I noticed that the price people paid for her work would jump whenever a trader took a closer look through a magnifying glass. She passed away when I was seventeen.

I still remember that trip and that vision, tiny as a grain of rice...

Way out past the horizon ahead of us, a storm was starting to brew. A warm wind began whipping around us, kicking up yellow sand and twisting it into the strangest shapes you could possibly imagine. Even as a kid, I loved watching those weird patterns in nature—not just looking at them, mind you, but really surrendering to their magic, trying to understand their deep, silent language. Long, petrified tree roots, colorful veins running through rocks, the way sunlight catches a drop of oil on water, or those dancing bubbles in boiling water... all of that left such a huge mark on me. Fire, water, smoke, clouds, dust, and especially those little specks of color I’d see whenever I closed my eyes.

Cloud towers rose majestically over the plateau, like a reflection of everything happening on the ground between us, constantly shifting shape—one second they looked like a dog, then a tree, then a bird, then a rock. I found myself wondering what it would look like if I could walk on my head, or if my eyes were oriented differently. I got so lost in it that I completely lost track of time. As always, my little pup was right there with us. It might be a stretch to call him a "friend"—he was more of a companion! Usually, he’s pretty mischievous, but this time it felt like even he was touched by the magic in the air. He wasn't his usual self, darting left and right, chasing his tail, or bounding ahead and behind us. The butterflies that were everywhere this time of year didn't even interest him; he wasn't jumping around with a wagging tail like he usually does. Instead, he looked like an old pilgrim who, despite being totally unfazed, knew exactly where the path was leading him. Suddenly, the image in my mind went haywire. I heard this noise in my ears—or maybe it was inside my head—this short, indescribable sound, almost like that buzzing sensation you get when you're drifting from being awake into a dream. *Brrruzzz–bzzz-pss.*

Even though I was looking straight ahead, I saw myself with colorful braids in my hair, just like our tribal warriors used to wear. I wasn't a child anymore; I was in some strange tent, my fingers tracing something odd while I stared at a peculiar rock filled with moving images... They weren't just any pictures, though. It was as if they were flowing through the stone, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. When I moved my head back and forth, the images shifted along with me, regardless of their own rhythm. Then, suddenly, I realized I could look into the depths. It was bizarre—the images deeper down looked completely different from the ones on the surface. Deeper and deeper... and suddenly, within the stone, I saw myself, my father, and our dog marching through a prairie toward a rider who hadn't been there a moment before. I saw it from a bird's-eye view, yet at the same time, I could see from my own body, looking toward all four corners of the world at once. He was getting closer, and I finally mustered the strength to look him in the eye...

I’ve spent enough time in the saddle to know when someone has absolutely no business being near a horse. This guy? He had his legs locked stiff toward the ground, and little things sticking out from his boots that looked just like windmill blades.
I don't think I've ever seen one human being covered in quite that much hair. His entire face was buried under a thicket of it that stretched all the way down to his chest—maybe even lower—but for some reason, his head was completely bare right where the hair should have been. Since the hair was this light sandy brown, the whole creature looked like a living, breathing rug. He had these eyes, too, like a dead owl’s, a washed-out shade of blue-green. He was chewing on something that looked like a smoking candy cane, though I realized later it was just a cigar. The man clearly wanted a double dose of pleasure because he was working tobacco in his teeth at the exact same time. Every few minutes, he’d pull the cigar from his mouth just to spit a long stream of brown saliva at us with a scowl. Honestly, it baffled me how anyone could eat something so foul you can barely swallow it.
This strange little human was sporting a ridiculous hat, too—a weird hybrid of a cooking pot and a chimney pipe. Underneath that, draped over the poor horse's back, was a heavy slab of leather hanging down both sides. Right where the legs split, the leather formed this sort of horn shape. I actually thought the horn was there to hold his manhood in place! It was easily the strangest saddle I've ever laid eyes on. His horse had leather straps wrapped around its head and a bit of iron in its mouth; every time the animal flicked its tongue, I could hear the metal scraping. To top it off, this funny man was wearing leather trousers and had two odd hammers hanging off his hips, which I found out later are called Colts.

