FATIGUED SPIRIT
FATIGUED SPIRIT
BY CHRIS LEWIS, OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY
Where am I? Who’s with me??? “Your Ancestors,” a response unlike any other uttered by any human. “Your father, your uncles. Your grandfathers and grandmothers, they are always there with you. And so too are their grandmothers and grandfathers; their fathers and mothers and their uncles and aunts; as well as the Ancient Ones. They remain in all things, for the Spirit remembers, as does the blood.”
The Spirit will go into the fields seeking to bring home the wandering. It guides the shattered and calloused, strengthens the weary. The Spirit brings an essence of clarity, unencumbered by the limitations of our verbal language. The raven speaks the language of the Ancient Spirit, as does the wolf; the trees and plants scream in silence for us to return, to cleanse. They speak the ancient language early in the morning while the leaves glisten contentedly with drops of dew. The clouds pull our eyes to the sky in a never-ending song of gray and blue.
The Ancestors wait for our focus to sharpen. They wait for our minds to be at peace enough to hear. They wait for our bodies to be strong enough to trust. “All is well and as it should be,” they say. “Talk with the creatures—the four-legged, the winged, and the green givers of life.” They are the messengers—for all of time. Trust in them and trust in life, kindness, and honor. Nature does not concern itself with good and bad, as we think. It remains right.
The Spirit remembers, and will always balance this right. A stone held in a tired warrior’s hand (a hand slick with sweat) is fired with the truth of a thousand lightning strikes. The stone bears witness throughout the ages, waiting stoically as vessels in port, as road map, as energy. It is hardened by time and circumstance. The stones and earth too, they speak the language of the Ancient Spirit.
The Spirit goes into the fields; it goes into the deserts, the forests; into our alleys in the cities. It waits for us in the quiet of the early morning, announced by the crow and slow marching clouds. It goes into the homes of the sick, it dances with the early morning dew inside the fences and walls of the prison (what they claim is a prison).
Strengthening the heart, life’s drumbeat cleanses the mind through the rivers of the eyes. The lost, forgotten, and taken stand in and run through the fields of mist with the Ancient Spirit. When the sky builds and opens again to meet the earth, the Spirit dances in the dust, in the dance hall of the smallest stones. It gives what is right, when it’s right.
My Ancestors rise from these many micro-basins of life — from the earth and water, stones and plants, they rise to the heights of the blackened and lightning-song sky. They are gray and withered, sunbaked all the colors of life and death. My Ancestors stand before me and all around me, as far as the ground reaches, adorned with all the burdens of many lives. The map of their journey is written in and on their ancient skin.
Their eyes … the fires burning all around … illuminate rather than destroy. The light delivers us from our need — it is a gift. It tells us where we are, reminds us who is with us. The Spirit is our gift. It remembers. | CL
ORIGINALLY FROM SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA, CHRIS LEWIS IS OF IRISH AND UKRAINIAN DECENT. HE LOVES AND APPRECIATES THE ART, BEAUTY, AND UTILITY OF WRITING. CHRIS IS THE CARETAKER FOR A ROSE GARDEN AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY, AND AN ENTHUSIASTIC MEMBER OF THE GROUND BENEATH US WRITING GROUP.
