the northwest coast, a long time ago...

to be continued...

the great plains, a long time ago...

it was a fine day. the air felt crisp and clean, the weather pleasantly warm but with a hint of a cold twang that is a sign of soon-to-come winter.

indian summer, that brief interlude of time after fall and before the snows.

ahead of me stretched the vast and gently undulating land of tall grass, as far as the eye could see, color of which was changing from golden-yellow to soft soil-brown of the earth.

the wind made the tall grass sway with a gentle rhythm, like ripples on a lake.

i followed the barely-visible trail, the rustle of the dry grass against my knee-high moccasins making me stop for three or four times on the trail. it sounded to me almost like the warning of the death-rattler. i paused for a few moments and looked up to see the wise eagle slow down too. i knew he was keeping his eye on me. he would swoop in and keep me away from danger, if there was any.

by the time i could hear the gurgling waters of the brook, i was a little tired because i had walked faster than usual. i was excited, the fact that i might come across the few scouts on the ledge, left behind to protect the village, did not worry me today.

more than anything else in the world, i wanted to be the first one to see the war-party coming back, the younger braves laughing and talking, my father and the other war chiefs just as happy but their faces solemn as usual, holding their coup-sticks proudly, as on the day they set out.

i couldn't wait to see if others - braves, their women, the old ones, babies and especially boys and girls of my age, from our friends to the east came along too.

for this great plains with the huge herds of buffalo, were as much theirs as it was ours, this is where our ancestors sleep, the place we call home. true heaven is a place on earth; it's here and now.

the eastern woodlands, a long time ago...

the night is very cold.

but i sit outdoors, a few steps away from the cosy warmth, the crackling fire of the longhouse.

i sit, wrapped in my furs, looking up at the night sky; it is as black as the fur coat of a new-born mountain bear. there is no moon tonight and there is a hint of winter in the air. a gust of icy cold wind rustles my hair but the deep black sky above me is lit up by many many stars.

i try to imagine the shapes formed by the stars; the old ones say that the stars form the shapes of animal spirits of the woodlands - the wise eagle with it's nest of little ones, a pair of salmon leaping clear out of the gushing waters of the brook, the lone wolf, herds of caribou, the grinning bobcat. but all i see is sparkling dust sprinkled on the deepest black one can imagine.

my eyes sweep down and i see a tiny wisp of smoke wafting up from a dense clump of pine trees in the distance. in the faint glow cast by the starlight, i can just about make out the silhouetted shapes of the pines.

far away, i hear the howling of wolves. they sound like they are mourning for the moon. and i can also hear the faint sound of a steady beating drum. it seems to come from so far away that i feel it rather than hear it; enough to lull me to sleep.

and just before i fall asleep, i realize, for the first time in life, that true heaven is a place on earth. it is where you feel at home, at peace with the world and yourself.