Knee Buttons - Short Story / Religious / Humorous

And the gods regarded their creation, and saw that it was good.

The prototype, without gender, light of life not yet present in the eyes, stood mechanically, rose several feet above ground and turned without blemish before them in the air, arms outstretched, legs slightly parted.  

It was a team of two gods that had created the prototype. It had been hard work, to be sure. They had known all along how they wanted their creation, their most powerful to date, to turn out, but making the fundamental pictures a final reality was a different story. The god’s early training had included subjects that we might alternatively excitedly embrace or from which we might in terror cringe. In fact, although there were aspects of the training that had truly challenged them, since there was no time frame (what is time?), and since there were no other constraints on them, even the more difficult subjects had been utterly enjoyable to this team of two. As the gods had advanced in experience and knowledge, mastering to a degree impossible in common experience the subjects of physics, mathematics, philosophy and ethics, as well as the arts of pottery and painting among other mediums, they had been tested. They had, more accurately, tested themselves. They had had fun, for as they gained their knowledge, they tested it by creating. There was recently the task of organizing materials in space into planets and stars. They became good at this; enjoying the lights and colors dancing in the firmament which gave their mute approbation, as well as luminosity, to their exploration. Once this was no longer a challenge, they moved on to habitat creation. In other words, the stars and planets had been challenging and fun for a while, but even gods get bored simply manipulating material. It could be likened to the taking of dictation for a person new to the process. At first, challenging and interesting, but quickly mastered and as any mastered subject, eventually becomes drudgery. So they chose one particular planet among those they had created, cooled it, created water and a certain air mixture with which they were familiar and then worked towards the end of placing life on the planet. The first complex life they created life was lichens. They created wonderfully colored ones, but the fact that they had been created at all by the gods caused them immeasurable joy, no matter their appearance. The lichens were alive, by their own creation! From there, there had been meadows and then fields and then mountains of flowers.

“Enough, already,” the one god had proclaimed one day to the other, “of the flowers.”

The other god just smiled sweetly, picked a bunch of his favorites, and painted a grassy hillside with them. He smiled, nearly chuckling.

The ambulatory creations, however, were the most fascinating to them both, and they never tired of seeing their own creations move from one place to another. Where would they go next? How would the spark of life that they had given this particular arrangement of material be used? What motivated this amoeba to do this? What made this protozoa do that? The gods looked on, enthralled.

More and more powerful creations, each similarly imbued with the power to reposition itself independent of the gods will became, in a sense, the entertainment of the gods. They watched after them all, cats and elephants, birds and lizards, insects and fish, amazed when one species moved from one place to another, enraptured when each species perpetuated itself. All their creations did what they were programmed to do. In other words, all the god’s creations to this point had been given general direction and they all worked perfectly within those parameters.

One day, the smaller god said to the other, “I have an idea.”

When she had explained it, the larger god nodded.

They would make yet another creation, one that possessed many of the gods own powers, that would rule all the creations on the earth that had been formed, and then the gods would move on to yet another planet and start all over again.

“But,” warned the first, “it would not be ethical to put all our creations in the care of one master who would possibly use its will to encroach on the others will unnecessarily.”

“We must, then,” said the other, “create within this master form the desire to seek our council. We can then direct it.”

So they had began creating the most powerful of their creations, and when it was done, but not yet alive, they smiled, as you learned at the beginning of the story.

But the larger god now frowned. “How will we know when this being wants to speak to us? This being will certainly desire direction; he is powerful enough to know that he does not know everything.”   

The smaller god considered this. “We also have the problem of this being knowing what questions to ask at all. But these are not real issues. We will endow this most powerful creation with our sense of justice. When this one perceives that justice is not in order, he will be troubled and will seek our council. We can then direct his thoughts not only about the answer, but about which questions to ask.”

The larger one smiled back. The small god, he thought, is so wise.

“Furthermore,” the smaller god continued, “we wish the attitude of this most powerful creation to be one of humility. Otherwise, when we give council, it will not be heeded.”

“Good point,” said the larger god.

“I am smaller than you.”

“Yes?” answered the larger god.

