Chief Seattle And The Web Of Being And The Ghost Dance
with Peter Kater, Robbie Robertson & Warrior Panther
Anyway here's some great music & videos- a reminder of what we should have learned from Native Americans about nature
& the fragile earth where we are privileged to reside - the blue marble floating in the infinity of space...and there
it is ...especially as you tend to your garden or search for some green space a few trees & shrubs in a public park in
your city or town or take off for the beach or go touring about or going to your summer cottage or a cabin you rented or go
hiking into the woods on your own or on hiking tours in some national park or cannoeing across a lake or down a gentle river
& appreciate what we still have but may not have for long...as there are those who see the value of nature in terms of
the almighty dollar who would cut down every tree spoil all the lakes & rivers & the oceans just for a buck -
Video " A People Forever " by David R Maracle from WarriorPanther at Youtube
HOLD ON -Pueblo Prayer - ( which is at the start of the video )
Hold on to what is good,
even if it's a handful of earth.
Hold on to what you believe,
Even if it's a tree that stands by itself.
Hold on to what you must do,
Even if it's a long way from here.
Hold on to your life,
Even if it's easier to let go.
Hold on to my hand,
Even if I've gone away from you.
And here's a video to the song " Coyote Dance " by Robbie Robertson from Youtube user WarriorPanther
Ghost Dance by Robbie Robertson from WarriorPanther at Youtube & a few words from Chief Seattle:
“Whatever befalls the Earth, befalls the people on the Earth. Man did not weave the web of life. He is merely a
strand in it. Whatever he does to the web he does to himself.” Chief Seattle
" Every part of all this soil is sacred to my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove has been hollowed
by some sad or happy event in days long vanished. The very dust you now stand on responds more willingly to their footsteps
than to yours, because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch."
" We know that the white man does not understand our ways. One portion of the land is the same to him as the next, for he
is a stranger who comes in the night and takes from the land whatever he needs. The earth is not his brother, but his enemy
- and when he has conquered it, he moves on. He leaves his fathers' graves, and his children s birthright is forgotten."
Ghost Dance Lyrics
Crow has brought the message
to the children of the sun
for the return of the buffalo
and for a better day to come
You can kill my body
You can damn my soul
for not believing in your god
and some world down below
You don't stand a chance
against my prayers
You don't stand a chance
against my love
They outlawed the Ghost Dance
but we shall live again,
we shall live again
My sister above
She has red paint
She died at Wounded Knee
like a later day saint
You got the big drum in the distance
blackbird in the sky
That's the sound that you hear
when the buffalo cry
Crazy Horse was a mystic
He knew the secret of the trance
And Sitting Bull the great apostle
of the Ghost Dance
Come on Comanche
Come on Blackfoot
Come on Shoshone
Come on Cheyenne
We shall live again
Come on Arapaho
Come on Cherokee
Come on Paiute
Come on Sioux
We shall live again
And for your driving pleasure real or imagined :
Peter Kater native American Music
from Youtube userhornet224:
" Scenic motorcycle cruise. Perfect Utah weather (record high temperatures for March). Wonderful scenery, canyons, mountains,
and a super smooth road to ride. Music credits: "Sacred Spirits" by Peter Kater - Chants and Dances of Native Americans. "
Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion upon my people for centuries untold, and which to us appears changeless and eternal,
may change. Today is fair. Tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds. My words are like the stars that never change. Whatever
Seattle says, the great chief at Washington can rely upon with as much certainty as he can upon the return of the sun or the
seasons. The white chief says that Big Chief at Washington sends us greetings of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of
him for we know he has little need of our friendship in return. His people are many. They are like the grass that covers vast
prairies. My people are few. They resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain. The great, and I presume -- good,
White Chief sends us word that he wishes to buy our land but is willing to allow us enough to live comfortably. This indeed
appears just, even generous, for the Red Man no longer has rights that he need respect, and the offer may be wise, also, as
we are no longer in need of an extensive country.
There was a time when our people covered the land as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea cover its shell-paved floor, but that
time long since passed away with the greatness of tribes that are now but a mournful memory. I will not dwell on, nor mourn
over, our untimely decay, nor reproach my paleface brothers with hastening it, as we too may have been somewhat to blame.