Then he started making these wild noises. He was talking, but we couldn't make heads or tails of it because he was speaking English. He kept pointing at my father's beaded moccasins and waving around something that looked like dried green toad skin. He was trying to strike a deal, but my father wasn't having any of it. There were four large gold nuggets sewn right into the moccasins, and I'm pretty sure this man caught the scent of them. He was the very first white man I had ever encountered...

Green frog skins—that’s what I call dollar bills. Honestly, we Americans differ from you folks more than anything else when it comes to how we view money. My grandparents grew up in a world where money just wasn't a thing.

Not long before the battle at Little Bighorn, those soldiers in blue uniforms had just been paid. Their pockets were practically bursting with green paper, but they didn't get a single chance to actually spend it. I wonder, what were their last thoughts as an American arrow or bullet found them?
I imagine they were mourning all that cash they lost before they could even enjoy it—money that was now being scooped up by hordes of foolish savages with their dirty hands. That probably hurt a lot more than an arrow between the ribs.
A massive, chaotic mess, mixed with the screams of thousands of masterless, wounded horses, covered the battlefield in a thick cloud of dust, where the soldiers' green frog skins fluttered through the air like snowflakes in a blizzard.

So, what did the Americans do with the money?

They gave it to the kids, who used that ridiculous, colorful paper to fold little buffalo, horses, and tipis.

You know those adventure books and history texts? They talk about some soldier who supposedly survived the fight. The authors claim he ended up taking his own life just to escape the terrifying torture of the Sioux Nation. But that’s a load of rubbish! He wasn't arrested; he just slowly lost his mind, and some women watched from a distance as he took himself out.

Can you see him? There he is, hunched over in a ditch, watching everything unfold. He sees the children tearing up the money, watches the women using his dollar bills to light fires made of buffalo dung, and sees men using rolled-up bills to catch fire for their pipes. But most of the bills are just dancing in the wind across the camp. Our soldier watches all this and—surprise, surprise—he snaps.
He clutches his head and screams, "Dammit, almighty Jesus Christ, look at these stupid, dull, red-skinned sons of bitches burning money all over the prairie!" He stares at it for so long that he finally can't take it anymore and shuts his brain down with a Colt. In a movie, it would be this grand, sweeping scene, but you'd need a bit of American dark humor to really get the punchline.

Green frog skins—the whole struggle revolved around them. Gold in the Black Hills and gold under every single bush. Every day, you see farmers riding across the prairie. They have sacks of grain hanging from their saddles, and the second they spot a prairie dog hole, they toss a handful of wheat inside, much like a sweet old lady feeding pigeons in one of your city parks. The only difference is that the wheat for the prairie dogs is laced with strychnine. What happens to a prairie dog after eating that isn't exactly pretty to watch. Prairie dogs get poisoned because they eat the grass. A thousand prairie dogs eat as much grass in a year as a single cow does. So, if one rancher kills enough of them, he can keep more cows and make a little extra profit. When a rancher looks at a prairie dog, all he really sees is a little scrap of frog skin fluttering in his hands.

To a white man, every straw and every spring comes with a price tag attached. That’s why everything feels so broken; just look around. Bobcats and coyotes that used to live off the prairie dogs now have to hunt stray sheep or injured calves. And then the rancher calls in the county health officials to come kill off the animals.
The official shoots a few rabbits and sets them out as bait. Inside the dead rabbit is a wooden stick coated in cyanide; the moment a coyote bites into it, the cyanide explodes in its mouth. The official knows he has to be careful, so he marks every trap with signs saying DANGER! EXPLOSIVE! POISON! It’s just a shame our dogs can’t read, and neither can some of our kids.