“When one looks upward to another, he is in the physical attitude of submission. As I analyzed our past experience together in mortality, I came to realize that the mere fact that I had to physically look up to you, since you were taller, helped put me in a state of humility. Like a child to a father.”

“So you are saying that it is important that our most powerful creation be in a position of humility when he is asking our direction, and that somehow making him look upwards to us will increase his chances of making decisions that will enhance, rather than diminish, the experience of our other creations?”

“Yes,” agreed the smaller god, pleasantly, “that is precisely what I am saying.”

“You are so wise,” said the larger god, smiling.

“Thank you. You were wise for choosing me so long ago, in mortality” she said mirthfully.

Her wit always made him feel light and happy inside. He couldn’t suppress another smile as he continued. “So then, we shall let this most powerful creation know that we are above the earth whereon he shall dwell. And this will make him look upward when he wishes to speak to us.”

“That is good,” said the smaller god, admiring the fact that he understood her intent so perfectly.

“However, I think we can improve on this idea. Let’s make it so this being makes himself even smaller than he normally would be when he approaches us. To himself, he will be large and will naturally at times consider himself to be our equal, as such will be the nature of this most powerful creation when he is away from our presence. In these times he will need our counsel more than ever and yet with this attitude, he will be least likely to accept our counsel.”

“That is true,” said the smaller god. “You always see so far ahead!”

“Thank you. It is nice of you to say so. To continue, in order to do this, when this most powerful creation seeks our counsel, let us give him the inclination to bend his knees; to make himself smaller.”

“And bow his head, as well!” exclaimed the smaller god, excitedly.

The larger god considered this and frowned. “Bow his head? Look down? And yet we agreed earlier to make him aware of our presence above, precisely so that he would look up when he sought our counsel. How will looking down help him?”

“We will still bestow upon him the knowledge that we are above the earth, but with his eyes cast downward, he will be further in an attitude of humility. To himself, he will look even smaller and more dependent on counsel from somewhere other than himself.”

The larger god looked at the other in admiration. “How insightful,” he said.

“I am happy that you think I am. Finally,” the smaller god continued, “we will not prohibit our most powerful creation from praying in whatever physical position he may be in, but we will place upon his knees a button so that when he kneels and this button hits the earth, it will immediately summon us, to know that our most powerful creation seeks our counsel. Our angels will carry any message from us to them most expeditiously in that case.”

“Precisely, my perfect and dear friend,” said the larger god, bowing his head towards her. “We will make it so!”

And that is how we came to have kneecaps!       

Sundance Dreams, Part 3b: Willie Smith

It was late on a Friday in mid October 2011. I had worked all day and then had some responsibilities that kept me in Portland until nearly 8:15pm. I was expected in Bend, about three hours away, by a woman that had been my girlfriend. Jumping into my Jeep, I had all my gear loaded in, including my pipe (chanupa), which I had once been instructed to always keep with me. Whether that was meant figuratively or literally at the time could be a topic of discussion, but I, to this day, try not to take chances.

I checked the gas gauge: it was at about a half tank, a little under. I could probably make it, at least to Redmond, I thought. But why take chances? I would gas up in Sandy, about 35 minutes away.

But I didn't. As was my habit in high school and in many areas of my life, I wait until the last minute. Sometimes this has pleasant consequences, sometimes it does not. This was one of the latter, because as I passed the last gas station in Sandy (too crowded) and looked at my watch, I figured I could just gas up in Welches, a small mountain town 15 minutes up the road. Looking at my gas gauge, it seemed a little lower than I thought, so I would definitely need to gas up there or gamble on something being open in Warm Springs, the reservation town I would drive through. I didn't want to be wandering through Warm Springs on a Friday night, thank you.

I arrived in Welches at 9:04. The station had just closed.

Now I could go back to Sandy to the 24 hour station there, or push forward and really take it easy and hope for gas in Warm Springs. I may even make Madras. No way I was making Redmond.

The Jeep did ok as far as gas mileage went at 55-60 mph, but who wants to go that slow through the mountains? I had the top down, I was bundled up with the heat blowing. It was pleasant enough, with a carpet of stars framed by mountains and trees. I loved driving at night. Not many cars were going over the pass this time, and there were lots of stars. Perfect. I knew that counting on the gas station was a precarious proposition however, so I kept it slow. I noticed once or twice the speedometer closer to 70 and backed it down, but how long had it been there?

