The Old Indian Medicine Man
As I looked up to heaven I realized the words I was hearing, the chant was the old Indian Medicine man.
He was speaking in an unknown tongue, at least unknown to me.
It wasn’t the normal variation of Indian dialect, or one of the various Indian language that I certainly couldn’t speak but was still identifiable as a staid and true, American Indian language.
No, this utterance was different, very different.
He seemed to ride along on a higher plane as his voice rose and fell to new highs and new lows.
He would raise his eyes, then his head and so his face was aimed upwards, to the skies by day and the stars by night.
If at night the moon would appear to cast a shadow against his noble, reddened face; almost as a cloud passing before the sun and interrupting the flow of sunlight upon one’s face.
This… this medicine man was intense and intranced.
His visage piercing ahead, face tilted up, eyes towards the heavens.
Then I saw a sort of glistening effect appear, first on one cheek then the other.
A tear.
Yes it was a tear. Singly at first then several then more and yet more tears, until it seemed that a dam had broken and a torrent of tears fell from his face.
This old worn weathered face, a face that surely saw many events from battles with his enemies to births of his loved ones and to deaths.
Yes deaths amongst his tribal family.
Yet his face – his countenance did not bear dispair or anger, nor a foolish laughter, haughty and surmised.
This look was one of peace and contentment.
As though judgement had been passed and this brave warrior, this medicine man, was not found wanting.
This speaking in an unknown language was new to me.
Indeed very new.
I decided to keep still.
To keep still and listen while this wise old Indian man spoke his piece to his God above.
For this look on his noble gaze was one of love,
Pure and total love…

When Synapses Go Bad 