And bit by bit, the prairie becomes a wasteland—no more prairie dogs, badgers, foxes, or coyotes. The big birds of prey lived off the prairie dogs, too. Nowadays, you'll rarely see an eagle. The Bald Eagle is the symbol of this country. It’s right there on your money, but your money is what’s killing it. When a nation starts destroying its own symbol, it’s probably not on the right track.

We Sioux have a name for the white man. We call him *wasicun*: the one who scrapes the cream, the cream-collector. It’s a fitting name, since you've scooped up all the cream of this land. But it doesn't seem to suit you. Right now, your race doesn't exactly look healthy—obesity everywhere you look, and nothing but dissatisfied faces. White Americans are raised like factory geese—turned into consumers, into eaters, rather than human beings. Once they stop consuming and buying, this world of frog skins has no use for them. They’ve become the frogs themselves. It's like some child happily torturing an animal, shoving a cigar in its mouth, and they just have to keep pulling and pulling until it pops. Scraping up the cream is a nasty business for the one doing the scraping. It’s especially hard for Americans who are forced to live in this world of frog skins—a world they didn't create and one where they see absolutely no point.

You’re an artist, Richard (my co-author on this project, along with >). That’s really why we get along so well. Artists are basically the dreamers of the white man's world. People call them visionaries living in the clouds, flighty types who can't hold onto a buck, or folks who just refuse to face "reality." They say the exact same thing about us Americans. I mean, how the hell would a bunch of frog-skinned bureaucrats know what reality actually is? There's a world where you paint a picture inside your mind—a picture that shows things differently than what your eyes are seeing—and that's the world where my visions come from. And let me tell you: *that* is the real world, not this green-frog-skin version. This whole thing is just one long, terrible nightmare, a modern-day horror show fueled by exhaust fumes.

Because we refuse to abandon our reality to step into their little frog-skin illusion, they label us fools, lazy, mindless, immature, or abrasive. Honestly, I take being called abrasive as a compliment, and you should too. It’s actually a good thing that our reality doesn't look like theirs. I remember this one white guy watching my grandfather's vest with this skeptical look on his face. It was this beautiful black velvet vest with buttons made from actual ten-dollar gold coins. The guy couldn't wrap his head around it; he kept muttering, "Only a crazy Indian would think that's smart—using real money as buttons when you don't even have a dime left to your name." But my grandfather wasn't crazy at all; he understood the value of money just fine. Money is meant to bring joy. For him, the joy came from sewing a few gold coins with an American profile on them onto a vest. Makes sense, right?

I know this guy, an educated American who moved back to the reservation after spending years working in a big city like Chicago. He used his savings to open up a little cafe and a gas station. All day long, cars would roll up. "Hey, Uncle, I'm tapped out. I can't pay you right now, but you're loaded, so you'll cover me..." And the same thing happened in the cafe: "Come on, Uncle, just give me a sandwich. Don't worry about writing a receipt for your cousin..."

I’ve come up with a new proverb: Americans hunt visions, while white men hunt dollars. We are damn terrible candidates for becoming capitalists. We could try to follow that path if we wanted to, but then we wouldn't be Americans anymore. We’d just be regular citizens with slightly darker skin. That’s too high a price to pay, my friend—simply too high. We make lousy farmers, too, because deep down, we believe that the soil, the water, the air, and everything beneath the surface of the Earth cannot be the private property of one single person. Those things belong to everyone. If people want to survive, they need to get back to this American way of thinking as soon as possible; the sooner, the better, because there isn't much time left to sit around and debate it.

