Medicine Matters
After the lunch meeting that led to my buying the property, it was Susana rather than Jimmy who kept in loose touch during the three months between that first meeting and my return to move in. Just a few cordial text messages. When I arrived, I learned to my sadness that they had broken up. The trial romance after forty years of friendship didn’t take. Jimmy had nursed her through a serious shoulder injury, but she ungratefully sent him packing soon after she healed. I liked them both, but liked them especially together; I related to them more as a couple, and wasn’t too sure how to relate to them separately.
It was also Susana who invited me to ceremonial dances at Ohkey Owingeh Pueblo, and then a Leo Kottke concert in Santa Fe, then brought me cute and sentimental housewarming gifts. Daughter of a Spanish teacher, Susana spoke the most beautiful Spanish, and I’m kind of a sucker for that. But I wasn’t the least romantically inclined, and the situation grew increasingly awkward. I stonewalled overtures, trying to get back to the friendship augured by the first meeting. When I finally flat out told her I wasn’t interested, she took it as an insult to injury and did a 180-degree flip-flop. She had apparently seen herself as mistress of that property and did her best to make it happen. It must have seemed like an outsized influence she had on me after I bought the place, but it wasn’t like that.
Meanwhile, Jimmy was certain I had stolen Susana, and he didn’t speak to me for nearly a year. I had a vague inkling what he was thinking, but what he suspected me of was so far from my thoughts and intentions, and from what actually happened, that the notion dawned on me but slowly. I hated that I had seemingly lost this friend, and over such a gross misinterpretation of events. But precisely a year after our first meeting, I noticed his home studio would be a stop on that year’s art studio tour, and decided to drop in and pay him a visit during the open house.
After the initial gasp of surprise, I found him as open and friendly as during our first meeting. He confessed his suspicions, which he knew by now were false, and I told him my story. Neither one of us was too keen on Susana by then. But I did see her one more time, cordially, when she hosted a very warm and spiritual Day of the Dead celebration at the Vivac Winery, where she worked. Shortly after that, Jimmy told me she had moved to Sacramento to make a claim on the estate of her ex-husband, who had just passed away, and I never saw her again.
It was also the real beginning of a friendship deep as family with Jimmy, a self-educated wise man, whose close connection with earth and spirit puts the gravity of truth in plain-spoken words. I’m all ears to that and just try to uphold my end of the conversation. I end up in a better place for having talked to him. He learned a lot by being targeted by the law for brown skin and marijuana in his youth, but came out grounded in earth and spirit nonetheless. He credits the medicine for its sustaining comfort, guidance, and power. He’s a brother to me.
Shortly afterwards, Jimmy informed me that an elder in the NAC named Oscar at Taos Pueblo would hold a Thanksgiving prayer meeting for Jerry Hatcher. I would be able to thank him personally for introducing me to Jimmy, and also finally realize the transcendental experience I had discussed so earnestly with Jerry back in Houston. My toes tingled at the prospect. In fact, they’re tingling again now just thinking back to it.
I was so excited at the prospect that I neglected to ask much about the finer points of the meeting, of which there are many. And they are generally inscrutable as nuances of the native songs that swirl around the teepee all the long night through. To the novice, the most significant of these particulars is that you sit on the ground in a teepee, without back support, while tripping on peyote, from sundown until well after the sun comes up the next morning. I had somehow conjured the cockeyed image of people lying back comfy on big pillows, just grooving on the fabric of the universe as it reveals itself in technicolor. But it wasn’t like that.
The liturgy is as opaque to the outsider as it is natural to the faithful. Even so, some of it has percolated through to me by virtue of long contact with Jimmy’s practiced thoughts and ways. He chants under his breath sometimes, and I pretty well know it’s prayer for my benefit. And it seems to work, for peace, guidance, and strength. What more could you ask than that?
My take-away learning is deeply meaningful in its extreme simplification: to walk a straight path, respect all nature and nurture it within yourself, and trust the medicine. That’s very substantial guidance and strength for journeying through a troubled world. The physical demands of the meeting, however, that long, long sitting, far exceed my flawed resources. I have learned though to trust the medicine, but I experience it on my own, per my original desire.
That first meeting, which began the night before Thanksgiving and ended in a memorable feast at about 11:00 the next morning, is a precious memory, despite how miserably I failed the test that it posed to me. This is how it happened.
Jimmy and I arrived at Oscar’s place at Taos Pueblo, just outside the grounds of the multi-story pueblo structure, in time to assist with driving in ground pegs to secure the teepee. Jimmy had warned me that Oscar could be kind of rough, and usually was. Aggressive, cantankerous, needling. He stood about 4’10”, sixtyish, solidly built, braided pig tails to his waist. He greeted us with, “hey Jimmy, why you bringing a white man to see me? I can’t make him into an Indian before the meeting tonight.” While Jimmy dealt with him, I nervously set my jacket and pillow inside the teepee and helped the assistant drive the last stake in and check the integrity of the structure.
