This morning dawned clear and bright, and for us, very, very busy. Today is not a holiday in this household: The dominant culture’s name for it is, of course, a blasphemy here; and while Wings and I exchange our own joking “names” for the day, often profane ones, the current movement in some jurisdictions to rename it “Indigenous Peoples Day” winds up being wholly unsatisfying, as well.
Why? Because it’s reactionary, a pushing back against the the name of the genocidal invader, but it still grows out of a frame that began not with us, but with the opposite.
Don’t get me wrong; we both believe, and deeply so, in the wielding of political power and behalf of our people. And we thoroughly understand (more, frankly, the most non-Natives) how what is not generally understood to be “political” is, in this broader society, very much so. At the same time, when we choose to strip away the veneers and address life where we live, so to speak, we prefer to do it in a way that wholly inhabits our selves first, rather than beginning with how everyone else sees us, which is in a broader and fundamentally foreign context.
On this day, whenever I have had to pause in between tasks to wait for someone else to complete something, I’ve scanned headlines and articles and comments in a host of venues, and every single one of them has left me feeling unsettled and dissatisfied with what I’ve seen. We are both at a place in our lives where we have long since reconceived our definitions of “power,” and recalibrated our measurements thereof. As an old friend and brother, a warrior now walked on, used to put it, in our way, Power just is. It does not depend on authority, it is not synonymous with authority, it is not authoritarian in its own manifestations. It simply is.
Immanence.
And I suppose this is part of what troubles us lately, these seemingly constant appeals to authority, on either side (or many more than just two of them), the constant insistence that certain individuals must speak for us, and that if it contradicts our own beliefs, our experiences, our identities, our very selves, it doesn’t matter, because the appointed and accepted authority has spoken.
No.
Our peoples have already been through the “you must have a chief” dynamic. It’s not necessary to repeat earlier mistakes of acquiescence — or of hunger for power and status and externally imposed “honors.”
For many of our peoples, a sense of spiritual power is embodied, in this world that we can see and touch, by the great raptors that seem able to transcend the boundaries of the worlds, to traverse their thresholds and fly among their interstices. There is Bald Eagle, of course, now a pan-native symbol of power, an embodiment of honor and respect, a messenger who carries our prayers to Spirit. There is Golden Eagle, or, as some of us name him, the War Eagle, the larger one who flies before the warriors and instills his heart and courage and bravery in their spirits.
Then there are the hawks.
They are many, large and small, and the roles they play vary widely. According to some stories, it was Hawk who, in the Ancient Times, neglected his duties upon the lower winds in favor of soaring high above the stormclouds to play ball with the Thunderbirds (or Thunder Beings, as they are sometimes called). They permitted him to join them at their game, the thunder the sound of the stick cracking against the heavenly ball as they raced back and forth across the sky, lightning flying from their talons. Hawk enjoyed the game so much that, instead of returning to his duties below, he elected to remain with the Thunderbirds, at play in the storm.
The spirits, displeased with this dereliction of duty, cast him back down to the lower strata.
It was, no doubt, a sad and sobering end to Hawk’s fun. For us, though, it became a blessing, because he now shares our own skies, flying low enough that, at times, we may see his powerful wings coursing through the clouds . . . and even, occasionally, alighting upon a branch nearby.
We have been fortunate over the years to receive visitations from raptors of all sorts. This mated pair of red-tails have now made their home with us for the last two winters consistently. This year, however, spring’s arrival did not herald their departure, as it usually does; it simply decreased the frequency with which they flew into our line of sight, as they ranged far and wide upon the warmer currents.
They are not the only ones.
In recent weeks and months, a mated pair of their much smaller cousins in the Falcon Clan, commonly known as American Kestrel, have made their home her with us; the male of that pair holds special significance for me, as the carrier of my great-grandfather’s spirit. Harriers, too, have taken up more regular residence than usual this year, and a few weeks ago, we were blessed with a two-day visitation by a very young War Eagle. Over the last month, the greatest (in size) of all the hawks, the Ferruginous, has become a regular visitor, too; early last Friday, having apparently concluded that this was a safe and hospitable haven for the winter, he brought his mate to this place.
They are all birds and beings of spirit, embodiments of great power and symbolic significance. But those who live with us most regularly are the pair whose name is Red-Tail. The sound of their wings as the launch themselves upon the currents is indeed a bit like thunder, and while I have yet to see them carry lightning in their talons, the autumn sun upon their genuinely red tailfeathers does indeed glow.
Wings has been capturing their image for years now, and no matter how often he does so, each instance brings with it a renewed affinity with these great birds, a renewed sense of power and purpose.
Because of the old story, I tend to think of Hawk as the being closest to the Thunderbird. He did, after all, share sky and storm and sport with them. Both Eagles seem more inclined toward Spirit in a sense that has to do with Medicine, but Hawk?
Hawk is raw power at its most elemental.
On this day, it seems to me that it is perhaps his spirit more than any other upon which we need to call: a spirit that knows its own identity, its own immanence of power, in a way that needs no one’s definition or explication or acceptance.
Like the crimson light in Hawk’s feathers, like the strength of his great wings in flight, power is a part of who we are, and we are a part of it.
Power is.
And like it, we are.
Still.
~ Aji
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