Anthropologists always claim we still have too much of the old bison hunter in us. You either share your food or you share your wealth, or the tribe dies. Back then, that was the rule. Today, when you try to help a struggling relative, people say "No! No! No!" In fact, that's practically encouraged now. I tell those anthropologists, "You've got frog-skin brains." If we were truly the filthy savages you claim we are, we would have eaten you the moment you stepped foot on this turtle island. At least then I'd finally have some peace and quiet. That usually shuts them up for a while.
They point fingers at us whenever we have our giveaway festivals. They want to tell us that poor people shouldn't be able to afford generosity. But we hold fast to our tradition, our gift-giving culture that keeps us connected to who we are. Every major milestone—birth, death, joy, sorrow—can be a reason for a giveaway. We don't hoard sudden wealth from an inheritance. It’s better to distribute a dead person's estate. That way, they stay alive in the memories of others forever.

You guys write "In God We Trust" on your currency. I’m glad you left the Great Spirit out of it. The only reason you invoke your God is to protect your businesses. I wanted to show you that it’s that green skin that divides us. But even a medicine man like me needs a little cash sometimes, because you force me to live in your world where I can't get by without money. It means I have to split myself in two, living in two different worlds at once. I don't want to, but I don't have any choice in the matter.

Today they’re playing around with the Sun's holy fire while trying to manufacture atomic bombs. At the end of the day, they’ll only succeed at one thing: blowing their own heads off. There might be a way to avoid that if they actually bothered to learn from us, but they probably still think we're just uneducated, unruly kids who don't know how to listen.

They took the entire Sioux Nation
and crammed them into a reservation,
they stripped away our way of life
our reliance on the buffalo, the pipe, and the knife,
they laid our children in cribs
and tore the very skin from our bodies.
They stole our language
and forced English into our children's mouths
and those old teepees we loved so much
are being used now just for their shows.
And the necklaces my mother used to make
with beads blessed by God,
are made of cheap plastic today
imported all the way from Japan.
Even though they changed our ancient ways,
they can never change our hearts or our spirit,
so even when I wear a shirt, a tie, and suspenders
looking like some stout American,
I won't forget the pipe or the sacred ways
because in my heart, I'll always be an Indian.

Hi ya yoh, hi ya yoh ho.

"Kuako lano lano maote
hayano hayano hayano"

(let me be one with the infinite Sun
forever, forever, forever)

I can still vividly recall the songs we used to sing together; I remember how, while singing, I felt as though I had become the wind, the fire, or perhaps even the entire prairie itself, until there was no longer any distinction between my own soul and the spirits of my ancestors—we were all simply one essence... There was this indescribable sense of pure joy that just washed over my entire existence during those moments.

You’re staring straight into the blazing Sun with eyes wide open. Those brilliant rays pierce deep into your brain, flooding it with an unbearable light...

You blow into an eagle bone whistle wedged between your teeth—until that sharp, piercing sound becomes the only note left in the entire world...

Dance, dance, dance... from dawn until dusk—no food, no water, just dancing until you lose consciousness...

Pulling, tugging at a leather strap fastened to a hook embedded in your own flesh... pulling and straining until the skin stretches and tears—until you finally break free, and blood starts flowing from your chest...

This is something some of us have to endure during the Sun Dance.

A lot of people don't get why we do this. They call the Sun Dance brutal, barbaric, wild—just bloody superstition. I see it differently. Our body is the only thing we truly own. When we Americans sacrifice our flesh, we are surrendering our bodies; they are the only thing that actually belongs to us. When wakan tanki is offered a horse, a pouch of tobacco, or food for the poor, we’re just giving back things that belonged to the Great Spirit a long time ago anyway. Everything in nature was created by the Manitou Spirit; it’s all part of Him. Only our flesh is a true sacrifice—the only real act of surrender. Can we really offer Him anything less than that?

For fifty years, they tried to lock us up whenever we wanted to perform the Sun Dance; they called it a criminal act, nothing more than some Indian craziness.