Youth is impulsive. When our young men grow angry at some real or imaginary wrong, and disfigure their faces with black paint,
it denotes that their hearts are black, and that they are often cruel and relentless, and our old men and old women are unable
to restrain them. Thus it has ever been. Thus it was when the white man began to push our forefathers ever westward. But let
us hope that the hostilities between us may never return. We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain. Revenge by
young men is considered gain, even at the cost of their own lives, but old men who stay at home in times of war, and mothers
who have sons to lose, know better.
Our good father in Washington--for I presume he is now our father as well as yours, since King George has moved his boundaries
further north--our great and good father, I say, sends us word that if we do as he desires he will protect us. His brave warriors
will be to us a bristling wall of strength, and his wonderful ships of war will fill our harbors, so that our ancient enemies
far to the northward -- the Haidas and Tsimshians -- will cease to frighten our women, children, and old men. Then in reality
he will be our father and we his children. But can that ever be? Your God is not our God! Your God loves your people and hates
mine! He folds his strong protecting arms lovingly about the paleface and leads him by the hand as a father leads an infant
son. But, He has forsaken His Red children, if they really are His. Our God, the Great Spirit, seems also to have forsaken
us. Your God makes your people wax stronger every day. Soon they will fill all the land. Our people are ebbing away like a
rapidly receding tide that will never return. The white man's God cannot love our people or He would protect them. They seem
to be orphans who can look nowhere for help. How then can we be brothers? How can your God become our God and renew our prosperity
and awaken in us dreams of returning greatness? If we have a common Heavenly Father He must be partial, for He came to His
paleface children. We never saw Him. He gave you laws but had no word for His red children whose teeming multitudes once filled
this vast continent as stars fill the firmament. No; we are two distinct races with separate origins and separate destinies.
There is little in common between us.
To us the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is hallowed ground. You wander far from the graves of
your ancestors and seemingly without regret. Your religion was written upon tablets of stone by the iron finger of your God
so that you could not forget. The Red Man could never comprehend or remember it. Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors
-- the dreams of our old men, given them in solemn hours of the night by the Great Spirit; and the visions of our sachems,
and is written in the hearts of our people.
Your dead cease to love you and the land of their nativity as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb and wander away beyond
the stars. They are soon forgotten and never return. Our dead never forget this beautiful world that gave them being. They
still love its verdant valleys, its murmuring rivers, its magnificent mountains, sequestered vales and verdant lined lakes
and bays, and ever yearn in tender fond affection over the lonely hearted living, and often return from the happy hunting
ground to visit, guide, console, and comfort them.
Day and night cannot dwell together. The Red Man has ever fled the approach of the White Man, as the morning mist flees before
the morning sun. However, your proposition seems fair and I think that my people will accept it and will retire to the reservation
you offer them. Then we will dwell apart in peace, for the words of the Great White Chief seem to be the words of nature speaking
to my people out of dense darkness.
It matters little where we pass the remnant of our days. They will not be many. The Indian's night promises to be dark. Not
a single star of hope hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Grim fate seems to be on the Red Man's
trail, and wherever he will hear the approaching footsteps of his fell destroyer and prepare stolidly to meet his doom, as
does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter.
A few more moons, a few more winters, and not one of the descendants of the mighty hosts that once moved over this broad land
or lived in happy homes, protected by the Great Spirit, will remain to mourn over the graves of a people once more powerful
and hopeful than yours. But why should I mourn at the untimely fate of my people? Tribe follows tribe, and nation follows
nation, like the waves of the sea. It is the order of nature, and regret is useless. Your time of decay may be distant, but
it will surely come, for even the White Man whose God walked and talked with him as friend to friend, cannot be exempt from
the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We will see.
We will ponder your proposition and when we decide we will let you know. But should we accept it, I here and now make this
condition that we will not be denied the privilege without molestation of visiting at any time the tombs of our ancestors,
friends, and children. Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people. Every hillside, every valley, every
plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished. Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb
and dead as the swelter in the sun along the silent shore, thrill with memories of stirring events connected with the lives
of my people, and the very dust upon which you now stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps than yours, because it
is rich with the blood of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch. Our departed braves, fond
mothers, glad, happy hearted maidens, and even the little children who lived here and rejoiced here for a brief season, will
love these somber solitudes and at eventide they greet shadowy returning spirits. And when the last Red Man shall have perished,
and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the White Men, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of
my tribe, and when your children's children think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or
in the silence of the pathless woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At
night when the streets of your cities and villages are silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning
hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land. The White Man will never be alone.
Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless. Dead, did I say? There is no death, only a
change of worlds.