Rise Up
I took the day off from the paying gig to follow my passion. I created the music, then added images I’ve taken throughout the years. I hope you enjoy.
Cycle Pray Sing
There is a sacred place I visit. It’s close to my home and calls me to come visit the Ancestors and the guardians of the land of the Principal People, the Anigiduwagi or People from Kituwah. When I visit, I walk or cycle and greet the Ancestors as I begin. Then I listen. Or pray. Or sing.
Because it’s so close, I can visit before my work day begins and did so earlier this week. I was thinking about my brother and his struggle to recover from a viral infection after having open heart surgery. So after making the connection with the Ancient Ones, I started pedaling and praying and asked for a sign for him. Then I started singing.
I had gone a little over a mile when I came around a corner and saw a massive bull elk standing in the gravel road. He heard my song and turned to look at me. I stopped my bike and thanked him for his strength and beauty, took a few photos and turned around to leave him to his morning.
As I completed the 10 miles of cycling, I thought of my brother, sang for him and prayed for him and thought of the elk that appeared and then, later in the ride, had disappeared as I returned to that section of the road. In Native American cultures, the elk often symbolizes strength, power, and endurance. In many cultures it is seen as a symbol of protection. These are all qualities that my brother needs as he recovers his health.
Every time I visit this sacred place, there is a blessing given as I approach with gratitude, respect, and gentleness. As we walk through life, if we offer the qualities to all places, animals, and people, I imagine the world will show us many blessings and we will be lifted to a new place of living. On that particular day, I thanked the elk for reminding me of the qualities my brother has and has around him as he works to recover his own strength and endurance.
The Elk
The headlights illuminated a doe, heavy with her unborn baby; her white tail a flag as she bounded into the woods from the driveway. So alive, so vital.
At nearly that exact moment, ten miles away, the beautiful elk mother, heavy with her unborn baby, was struck by a car.
As I drove into the national park, the thick, red slick on the road lead to her crumpled body.
I stopped and rolled down the window to say words, to say thank you…for your beauty, your life.
White ribs stood out against the deep, red gash…that image is burned into my mind…and her head, looking back over her shoulder at an odd angle.
The bulge in her belly, now still as the mother–both traveling the spirit world. Free of pain and suffering, leaving us behind to mourn more loss of beauty, of wildness.
Our tears mix with her blood. Together they flow into the river.
Home Waters
In the gray light of dawn, mist was rising from the surface of the Oconaluftee River. I looked ahead and saw two white-tail does and a tiny fawn splashing in the water. They spied me and stopped. Even though I froze, they were no longer comfortable in their play and went on guard, as any smart deer would do.
They reminded me of another area I walk. There is a doe I often find frolicking in the water on a bend in the creek where she plays. I always look for her, a water sister.
This morning, after observing the fawn and does playing, I walked on. Within a few minutes I saw an elk cow and calf in the river. Light was shimmering on the water’s surface, leaves were backlit and framing the scene in glowing green hues. All of these gentle creatures, going to water to find relaxation, peace, nurturing.
I struggle for words to express how being in water heals me. I find deep kinship with the deer and elk as they stand in the flow and attend to the present moment—breathing, sensing, being. Like the Cervids, I wander into water—I collect water to filter for drinking, but sometimes I just stand and breathe and feel the cool water rushing against my skin. Like them, I am home in these waters.
I was born on a small bay in coastal Alabama and grew up there with a childhood full of brackish-water adventures. As an adult, I found scuba diving and cave diving immensely pleasurable. But fly fishing has brought me to my home waters.
Traditionally, home waters is a term used to describe an area of sea around one’s own country. In fly fishing, we talk of home waters as being the waters near where we live and fish. After spending many days wading in all weather and seasons, I have come to understand that home waters are the waters I carry within my body. And those waters are never separate from the rivers and creeks around me.