The Sun Dance is our oldest and most vital ceremony, the grandfather of everything else, as my father used to say. He’s so old now that his roots seem to reach beyond the misty veil. He comes from a time before our people even had horses, rifles, or knives—from a time when it was just us, the animals, the Earth, the grass, and the sky.
Nowadays, "smart" people study solar flares through massive telescopes, while tiny, man-made stars zip around the Earth like they’re running late for a meeting. They’ve even been to the moon, leaving behind a few plastic bags of urine and some of those "rubber band" wrappers. But I believe that in those long-forgotten days, the Americans knew the moon and the Sun much better, and they were far closer to them.

After enduring the winter darkness, huddled together in their meager shelters, freezing and starving like animals in hibernation, how joyful they must have felt when the Sun—the giver of life—returned in the spring to warm their aching bones?

I can just imagine one of them following a sudden impulse, standing up to dance for the Sun, using their own body as a prayer, while others—one by one—joined in.

That’s how this dance was born, and little by little, generation after generation, it gained more meaning and more respect. My father taught it to me just as it was taught to him by his father, and this cycle of teaching and learning goes back to the very dawn of time.

Wi wanyang wacipi—the Sun Dance—is our greatest festival, where the whole nation gathers. I’ve told you about hanblechii, the vision quest; that's when a man goes to a lonely hill to connect with mysterious forces. The Sun Dance means that *everyone* connects with those forces. It is the hanblechia of the entire Sioux Nation.

Of all our traditions, the Sun Dance is probably the easiest one to misinterpret. Many white people think of it as a rite of passage into adulthood or just a test of courage.
But that isn't right.

The Sun Dance is prayer and sacrifice. No one is forced to take part; you only do it if you feel it fulfills a dream or a vision.

It isn't quite as grueling as it used to be, but it still demands a lot from those who dance it. Even today, a person can pass out from a lack of food or water. You can get so dehydrated from blowing that eagle bone whistle that your throat dries up like a massive, parched riverbed. You might go temporarily blind from staring into the Sun, seeing nothing but glowing white spirals. The pain in your flesh, right there in the chest where the eagle claw is set, can become so intense that there comes a moment where you don't even notice it anymore. In those moments, when the dancer loses consciousness, when the Sun swirls in their mind and all strength leaves their body, that's when the visions come—visions of becoming a shaman, visions of the future.

The insights gained from paying this price are considered far greater than those one finds just wandering around a hilltop looking for them; they are truly wakan – sacred.
One part of it makes me feel pretty pathetic. Right here in the city, there are hundreds of American families who are desperate to keep our old ways alive, but we’re boxed in on all sides by white farmers and cactus growers 😁. The only spot left where we can actually hold our Sun Dance is this old pasture where the local cowboys used to run their rodeos. For them, it’s not good enough anymore—they’ve moved on to build something shiny and new, leaving us to take over the worn-out, leftover field. The paint is peeling off the old bleachers, everything is a bit ragged, but they’re sturdy enough to sit on. You can still make out the faded lettering: “Drink Pepsi,” “Stop by your local livestock dealer.”

They act like we aren't even here!

I hope some other tribes have better luck; they aren't hemmed in by barbed wire. They can perform their ceremonies out in the open prairie or whatever is left of it, but regardless, we’re going to have a beautiful Sun Dance right here. We’ll do everything the right way, following the sacred traditions of our ancestors and doing exactly what our parents taught us—as best as we can in these times and in this place.

We want to be understood and observed, but not just with the eyes. Now is the actual time to talk about how we celebrated the Sun Dance back in the day, so you can grasp it with your whole spirit in its full, terrifying magnitude.

White people get stressed out just hearing about this stuff. But the idea of enduring pain so that others might live shouldn't be seen as anything strange. Don't you people in your churches pray to someone who was “pierced,” nailed to a cross for the sake of his people? No American has ever called a white person uncivilized because of their faith, nor have we ever told them they couldn't pray to whoever or whatever they wanted.

