Twelve Months

by Steven Manchester

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  I sat wide-eyed in bed one night, as I had for a week, wrestling with a relentless affliction called insomnia. After staring at Bella for a long while and then losing another round with the toilet, I tried to work on the puzzle, but found it hard to concentrate. Though I considered the sleeplessness a curse, in many respects it was about to serve as a great blessing. While the rest of the world slumbered away, I was afforded the precious time to search my soul and question the more important things in life; issues that most daylight hours were too busy to consider. And when I prayed and asked God to come into my life to help me, I was starting to realize that God was closer than ever.

  Looking back on my life and the brief future ahead of me, I also realized there could only be two roads to take: The first, for which I saw no end, was that of bitterness, sorrow and misery. The second, for which I was going to pursue with each remaining breath, was that of compassion, hope and the determination to make a positive impact upon others. Regardless of the circumstances or my withering body, I stood at the same crossroad as every other human being. This truth was humbling.

  Compared to some, I knew I had nothing to complain about – like that story of an elderly man who lost his daughter, son-in-law and three grandchildren in a fatal car crash. When asked how he planned to go on, the old-timer simply replied, “God knows what He’s doing. It’s a matter of faith.”

  Faith – somehow, the answers to life always come back to faith. My mind flashed to my mother. “People speak of blind faith,” she’d say, “but the heart is not blind. Those people are misguided and rely on senses that can fail them at any time. Not me. I believe it is the heart that sees. It is the heart that knows. In my life, things have happened for which there were no logical explanations. In time, as events from the past were brought into the light, I understood and thought, Now I see! But again, it was not with my eyes. Everything happens for a reason. I did my best with the purest of intentions each and every day. The rest was up to God – for His will was always stronger than my own. Just like an innocent child believes in Santa Claus, I know my Lord is always with me. As the years have rolled past, it’s been harder for me to believe in the things I can see with my eyes than the things that can only be seen with my heart. Every day I awake, I’ve been truly blessed. All I have to do is have faith.”

  Those simple words moved me like no others and I remembered feeling sorry for others who did not have the benefit of a mother’s gentle wisdom. On that very day, I adopted my mom’s faith. I also hoped I’d be able to pass it on someday.

  Faith – I pondered my current place in the world and wondered where my faith stood. I’d found God after Vietnam and until I found Him, I couldn’t find myself. Since then, I’d lived the American Dream. I’d been blessed with a wonderful wife, a beautiful daughter and two healthy grandkids…not to mention the two cars, the house and a comfortable salary.

  I decided that through the years of difficult trials and harsh experiences, my mother’s hopeful beliefs had evolved. Fortunately, our shared faith had not been lost but strengthened. With nothing left to lose, I decided to share all that had been revealed to me. I wanted to shed light on my deepest beliefs. A quiet, familiar voice in my heart was telling me that the chance was Now! I eased out of bed and grabbed a pen and pad of white lined paper. I absolutely needed to capture all that filled my heart and mind, and I needed to do it fast. Thanks to my cursed insomnia, I purged my soul and wrote:

  I used to believe I was a religious man, but I’ve since learned that I am not. As my mom once put it, ‘Religion is a competition for God – the selling of faith. And I’m not buying. I have plenty!’

  I love God because God is love. To me, God is like the air – completely surrounding me, deep inside me, nourishing me. Without Him, I no longer exist. God is all things. He is everything.

  God is always with me. He is my constant companion. Each day, I attempt to do the best with what He gives me. I can’t imagine that when we finally speak face-to-face, He’ll chastise me for that.

  We create our own experience or existence through free will or an endless series of choices. The outcome already exists. It’s just a matter of experiencing it as we choose.

  This leads me to perspectives or attitudes. In my simple estimation, both decide the amount of joy and sorrow we experience in life. To be happy, we must choose happiness – circumstances aside. Perspectives also show the same truth in different lights. Understanding this makes it easier not to judge – as perhaps the world is many different shades of gray, dependent upon what an individual chooses to experience.

  Albert Einstein once said that in our purest form we would be light, as we are merely energy. Energy doesn’t die. It can’t. It merely transforms. So I have no doubt that there is another dimension awaiting me after this experience is complete. Personally, I like to call it heaven or home.

  Heaven – beyond the stars – this is where my soul came from, although my mind’s eye has struggled to remember. There is no need for material objects here; all that is needed is unconditional love. It is where the past, present and future become one and one brief moment is like a billion years. All the secrets of the universe are revealed and there is no want for anything. Dark shadows do not exist in this dimension; peace and serenity replace all pain. All that is beautiful and kind and righteous dwells here, sent into the world we know if only to experience and appreciate all that was created. Our spirits – no more than parts of the whole – spend their human lives stumbling around in search of answers. However, the truth is not meant to be discovered but simply remembered…each of us, remembering who we are, the love that sent us to light up the world and the home that awaits our return.

  In the end (of this place), I expect we’ll review all that we did, all that we said, and the way we made others feel. Then, I believe we will have to reconcile that.