By the time I hit the desert stretch 20 miles before Warm Springs I knew I was in serious trouble. The needle was bottomed-out below "Empty", I had well over an hour to go before Bend, 40 miles to Madras and 30 to Warm Springs. It was pushing 9:45pm. I started hoping for two things: to at least get into cell coverage before I ran out of gas and that the gas station on the highway in Warm Springs would be open.

I took it easy on that stretch of highway, long and straight, that I usually found great joy in speeding upon. When I reached the edge of the great canyon that drops down into Warm Springs and my cell phone showed two bars, a corresponding level of hope entered my psyche; maybe the gas station would be open. After all, it was Friday night in a reservation town. One would imagine that the Native revelers would provide ample opportunity for a fuel station cum convenience store to increase an otherwise ho-hum bottom line? I literally coasted five miles to the bottom of the canyon with baited breath. It would be at least an inconvenience if not outright dangerous to run out of gas in this town at about 10pm on a weekend night.

Closed.

I mentally berated myself for not taking the five minutes in Sandy to wait in line and get gas, for taking chances that were unnecessary. A stream of memories that seemed along this same theme paraded mercilessly through my mind as I began the climb out of the canyon with more hope in my heart than gas in my tank.  

When the Jeep sputtered and almost immediately died I wasn't even close to surprised. I just coasted over to a very convenient dirt pullout and let it roll to a stop. I sat there, shaking my head. Coming out of the canyon at this point I didn't even have cell coverage and wouldn't until I got to the top of it, several road miles away. I often had an empty fuel can in my Jeep, but with the amount of gear I felt I needed  for the weekend, space was at a premium and I had removed it. I removed everything that I thought would be interesting to an unsavory character and stashed it over the edge of an embankment. Then I put the top up and resignedly stuck my thumb at the first car coming my way, which promptly pulled over.

With baited breath I ran up and looked into the passenger side window which had been rolled down to accommodate the tenuous hitchhiking transaction with which I had once been quite familiar, but no more. It was a young Native American man headed into work in Madras. I told him my predicament, he told me to hop in and we started down the road.

I knew I had been lucky to get a ride with a nice guy, but I didn't know how lucky I was until we started talking. I am a sucker for a story; I used to interview homeless kids to get theirs and put them in a blog. This man's story was nothing short of inspiring. I don't remember all the details, but I do remember it involved making significant sacrifices in his life as a single father to be able to provide for his young daughter. He had no social life; he was working several jobs to make a life for the two of them, the mother absent due to the all-to-common scourge among Native Americans, alcohol. I alternatively listened to his story, asked questions, and expressed sincere amazement at his dedication.

By the time we arrived at the nearest gas station, the Safeway in Madras, I was inspired to be a better father myself. I thanked him profusely, wished him the best and waved as he drove away.

Turning my attention to the next task at hand, I walked up to one of the attendants at the busy gas station. He was an older man with kind eyes. I would guess that he was in his mid-60's at least. He was friendly and empathetic when I explained my plight. I bought a gas can and he filled it. I stepped aside to make a phone call to my girlfriend to tell her what happened. When I returned, he was talking to a man who had driven up in a late model white Ford. I walked up to the nice older attendant that had helped me and that was now talking to the guy in the car. I needed a ride back to my Jeep, I explained to the driver. Was he going back that way?

It was as if they had been talking about my situation already. The driver, an older Native American man with thick, long and graying hair, barely looked at me and accepted almost as a matter of course. I asked that he wait a few minutes so I could run to Safeway to get some cash to give him, and he accepted.

When I got back he was ready and waiting, but still chatting with the nice station attendant.

I don't share my spiritual path with too many people, and it is tricky math sharing it with any Native folks because many of them are not too happy having white people anywhere near their sacred ceremonies. But as sure as anything in my life I felt not only that I could share anything about my life with this man, but that I should commence immediately. We were not out of the parking lot before I had told him I was a Sundancer and pipe carrier.