The real difference between white folks and us is that you believe in the redemptive power of suffering only if that suffering happened two thousand years ago. We believe it’s up to each of us to help one another, even through physical pain. For us, pain isn't some abstract concept; it’s very real. We don't dump that kind of burden onto our god, nor do we ask to stand face-to-face with a holy spirit. During a fast on top of a hill or while our flesh is being torn, we experience a sudden flash of insight—we draw close to the inner essence of the great Manitou. You can't get an insight like that for cheap, and we don't want angels or priests doing the heavy lifting for us just to pass it down "second hand."

Even talking about this gives me a bit of an uneasy feeling. We used to barely even speak about it among ourselves. It only came up during special gatherings when there were twelve of us old, wise men present, and even then, only when we were absolutely certain every word was right.

I’ve talked a lot about the pain of the Sun Dance, and a little about its joys. We Sioux Nation aren't a simple people; we’re incredibly complicated. We always look at things from different angles. To us, there is pain in joy and joy in pain, just like the clown is simultaneously a funny man and a tragic figure. It’s all part of the same thing—nature, which isn't sad or happy, it just is..

That’s why, in the old days, the Sun Dance wasn't just a sacrificial ceremony; it was a joyful time when the berries were ripening, the grasses were tall, and game was plentiful—the perfect time to catch up with old friends.

[more to follow...] 🙂

I guess you could call this shamanic poetry.🙂 🙏 🙏 🙏 🙏

Wow, I didn't realize this was actually gaining any traction, damn 😳 🙂

I'll be reading this offline, but I wanted to give a quick shout-out to all that enthusiasm 🙂

I just opened up this thread for the very first time...

Way to go, Jason Johnson4👍 👍 👍 👍 👍

*.*

Here is a myth about the Genesis shared by electricstag74:

HOW THE DAKOTA ARRIVED ON EARTH
(A Dakota Indian Myth)

There was once a time when no one lived on Earth. All people
resided underground, within a sort of tunnel so incredibly
vast that even the spirits could not measure its length.

Eventually, Iktomi grew weary of being alone; he found
the company of animals uninspiring, as they seemed
rather dull to him. At that time, the Manitou Spirits dwelt in the heavens, and only three
spirits watched over the Earth. These were the Old man, the Old woman, and the
Two-faced woman, so named because she possessed two faces—
one terrifying and grotesque, the other exceptionally beautiful. Yet, these three
spirits also felt lonely, finding companionship only among the animals.
The Two-faced woman lived a tedious existence, longing for
the company of women to work alongside her and men to hunt across the prairies;
she dreamed of children playing by the rivers and catching
formidable birds.

Because of this, Iktomi often played pranks on her, and
one day he appeared at her lodge disguised as a
handsome young man. However, the Two-faced woman saw through his ruse, so
she was careful not to let him inside, knowing he often joked at her
expense. Seeing this, Iktomi wrapped himself in his cloak and sat
in front of the entrance, drooping his head in a way that looked quite ridiculous, which
made the Two-faced woman burst into laughter, eventually coaxing him outside.
After talking for a long while, they both realized their shared sorrow:
they were unhappy simply because there were no human beings on Earth.

Then, the Two-faced woman said:

"You are clever and wise. Come, find a way to
bring the people up here to live on Earth."

Upon hearing this, Iktomi fell into thought, and finally said:

"Well, I have found a way. I will return tomorrow, and you shall
help me achieve it!"

With that, he hurried away.

He went and summoned the gray wolves to gather. The wolves
assembled immediately, and Iktomi informed them that he required
their assistance for a great undertaking that was very dear
to his heart.

"Why should we help you now?" one wolf asked,
"given how often you have deceived us? Who can convince
us that you won't trick us this time?"

To this, Iktomi replied:

"I swear to you by the Sun and by Manitou that I will
never betray you again. What I ask of you is not difficult, but
quite pleasant; you only need to hunt as many animals as possible
and bring them to the Two-faced woman."

The wolves agreed to do as Iktomi requested,
for they knew that when someone intends to joke with them, one should never
swear by the Sun.

