a navajo pipe

It hasn’t been the best few weeks for me. I’ve felt stuck in a hole where the walls crumbled and fell as i tried to climb out. I almost stopped bothering to clutch at another clump of soil, because it felt pointless. As you know by my last post we took a trip to Indian Head mountain — the most beautiful mountain in New England. We visited a stored before we started on the journey home. I filtered through the cheap trinkets, the badly printed “been there — done that” t-shirts and the air reeked of stale incense from years of neglect. The store was filled with frivolous moose clutter clumps and offensive smelling scented candles from the underground version of Yankee candle. As i turned a corner from the copper folded post cards, on an old wooden rack was a pipe. In the midst of this shop of tourist horrors was a little native-made section of tribal treasures. And all i could see was this blue glass beaded pipe hung in buckskin and leather. I held it in my hands, i ran my fingers over the horse hair and duck feathers. It was a lot of money, and i don’t like to spend money when there are so many practical things that need to be taken care of. Reluctantly i hung the pipe back and carried on. I looked at the answer feathers, leather braid wraps, real silver jewellery and medicine wheels; but i kept going back to the pipe. It was as if this pipe had something to tell me, a secret to whisper to me that only we could hear. It was stirring a willingness in me. To be strong. To be silent. To keep going. To keep watching the sunrise and the moon sleep. To keep writing. To keep watching for those twin black birds that follow me from place to place.

On the way home a dark fog seemed to clear and i could finally see the stars again. I hung my pipe by my bedside that night, next to my sand tile from the Navajo tribe in Nevada, and it was the first deep slumber i’ve had in weeks without ill feeling. Without getting up to look for Basil or waking every few minutes to be sure it was true that he was gone. Without wishing i’d hear my grandfather laughing in the corner. I just slept. And my soul slept. There was no loss and no guilt, that could wake me. This pipe is precious to me already. Like an old friend returned. It awoke the old raven in me who was losing its mind to memories and bad thoughts. The raven was desperate to fly again, and would rip open its cage if i didn’t let it out.
I don’t have to grasp for soil when i have wings.

Some things just speak to you. Feel you. Understand you. And you belong to each other. And this Navajo pipe, though its not its traditional use, has brought me inner peace by just existing.
Glass beads, duck feathers, buckskin, leather and an arrow head.
Indian Head Mountain.

My pipe is made by a first nations artist of the Navajo tribe, please only purchase Native-Made products and never native inspired.

silent

It’s the first of February already and in all honesty i have no idea where the hell January went. I didn’t make any new years resolutions but i did make a second vlog about coming to America!
I wasn’t excited for a new year to start because i’ve left a lot of things behind in 2018 that i wasn’t ready to. But such is the sorrow of living sometimes, we have to do what is hard. Theres nothing to be done about it. If life was easy there wouldn’t be any great books to read(and i’ve read three already this year!)
And the world would be ever poorer.
It really bums me out when i abandon my blog because its probably where i’m the most honest.
The little place i get to be me.

Having said that, i’ve started trying to pursue things i’ve always wanted to. I’m learning Native American sign language, and a couple of Blackfeet phrases to boot — i can already sing a couple of songs in Cherokee and Lakota Sioux.
There is something very powerful about talking with new breath in an old language.
How the word rolls on your tongue or opens your throat to new sounds.
Now thats magic.

Today i’ve also been fiddling around with Nordic Hide painting too on some old skins i’ve had hidden away. This was all after having been to the gym and work. Im impressed with how productive i’ve been today, because recently i’ve barely had the energy to read or get out of bed. That happens a lot.
I feel quite smothered in New England as there is no escape from people.
Theres nowhere to go where you can be alone.
Yesterday i filmed a little in the woods which was probably not my smartest idea. Considering the polar vortex and that i almost got frostbite. But when things are hard or inspiration has stood you up — the only answer is to go outside. Let the sun burn you a little. Let a squirrel throw a nut at you and get your hands frozen by the biting wind.
Nothing brings you back like mother nature.
Trust me.
Whats a lost finger here and there in comparison?

This is the sign for silent; a strong sign that means a lot to me.
I choose to be silent and watch.
I choose not to raise my voice because its not in my spirit.
Im not built that way.
A word can paint a thousand pictures, it can tell you how to think and how to feel.
However, observing the world in silence means you have to make up your own mind and think for yourself.
A pretty powerful trait.