  Life is meant to experience who we are. It’s merely a matter of going within – to where God is.

  I put down the pen and read over my work. A smile spread across my tired, jaundiced face. I picked up the pen and finished:

  I suppose in the end, my mom was right. We are each a single ray of light. In the eyes of other people, I have seen God’s love; in their friendship, His mercy and compassion; and from the mouths of ignorance, the wisest words have been spilled – for He has spoken to me. Mine is not a blind faith, for the Lord is the light of the world. Believing that His spirit dwells within me, I become a single ray of that light to be shed upon others. There is no shadow large enough to conceal this single ray of light, because the Lord is bigger than any church – and faith is greater than any religion.

  With a single yawn, I felt an enormous weight lift from me and fly away. I’d finally gotten it out. Within seconds, I was peacefully snoring alongside my wife.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  For a few mind-numbing weeks, I contemplated my path to heaven when I saw a road sign, reading: “Honoring Elders – Pow Wow this weekend! Inter-tribal Indian Council hosted by the Massasoit and Wampanoag Tribes.” I wondered if there were any answers waiting for me there. “Wanna bring the kids?” I asked Bella.

  She nodded. “Looks like fun.”

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  Since I’d never been, I called Russell, an old friend, and asked, “Is there anything the grandkids and I need to know before we go to this weekend’s Pow Wow?”

  “When at a Pow Wow, do as the natives do,” Russell said. For the next half-hour, he detailed the proper etiquette for visitors and newcomers. “Bring your lawn chairs. Don’t sit on the benches around the arena; they’re reserved for the dancers only. And be sure to donate some money to the drum when they lay a blanket on the ground. If you don’t want to dance, ask one of the dancers to place the money on the drum for you.”

  “Okay,” I said, baffled.

  “The drum has probably traveled a long way,” he explained, “and donations help with expenses. Oh yeah, and always
stand during special songs: Grand Entry, Flag Songs, Veteran Songs.”

  “Wow,” I said, “there’s a lot to it, huh?”

  “Make sure you remove your hat, too. And listen to the emcee. He’ll tell you everything you need to know,” he added.

  “Great, Russell. Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem, Don. Just make sure the kids realize that this is a religious ceremony. They should extend the same respect that they would in church.”

  “Like they have a choice,” I said.

  That night, on bended knees, I prayed, God, we both know I’m at the end, but I sense that this experience is one I should share with the kids before I go. Please give me the strength tomorrow.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  As we pulled up to the Pow Wow, I gazed at an open field encircled with tents and RVs. We’d made it. God is good! I thought. There were license plates from across the country, most vehicles flying a flag that represented either the Navajo, Massasoit, Wampanoag, Narragansett, Pequot, Cheyenne, Dakota, Comanche, or Sioux nations. I couldn’t wait to meet the faces behind the flags.

  At first, it appeared to be a flea market, but there was so much more concealed within the outer circle. “This place is awesome,” Pudge yelled.

  “It sure is,” I told him, “but let’s make sure we’re on our best behavior, okay?”

  “Okay, Poppa,” he and his sister both promised.

  We strolled the fairway and spent time in each tent, browsing the wares: bear oil, deer legs, rabbit’s feet, dancing sticks and war clubs had us chattering among ourselves. There were leather dresses and fringed handbags, each decorated in bright geometric patterns and designs. To Madison’s delight, they sold handmade dolls. For Pudge, there were toy bow and arrow sets. Fancy headdresses, dripping with feathers, were more expensive than the jewelry made of topaz and quartz. Necklaces, bracelets and earrings forged from silver and copper caused Bella to stop and linger. For the little kids, they carried wooden flutes and rawhide drums. For the bigger folks, there were medicine bags, animal pelts and incense.

  As we shopped, we spent time talking with the Native American vendors. For me, it was in their stories of history and tradition that the real value could be found. A middle-aged Narragansett Indian explained, “Pow Wows have always been used to drive away sickness, ensure success in battle, interpret dreams or help tribes in other ways. They have become social gatherings for our people to pray, sing, dance, trade and feast together. I hope you enjoy yourselves today.”

  I promised we would, thinking, Drive away sickness, huh? The pain in my swollen abdomen throbbed worse than ever. A little late for that.

  He looked at the kids. “Just remember not to touch the dancers’ clothing, or what we call regalia. Much of what is worn is sacred and cannot be replaced.”

  The kids also promised.

  By the end of our second pass through the outer circle, I’d learned that historically, the Native American people only took what they could use from the land. They warred for the purpose of survival, often times to protect hunting grounds. They were a tolerant, accepting people who believed the spirits of all things surrounded them. And they loved to come together and celebrate life.

  “We’ll come back and bargain for what we want later,” I told the kids. “Let’s go find a good spot to watch. The Pow Wow’s about to start.”

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  Inside the circle of traders’ booths was another circle called the arena; the blessed circle where the emcee hosted the Pow Wow, the dancers danced and the drum made its magic. As a show of respect, the drum – the heartbeat of the people – was placed in the center of the arena under an arbor made of four upright posts with tree branches and leaves lashed on the top to form a roof, protecting it from the sun. The drum included the instrument – a wooden shell covered in rawhide – as well as its singers. There were eight men seated around the drum, wielding wooden sticks with padded leather handles. It was these men who sang all the songs.