The following day, the wolves hunted deer, bison, and bears,
bringing a great bounty back to the Two-faced woman's lodge. Along
with them came Iktomi, who instructed the Two-faced woman to prepare
a magnificent feast from the catch, and to fashion male and female clothing
from the hides, decorated with vibrant colors.

Obeying these orders, the Two-faced woman set to work,
and in a very short time, everything was ready. Iktomi then
prepared a large bundle and fastened it to the back of a young
wolf, who was renowned far and wide as the fastest
and most agile of them all.

"You must travel through the Long tunnel until you reach
the settlement of the human beings," Iktomi told him. "When you arrive
there, you must deliver this bundle to a man with a
youthful and brave face; tell him that
the Earth is abundant with wonderful things, just like those in this
bundle. Finally, tell him that this bundle possesses a strange
power and can grant any wish they make." After listening to this
advice from Iktomi, the wolf replied:

"I understand perfectly!"

He then set off toward the underground passage. He traveled
for four days and four nights before reaching the human
settlement. There, he met a handsome and strong warrior named Tokah and
handed him the bundle, telling him that this bundle
could grant any wish he desired.

"Well then, I wish to become a chief!" declared
Tokah.

"And so you shall be," the wolf replied. "Now, look at
the wonderful things contained in this bundle. Behold, such things exist on Earth..."
"There is plenty to go around. Show it to your people, but don't say a word"
about how you found it.

With those words, the wolf quickly returned to Earth.
Tokahe enters the settlement wearing fine clothes and carrying food. He tells his wife
to dress in her finest gowns, while he puts on his warrior attire. Once
they are both dressed, they radiate such beauty that everyone begins to stare in admiration.
Then, the people begin to feast on the delicious food prepared by the
Two-faced woman, remarking that they have never eaten anything
so exquisite. In this way, Tokahe becomes the most respected and dignified man in the community.

"How did you acquire such beautiful dresses?" the women
asked him.

"What kind of animals produce meat this delicious?" the men
inquired.

Tokahe simply replied that it all came from Earth. Hearing this,
the elders rushed to convene the Council, deciding
that Tokahe was the most suitable candidate for leader. They sent him away with three
escorts to Earth; these three were meant to serve as witnesses,
because to the wise elders, these gifts appeared to be
nothing short of magic.

That very night, the four of them set out. Upon exiting
the underground tunnel, they encountered that same wolf, who
offered to guide them along the way. Eventually, they
reached the cabin of the Two-faced woman.

In the meantime, Iktomi had prepared everything. At his command, the wolves
had driven a wide variety of game into this region.
Tokahe and his companions were stunned when
they saw entire herds of bison roaming freely, followed by
bears descending easily from trees, and even deer
wandering wherever they pleased. Furthermore, the Two-faced
woman's cabin was pristine, crafted from beautifully tanned hides. The Two-faced
woman covered her terrible face with a veil, showing her guests
only her stunningly beautiful visage. She then
warmly invited them inside, where she served them a warm, savory stew
and eventually a plentiful meat feast; there was an abundance
of everything. Iktomi, disguised as a handsome young man, introduced himself
to the guests, claiming that although he and the woman were quite old,
they maintained their youthful appearance thanks to the delicious
meat.

Tokahe and his companions marveled at the sights, one after another,
and when the time came for them to return through the
underground tunnel, the Two-faced woman gifted them meat and
cloaks made of fine leather, before ordering the wolf to escort them back
to the entrance of the tunnel.

Enthralled by what they had seen and tasted, the young men
returned from Earth, unable to find the words to describe the beauty, wealth,
and diversity of that land. Although the wise elders had warned
them not to believe in such enchantments so easily,
the young men proclaimed Tokahe as their leader and begged
him to lead them to Earth; they vowed that if things went poorly,
they would simply return to their original home.