Again, I don't remember all the details of my conversation but I do remember the man's name: Willie Smith. I remember that he told me he had once struggled with drugs and alcohol but that he had changed and been a drug and alcohol counselor to his people for literally decades. As we drove through the dark, he spoke about his desire to reconnect with a sweat lodge and pray in that way again. It had apparently been a while. We spoke about the huge changes in my own life. He listened and asked questions. At one point he told me something to the effect that there was no such thing as mistakes as long as one truly did their best. His manner was gentle, his voice was soft. He spoke slowly and deliberately. I felt entirely comfortable opening up to him. All this in about fifteen minutes of driving.

At one point, I looked over at him. I will never, till the day I die, forget what happened next. There was a lull in our conversation and I looked over at him. He was looking straight forward, intent on the dark road. I noticed two things simultaneously. First, with his hair unbound, his profile was huge. Immediately my Sundance dream came to mind. Then it occurred to me that I was riding in what appeared to be a white, late model Ford. A sense of astonishment began to wash over me. Almost as a formality I turned and looked towards the back seat and back window. The back seat was full of stuff, as was the back window.

I was filled with a sense of incredulity. I even told him that he reminded me of someone in a very important dream I had once had. While I don't remember exactly what he said in response, I do remember that the proclamation served only to deepen the good feeling between us. Indeed the whole car seemed filled with good will and a sense of well-being.

His headlights fell on my Jeep. I was almost sorry to see it. It was getting late. I didn't expect it, but he kept his headlights on me as I retrieved my stuff from over the embankment and loaded my Jeep again.

Another image now arises that I will never forget. It was Willie, standing with his headlights behind him.

"Eric," he said, "I love you."

"I love you, too, Willie. Thank you for everything," was all I could say.

He smiled, got in his car, and drove away.

Not many months later I drove into the Safeway gas station to see if I could find the nice gas attendant that knew Willie. I wanted to see if I could get hold of him to invite him to a sweat.

I asked three separate men at that station about the old man that had helped me. Not one of them could recall a man fitting my description. Asking about a "Willie Smith" from the rez was even more fruitless.

To this day I have found no sign of either.    







 

Sundance Dreams 1-3 (True Stories)

