The elders are chanting vowels.
She said the language is about tones and feelings, not just meanings. The meaning is in the vibration.
She would do this thing when talking about deep spiritual or cultural things, kind of pause and take it into her chest, and feel the intention of it coming out of her throat, the heaviness of speaking things of a sacred nature, of putting words to the kapu.
Even now I remember that thing she did and it brings on a feeling, like the beginning of medicine, when the medicine is just coming on, and I’m not sure if I feel it yet or just the anticipation, and my hands get a little clammy and my chest tightens up as my heart races a bit, a bitter or metallic taste in the mouth and slight shakiness in the hands. That was the feeling in the space before she said something serious and deep.
Kind of like the feeling before you have to take a poop. Uncomfortable. But the body’s way of telling you that something has to come out, even if it’s not easy.
Yet spirit is also light and giggly. Dancing elves and bubbles. Insects flitting, butterflies hatching. Farts in sacred circles. Cosmic jokes.
And spirit is calm and warming. A gentle hum. The turning of a leaf in the sunlit breeze. The still moment at the top of a breath.
The reflection of an old man, with wrinkled eyes, smiling yet worn, they stare back at me and draw me toward them yet warn me of things to come, and loss.
The reflection of a baby’s eyes, new with wonder, stare back at me and remind me of the smile of my glowing mother, silent yet reassuring, saying with all her being: everything is alright, everything is okay.
The butterfly unfolds from its cocoon outside the door.
The stone waits on the beach just as I was looking for.
The owl flies over the grave.
The woman in the crystal cave rises up over me as I lay back down.
The eagles bring buffalo skins to lay over me.
I float on the cosmic gurney as electric angels run their hands up and down my spine and smooth out all my tangles.
I rest my eyes as the canoe bumps and turns along the dark way.
The storm parts and then closes in again behind.
The threesome of frogs look sideways at each other like they already know this song, like they were sung it long ago. Like I was supposed to come back and sing it to them.
The rattle is from the underworld.
The medicine man crushes his eye and pours it into my hand and says “Your vision.”
I rest my eyes, and sigh.
I listen in the vibration of the silent moment.
so beautiful, scott. i love this.