But then, a wise Old man stood up and said:

"That is impossible, my children! Tokahe cannot escort you,
for aside from spirits, no one can ever return twice
from Earth. You must understand, Earth is not always beautiful.
Every year, a freezing wind sweeps through the prairies, and snow
freezes the plants and all of nature during the winter. In summer, however, the bright
Sun scorches everything. The wildlife is free and must be hunted,
which requires time, skill, and hard work, just as hides must be
tanned and cut before they can be fashioned into dresses and
clothing. Here, we have nothing; we eat simply to stay
alive, and we don't wear shimmering cloaks, but in exchange, we
do not know the dangers, the grueling labor, or the diseases."

The words of this wise Old man caused many of the young
people to reconsider. However, six brave souls decided to depart
with their wives and children for Earth, joining
Tokahe. They departed in the early dawn.
Now, the wolf no longer showed them the way, nor were they met with a grand welcome
by Iktomi and the Two-faced woman. When they arrived above, a terrifying
cold struck them; there was no water, and there was no sign of any wildlife.
The children wept from the cold, and the mothers were desperate.
Seeing them so exhausted and terrified, the Two-faced woman...
She rushed from her cabin, desperate to help, but in her haste
she forgot to cover her weathered face; when the people saw her,
they recoiled in terror and scattered in every direction.

Suddenly, the ringing voice of Iktomi echoed across the entire
Earth.

The people lashed out, cursing Tokah for leading them
here, to this desolate, frozen, and barren wasteland.

"Listen, my brothers!" Tokah said to them. "The Earth looks
harsh to us only because we are exhausted and because
we come from lands where there is no winter, no scarcity, and no
hard labor. But look at how vast and bountiful the land is around
us. It all belongs to us; I am certain we will learn to live and work
upon it."

The Old man and Old woman, Guardians of the Earth, were deeply moved
by these brave words, and they immediately went to meet
the people, guiding them to a comfortable location
situated on the edge of the plains and the pine forest. The Old man then
showed the people how to hunt game, while the Old woman taught them how
to tend goats, sew clothing, and build cabins.

In this way, Tokah and his companions became the first people on
Earth, and the warriors of the Dakota Indian nation are their descendants.

Jason Johnson4—you could just delete everything at this point; you’ve totally shown your true colors now.

I did. 😁

Cro-Magnon stands in solidarity with our Indian brothers👍

A Native American woman walks down to the riverbank, gathers some flexible willow reeds, and starts weaving. She finishes her first basket, sets it down in front of her, kneels, offers a blessing, and says:

"I'm not surprised I did this—I did it for my people. To any woman who always keeps a basket in her hands, I wish a long life. She’ll think of me. She’ll remember what I did and follow suit. But don't go thinking I did this for everyone! No. Just for those skilled women coming after us. When the dawn finally breaks, my words will come alive and shine in their minds. So let it be!"

Jason Johnson4: Come on, be nice to me, and maybe one day we can all dance the spirit dance together with the Witches and the prophets.

krscanin: Thanks, but I'll pass.

Well, looks like you're already dancing! Left, right, one, two, three!

I’m hearing that this thread is getting under some people's skin. 😕 They’re claiming I’m just spamming and re-posting things...

My advice? Grab a cold Budweiser to calm those nerves 😁 instead of that cheap, bottom-shelf moonshine!

I just wanted to clarify that I am translating these texts from Chinese and adapting them for us... because, as far as I know, the book hasn't been released in English yet. Honestly, I spend more time working on a single top post than most people spend on a hundred comments.

Constructive criticism, questions, or explanations are always welcome, but I have zero interest in seeing the kind of nonsense being spread by krshchchchci and aganor. Your posts don't bother me—if you had asked me, I wouldn't have even thought about deleting them.

But really, where does it end if we start catering to everyone's whims? 🙂

So, grab an eraser and get to work—you have my full authorization. 😉

Please post your answers, feedback, etc., under the "Let's elect a new moderator" thread.

Absolutely stunning
I really enjoyed soaking this all in
Thanks for putting in the work, Jason Johnson4
🙂