![]() Many times I have heard the old ones in our village tell stories of the Winter Solstice Ceremonial grounds. She is eight this winter and I am now fourteen. I would stay home with Mother and my younger sister Cara. Father usually made the journey to the Winter Solstice Ceremonial grounds on behalf of our family. My father now carefully wrapped the deer hide, which was scented with dried lavender and cedar and contained Mother’s ashes. The story of this hunt will be etched into the bone memories of your grandchildren.” His blood is now of our blood and his bone is now of our bone. He looked up from the medicine bundle he held gently in his hands and said, “We must honor the teachings of the deer by the way we live our lives. Later, my father told me that he believed that the deer and himself had agreed to meet in these woods a long time ago before either of them were born. I heard my father whisper to the deer: “I will see you down the road old friend.” He released his arrow, clean and true, and this beautiful creature fell to the ground. At that moment, the deer with many points looked in our direction, seemingly right at my father. He drew the quartz-tipped arrow out of the quiver that hung from his back and loaded it into the bow, leveling it with one silent, smooth motion. I instinctively followed, lowering myself to the ground. He silenced me with a subtle hand gesture as he lowered himself to one knee. I was with my father that late afternoon day in autumn. It was a single arrow that brought this great one to the end of its journey. The one we hunted earlier in autumn when the leaves had all fallen and the standing tall ones of the forest stood in silence. Returning to the kitchen table, father carried the soft leather deer skin. Or maybe he was exactly himself and it was me that was feeling more quiet than usual. Father did not seem quite himself tonight, quieter than usual. This time I was ready, having already added a log to the fire. It’s been almost three years now since our mother crossed the great river to join our ancestors.įather returned from the barn and again the cold air came into the kitchen. Even now, I can smell the red oak burning, hear the crackling sounds of the fire and see my mother’s hand reaching for the kettle. While I could not understand the words, the feeling was one of warmth and comfort. As if in a dream, I heard my mother’s voice and her laughter moving across the room. ![]() In that moment my spirit traveled to an earlier memory… watching the steam rise from the kettle that hung over our cook fire. Under the full moon I could see warm breath from the horse’s nostrils reach the cold night air. I watched as my father bridled and saddled our three horses. Warming the chill from our bodies, I could see out the window through a thin veil of light snow toward the barn. As he opened the door, I felt the cold air enter our house looking for warm bodies and I moved myself and my sister closer to our winter hearth fire. My father rose from the kitchen table and walked the seven steps to the door where his coat and hat patiently waited for his return. It was bitterly cold and the ground was hard and frozen the night we started the long journey. Thank you Blue Joy for agreeing a long time ago to meet me here and to walk a bit of this dusty road together. I would like to dedicate the telling of this story to my friend Benjamin Walker (Blue Joy A Singing) who recently returned to the realm of the ancestors. I realized after looking over what I had written that it reflected scenes from my own life retold here as ancient memories from another time and a visit to New Grange Ceremonial Grounds in Ireland. As I sat in my medicine room to write this newsletter having no idea what I would write about, I found myself in a memory as if it were my own but from another time and place.
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