I came with
two feathers. Ceremonial feathers, no
less. I don’t remember whether they came
from an eagle or a hawk or one of each.
They were gifted to me. One was
adorned with a small crystal and luminescent green threading wrapped firmly at
the base, the other with small beads and pouched at its base in leather. They had been sitting for a year in a
goldfish bowl vase planted in a cluster of small shells and stones on a shelf
in my apartment.
When I was
invited to the ceremony in the Santa Cruz Mountains, I thought the feathers
would be a perfect accompaniment. I had
no idea why, except that I was told it was going to be a tipi ceremony. My friend Ann who had invited me shared few
details except that I should bring a skirt and closed-toed shoes and that we
would be sitting up all night. “And
layers,” she said. “Bring layers because
it could get hot, and it could get cold.”
As we
approached the site driving across the pasture on a dirt road, I suddenly
caught sight of the tipi. It struck me;
austere, taut, canvas white, slightly charcoal-shaded near its crown, sticks
protruding out from the top like needles pinning it all together. It felt familiar. It felt solemn. I felt sad.
After we
parked, we headed to the meeting area where we said our hellos and made our
introductions to the others who had gathered, none of whom I had met
before. A few folks were our age and
older. Most were younger; probably in
their late 30s and early 40s. There was
a 3-year-old for good measure.
Ann and I
were prompted to set up our spots where we would be sitting for the night. The space inside was surprisingly larger than
what I had imagined it to be from the outside.
Thankfully, Ann brought backjacks for each of us, since the prospect of
sitting up all night without back support seemed completely unfathomable to me. We set them
up along an edge of the tipi on a floor covering and surrounded our space with
a couple of blankets and pillows, building our nest. Turns out we had set up our space closest to
where the fire would burn throughout the night.
I would be peeling off my layers.
As the sun
neared setting, 30 of us lined up outside the tipi entrance, where we
momentarily shivered in a stiff wind that had blown in along with the coastal
fog. Ceremony is measured. It takes its time. It takes our time until there is no
time. This was no time to focus on a bit
of shivering.
As we filed
in and settled into our seats, I was struck by the clean line of the sacred
space: The human circle sitting
cross-legged, filling the perimeter, limbs tucked in, feet covered; the fiery
centerpiece newly flaming, just beginning its incendiary journey; and the space
between the human circumference and the hot, crackling center, a large portion
of which embers and ash would occupy in a vast crescent arc by sunrise.
And so night
fell. And in the falling, there began
the dance of the dark, the dance of the ceremony. Prayers were quietly offered to the fire as
we each embarked on our respective and collective journeys.
The solemn
stillness was soon stirred by the gentle pounding on a water drum and the
shaking of a rattle. Eyes opened and
attention was drawn to the sound. As the
leader began singing, it took my breath away.
Ancient indigenous words, cathartic melody, visceral inflection. The call of the wild. The call of the sacred.
Steadily
woven amongst the songs was the tending and constant feeding of the fire. Long thick sticks were angled and stacked in
a very deliberate way by the three fire men moving with hot, sweaty focus like
glassblowers at a kiln. I relished my
view of the fraternal act of teamwork, a moving display of searing light and
dodging shadow.
As the fire
burned, the wood blackened into charcoal which steadily dropped its harvest
onto the earthen floor. It was the
rotating job among the fire men to distribute the coals within a crescent earth
berm and sweep the space clean around the woodpile. As the embers were spread out evenly, they
glowed like golden treasure, cooling into gray skulls.
The fire
burned closest to where I sat. I had
peeled down to my T-shirt as the heat rose.
I soon faced a conundrum: staving
off the heat in whatever way I could while remaining seated, as everyone was to
remain in place until a break was called.
And then I
remembered my two feathers.
I rifled
around the blankets and pillows beside me where I found them nestled. By this time, several others were using stunning
feathered fans to cool themselves or to shield their faces from the heat. I eagerly followed suit. As I lifted my feathers in a tight “V” in
front of my face, I was struck by the immediate relief they offered. I marveled at the detail of the feathering
that backlighting from the fire revealed.
A blessed respite.
Time and
ceremony passed. The songs began to
settle, as did the fire. Soon the
darkness at the tipi’s base gradually lightened as the sun and soft breezes
began to rise.
The young
man who had called for the ceremony began to speak. He thanked his friends for sitting with him
and for supporting him during his times of crisis as well as triumph over the
recent years. And though I did not know
him, I felt a deep sense of gratitude for the Universe conspiring on my behalf
for my presence in this circle.
The sharing
widened to include everyone in the circle who wished to speak. There was laughter, tears, expressions of
compassion for those who were suffering, acknowledgment of gratitude as well as
of fear.
After all
who wished to speak had done so, the circle rose in a final hand-held
affirmation of joy.
As I exited
the tipi into the light of day, birds singing and sun shining, I sank into a
moment of deep knowing that this night would remain with me. And I had my feathers to remind me.
