Eagle Man, My Watcher
And my vision blurs
And I see him again…
Center of my mind
The mathematical center-
The pupil
Of the pupil
He is there
He is always there
Whether I choose to acknowledge him
Or to remain distracted
He is there
He is doing his work
He watches
From ten thousand feet
The land where he chooses to live
Is craggy and gray
And red and brown
With pools and patches and splashes
Of color here and there
Today we might call it desolate
Or Western Minnesota
Or Plain
Or The Great Plains.
He calls it home.
From ten feet
When he looks to the sky
Which he often does
His face looks like
The land where he chooses to love.
His face, craggy and gray
And red and brown
Also has pools -
They are deep and brown
And, seeing all,
Are sharp like the owl’s
His name is Eagle Man
And he scans the horizon
Three hundred and sixty degrees
Three hundred and sixty five days
(Or thirteen new moons)
Of the year.
Watch now, because he does this every morning:
You see the patch of new grass he is sitting on?
It’s not always there,
For it is now spring
And the Grandfather of the East is smiling.
In the winter time, the ground is white and he may be in his tipi lodge in this same place.
In the summer he is shirtless here,
In the fall, his favorite season,
He waits here with delight for the evening visits of the Thunder Beings
From the place he most often faces,
The deep and powerful West.
As you can see
The grass upon which he sits
Has a ring of darker grass that surrounds him
The earth is more fertile
In this ring
Like the ring around the iris
Of some people’s eyes.
Eagle Man is in the center of it
Always
The pupil
Of the pupil
Of the student.
Every morning
When I check on him
Eyes closed
I see him there
Eyes open
Scanning the horizon.
His pipe is in his left hand
And while he sometimes stands when he senses my approach
Today he sits cross-legged
On the green grass
In the center of the green ring.
His back is straight and strong.
Today he is shirtless;
Today he is shirtless;
You can see that his slightly sagging skin bears
Scars from, interestingly, a bear;
And there are scars on his chest
From ceremonies we can barely comprehend,
From ceremonies we can barely comprehend,
And there are scars on his left arm
From defending his home,
And there are scars on his belly
From defending the helpless ones.
His pants are buckskin-
And not just the color.
They are painted in places to remind him
Of Wakan Tanka,
The Life Force that flows through
All things
And to remind him
That all things are related
And connected
And temporary
Like pain
And joy.
Today he happens to be wearing his moccasins
Which were beaded by his second wife
Before she also passed.
So this morning
As we regard him
He stands wearily
But with strength I hope to one day have
And lifts his pipe to the sky
And with a tear
He thanks Tungashila
His name for Creator
For the view in front of him
And to all sides of him.
Facing West he acknowledges the Thunder Beings and the way of the Grandfathers,
Facing North he acknowledges the difficult times and the purity that comes from them,
Facing East he recognizes the gratitude that comes with the sunrise every day,
Facing South he smiles, remembering harvest and plenty and restfulness.
With his face again to the sky, raising his pipe
(Eagle feather gently blowing from it),
He smiles and thanks Tungashila for allowing it all and
He pauses here, smiling at the sky as if to a friend.
Touching his hand to his heart, he kneels
And placing it on the earth
He thanks Grandmother for taking care
Of his physical needs
With such compassion and grace.
Finally, Eagle Man rises again, and facing West and with the bowl of his pipe
In his left hand,
He slowly spins it
To acknowledge all the messengers that stand
Outside the dark green circle where he stays.
Now Eagle Man pauses and he listens.
He listens to my prayer.
When I pray for protection from that which may harm me
Things grow from the dark green circle.
At the intersection of South-West
A young warrior grows from the ground
Fearsome, painted, battle accoutrements at the ready
He faces outwards
His eyes are sharp as the hawk’s.
His muscles twitch with readiness
From sun up until he is dismissed again.
At the intersection of North-West,
A slightly older warrior comes from the earth
I would not want to meet this man in battle
For what he has lost in terms of physical strength
He more than makes up for in skill
And fighting experience.
At the intersection of North-East,
Another warrior melts upward.
I do not always see him
But he is from the old tribes
And is skilled at hunting
And at being seen
Only when
It is entirely necessary.
And finally
At the intersection of South-East
A young man arises.
He is full of innocence by today’s standards
But his eyes are sharp
And his mind is kind
But he is as skillful with a bow
As an Olympic archer
Could ever hope to be.
(Sometimes he passes the time shooting grasshoppers).
No words are spoken by Eagle Man
Or my warriors
As they scan the horizon
For whatever monsters may approach
But they never cease to protect me
When I ask Eagle Man to bring them.
Other times, I ask Eagle Man for advice
Or to pray with me
Or to cry with me
Or to laugh with me
Or to help me to understand
And this he always does-
Lighting his pipe
Offering it to
Creator,
And the Four Grandfathers,
And Grandmother
And Wakan Tanka
For me.
He never leaves me.
He smiles to me.
He is me.
--Eric Marley
April 2012