  The emcee’s table was also at center point in the arena. Princesses from visiting tribes were seated by the emcee’s table, while rows of benches circled the east opening of the arena. This was for the dancers only, folks who reserved their spots with personal Pendleton blankets; an expensive symbol of affluence. Each dancer’s family sat behind them in lawn chairs.

  I directed the kids to the west side of the circle, so that we could see everything head on. Once we set up our fold-out chairs, I was never so happy in all my life to take a seat.

  Within minutes, the Grand Entry commenced and dancers entered the arena to pay their respects to our Creator. The center was a spiritual place blessed by a medicine man. It smoked with a sacred fire that burned brightly.

  The eight men beneath the arbor began pounding the drum, while the head singer let out a wail in a haunting voice that prompted the Wolf Tail Singers to echo him. The color guard, made up of veterans, led the procession carrying the American flag, an eagle flag, the state flag, as well as the flags of every Native American nation represented. All who entered the circle did so from the east and traveled in the direction of the sun.

  Everyone stood and removed their hats for the ceremonies. I nudged Madison and Pudge. “Be still,” I whispered, while holding my abdomen trying to keep my poisoned organs from spilling out.

  They nodded.

  The emcee, a heavyset man with a big space between his two front teeth, greeted all visitors. “Please do not take any photos or videos during these ceremonies, as we believe our ancestors are present with us today and we cannot allow photos without their permission.”

  The Head Man and Head Lady Dancers entered the arena. No other person danced until they did and I watched as other dancers greeted them with a dollar bill given in a handshake. They were followed by the Princesses – Native American ambassadors who wore sashes bearing their names and the names of their tribes. The Grand Entry parade looped around the circle until everyone was in the arena. There was a pause and then the Flag Song began. As the drum beat loudly, the emcee ordered, “Post colors.”

  The color guard – Native Americans representing each branch of military service – posted their flags at the side of the emcee’s table; colors that were very important to a people who still valued its warriors. I especially liked the eagle flag. It had a curved staff of about six feet with eagle feathers attached at the top.

  As the dancers moved to the beat of the drum, I noticed there were many different styles of dance and pointed out their regalia to the kids.

  The men, who danced mostly warrior style, wore long strings of bone hair pipe and beads, bandolier-style. A breastplate, or thin hollowed-out bones strung together in rows that hung from the neck for protection, reached many of their waists. The older ones carried dance staffs, long sticks decorated with beadwork and feathers, with an eagle’s head, bull’s horn or antlers attached. Historically known as a coup stick, it was the same staff carried into battle by many tribes.

  The women danced more gracefully, wearing elegant bead and craftwork on their regalia. Believing that water animals such as the otter would offer them protection, some sported a drop made of otter hide that hung down the back and touched the ground. One even had the head of the otter left on so that the animal could watch her back. Most of the ladies carried fans of feathers and wore bustles arranged with turkey and hawk feathers decorated with horsehair and eagle fluffs.

  Men and women alike wore clackers; sets of deer toes sewn onto a band of leather and tied around the ankles above their moccasins that produced a rattle sound. Colorful headdresses were fashioned from tied porcupine and deer hair, pinned in place by a roach pin and adorned with scalp feathers. “They’re so beautiful,” Madison said and she was right. They were quite a sight.

  For the newcomers to the ceremonies, the emcee explained, “Everyone faces different circumstances in this world. Many are born into the circle and some come into it later in life. For those who weren’t born into it,
just watch and listen. The key is to make friends that will soon become family.”

  I looked down at the kids. They were both as entranced as I was.

  “And for those of you who haven’t met me yet, you can probably tell that as a kid my exercise routine consisted of chasing the ice cream truck around the reservation.”

  I didn’t expect the humor and laughed right along with the crowd, fighting to ignore the invisible daggers that pierced my sides.

  “It’s true. And where I come from, graduating from elementary school is a real big deal.” His timing was spot on and the crowd hushed. “They don’t expect you to go much further than that.”

  Laughter echoed through the field.

  I held my abdomen tighter and told Bella, “He’s the one who should be a stand-up comedian.”

  She chuckled and placed her hand on my shoulder.

  “But seriously, we will now commence with our Veteran’s Song,” the emcee said. “There are very few people in our culture who are as highly regarded as veterans. Going back hundreds of years, songs have been sung of their actions and we will continue that tradition today.” He paused and scanned the crowd. “If you have served your country in the protection of its people, please honor us by joining us within the circle.”

  With her hand still on my back, Bella nudged me. But for whatever reason, I decided to stay put. It was a mistake.

  The drum began to thump and the lead singer howled at the sun. “Ooohwaaah…” While spectators removed their hats and stood, war mothers – women who had lost a child in combat – led the procession into the ring. The hair on my arms stood at attention and I felt a chill run the length of my spine.