Dreams - April 4, 2010

I had a dream last night (April 4). In it, my boss Dan was frustrated with me. I was driving with him and his wife, Michelle. He was arguing with her about something. Michelle kept changing back from Michelle to the new girl at work, Lindsay. Michelle knew everything about me, professionally. She seemed to be very familiar with Dan’s frustrations regarding me. We had been on a dark highway. Dan took a turn off the highway onto 27th in Bend. This interchange does not exist, but it did in my dream. From there he turned into the frontage road near the police station. Again, the places exist but the interchange I saw does not. We traveled on the frontage road (near Food For Less in Bend) until we pulled into the parking lot of a box store where the fire station currently sits. The store was closed and the parking lot was dark except for a couple of street lights. There was one other car in the parking lot. As we were pulling in, I saw two bald eagles playing. They were beautiful and so graceful – did not seem to know we were there. They played for a while with one another, swooping and racing in the dark sky. As they flew, they seemed to change from bald eagles to golden and back. They eventually landed with one perched on a telephone pole and one on the wire and looked at us for a while before taking off and playing in the air again. As they did so, they got closer and closer. Eventually they swooped down so close that I could almost touch them while I was on the ground, even though they were still flying. Then one landed very near the car. I got out of the back seat and walked towards it. It was now as big as a man (this reminds me of the Eagle Man vision I had in my first sweat). I had voiced to Dan that I hoped he would drop a feather so I could get it. Now I tried to pluck one off him, but he moved just out of reach. This seemed to be a massive golden eagle –I guess it could have been a young bald one as well. I was concentrating on the one eagle although I think they had both landed and I was so focused on the one I didn’t see the other. At any rate, after they had grown to be huge, as big as a man, they just flew off. When they flew off I noticed a man there. He was a beautiful, intelligent, regal, Native American man. He was in perfect build proportionally, a handsome face. He was not tall, maybe 5’9 or so. He had long, straight black hair that seemed to have things in it like maybe feathers and beads here and there. He was dressed in buckskin leathers and had tattoos of stars on his feet and planets on his chest, which was open just enough to see. It seemed there was a bear tattoo or sign somewhere on him as well, but I don’t know for sure where or how (Bear was another of my visitors in my first inipi). I was still near Dan’s car when I saw him. I walked towards him to speak to him about the eagles because he certainly saw them as well. I wanted to comment to him about how beautiful they had been, how graceful and full of life and fun, how they seemed so carefree and happy to be alive (Being-ness). One of us, or seemingly both of us at the same time – asked if we could smoke together – an impromptu pipe ceremony. He eagerly agreed, with or without words, I don’t remember. Dan protested that I would just smoke with any guy I saw, apparently upset and without understanding. The Native American man opened the trunk of his beat up white sedan – a late 70s model Ford possibly, with a lot of stuff in the back window and seat. There seemed to be another person in the car on the passenger side I never really saw or interacted with (just like the second eagle?), but his profile was decidedly larger than what seemed normal. I did not ask about him. The beautiful Native American man eagerly pulled a bag out of the trunk and produced a filled pipe with what appeared to be an oversized bowl compared to the pipes I’ve seen. (In re-reading this for the first time in almost a year in January 2011, I am amazed that this describes perfectly my own chanupa bowl…) “Where’s your pipe?” he asked expectantly. I said I didn’t have one yet. He looked disappointed. “You (should) never go anywhere without your pipe,” he said. “I just don’t have one yet”, I said, disappointed in myself for not having one to share with this man. He smiled at me anyway and picked up his filled pipe. The chanupa mix looked and smelled amazing, perfect. It, like the man, had a beauty to it that I cannot describe. It resembled, in concept and possibly appearance as well, a clear night sky or the universe, turning slowly. Michelle approached us to see what was happening. She was my Mom now. I introduced the man to my mom, saying, “This is my mother, Myrna.” He graciously took her hand and spoke to us about something – I think the importance of the pipe. I was amazed at how the words flowed from him with such perfection. Mom was intrigued and pleased. I awoke. NOTES: I had a vision of an Eagle Man in my first sweat (rabbit, mouse, bear were there also – probably wrote this in a journal somewhere and should consult it). I spoke to Brennan about his pipe yesterday – got his story about it. Also in the past two days I saw pics of the male/ female yay at Becky’s studio. Called Jakk yesterday to say hi as well.     Dream #2, same night: I found a HUGE black feather. As I approached it, I imagined that because of its size it certainly had to be an eagle feather. As I picked it up, it was a combination of three feathers. I was discouraged, wondering what I should do with it. Upon closer examination, the uppermost of the three was an eagle feather.  Dream #3: earlier A black dog walked in front of me from right to left, stopped, looked at me and spoke aloud, "Sundance."

Root - Prose

Root

My root’s not square

Its round

It pounds down

Into your musty

Valley

Of all that

Can be

We are

Messengers from two worlds

Each bearing gifts

Rifts

Splits

Imperfect passenger pigeons

With missives from past lives

Dusty miles traveled

Here now

To gaze into one another’s pools

Those floating orbs, planets

Galaxies

Merging.

--Eric Marley, December 2010

Rock - Prose

Rock

“Don’t like me yet

Because I don’t know what I am doing.

I am not floating on top of the sea water

or even on top of the sea weed

I am a rock that got blown off the cliff above

and into the sea below

and I am sinking

and it’s what I do

and I cannot be saved

so don’t even try.”

These were my words

But you did not listen…

You reached your hand into the water

and you grabbed a sinking rock-

Not because it was pretty

but because it was sinking-

and it is your job to lift things that are drowning

apparently

and you do it

you do your job

and that’s good

because I am a rock-

a single brown pebble that once was on a cliff

but blew off

and I was supposed to drown

and I felt undone here

and I didn’t know what to do

and I was scared…

The sea

In all its vastness

Makes a little stone like me

Quite invisible

I would have just melted into the sea floor

and that would have been ok with me

but you said

“Stop it

I don’t care.

All I want is for you

to be ok

with you.

So don’t worry about me

Just be you.”

And so I sit on your shelf in your beautiful warm home

and I know you could have put more shells up here

or some artists dream

but instead

you put me there

a small, brown rock

so I came to know that I too

am beautiful, in my way.

And it is because of you.

--Eric Marley
December 2011