I had no idea what I was in for, but this was a can’t miss occasion, renewing acquaintance with Jerry in this context, where they are honoring him, and I’m going to lose my psychedelic virginity. That was something to get excited about. Besides, I had nothing else on the docket for Thanksgiving.
Jimmy hadn’t told me anything about what to expect in the meeting, but he did tell me that I would need a good pillow. To that end, he took me to a friend’s store in Taos the day before and told me to buy what he said would be the perfect thing: about a foot square hard-packed green East Indian print pillow, which I stowed in the teepee.
Over the next several hours, twenty-some souls, almost half of them Anglo, arrived to participate. Some, like L.J., the six foot four Comanche dressed all in black, and Richard, the thirty-something Anglo sergeant at arms, simply travelled from meeting to meeting, around the four corners states, Oklahoma, and Texas. Others, like the young Anglos who ride-shared down from Boulder, were well experienced in the NAC and came whenever they could. There were drummers and chanters, Native Americans, Anglos, and Hispanics, ceremonial leaders, and then there were a couple of Anglo neophytes like me, although I think I was the only first-timer. An Anglo furniture maker from Taos named Lance tended the fire, which was really the crucial role, and quite an onerous and honored one. He had been doing this all his adult life.
Jimmy and I went into the teepee as darkness fell, and Lance started the fire shortly after. The teepee easily accommodated all in a wide circle, with a large fire pit in the center. I needn’t have worried about the cold, at least inside the teepee. Corn husks and pipe tobacco were passed around for everyone to roll one and smoke. This expedites prayers and is integral to the goings on. Then a rattle on a long pole was passed successively to each person capable of singing and chanting a ceremonial song. The drummer moved to the singer’s position to pound out a rhythmic accompanying resonance. I found the quality of the music stunning and wondered at the time and practice necessary to get to that level, especially for the Anglos, who were to my ear very good. Jimmy’s singing also stunned me. In a deep, resonant baritone, he praised and petitioned the spirits as well as any. A new, mystic shade of identity emerged from Mr. Henriquez, swirling into the cloud of spirit pervading the proceedings. I was a humbled observer.
A bowl of ground peyote circulated. Cedar was thrown on the fire. When it came to me, I poured myself a small handful, held it a moment, then swallowed the bitter cactus. I awaited the effect as the fire threw shadows on the teepee wall and person-by-person the process was repeated. At intervals, all through the night, the bowl circulated again, and the drum, rattle, and chant continued. Also at intervals, cued by I don’t know what, the chanting and drumming stopped for someone’s long and solemn prayer.
Not long into the night, my back started to ache. The East Indian pillow proved uncomfortable, and I have scoliosis, not to mention a touch of claustrophobia. Jimmy had not disclosed that we would be sitting upright on the ground from dusk on Wednesday well into Thursday morning. That was too basic and taken-for-granted to be spoken, I think. As the only first-timer there, I was probably the only one who considered this preposterous, if not downright impossible. But as the Reverend Bear Heart (aka Marcellus Williams) says in his book The Wind is My Mother, “we have much to be grateful for and pray about, so we take our time to do it.”
I abandoned the pillow and stretched out, leaning on an elbow. My slouching presence could not have reflected positively on Jimmy who brought me, but I can honestly say I couldn’t help it. My anatomy just doesn’t conform to sitting that way. Jimmy was sitting next to me and informed me that I could get away with reclining while music is being played, but only sitting cross-legged or on one’s knees is appropriate when there is sacred water in the room or a leader is smoking or praying. To heed the inevitable call of nature, one must choose an appropriate time (when music is playing) and move in the proper direction, away from the music. I stumbled into every possible faux pas, but Jimmy and the leaders were sympathetic and forgiving.
As the night wore on, the medicine asserted itself, gently but firmly, and not at all as I expected. I felt it as a sentient presence that found its place in me to occupy, like a home base, under the ribcage, from which its power emanates. It lifted my consciousness into the swirling miasma of spirit circulating around and through the teepee. Rational cognition, mostly in the background, seemed unimpaired, except when discomfort grew acute. At the same time, I felt the presence within of a disembodied entity carrying me along on soulful wings of song and prayer.
Glancing around in the firelight, I noticed the diminutive Oscar had assumed the stature of Mt. Rushmore. The young Anglo girl from Boulder, who earlier looked as if she just stepped out of a sorority, became a Native American princess as she prayed over and tossed back another dose of medicine. The commanding figure of L.J. might have ruled over all the nations with his solemn presence and alternately thunderous and pleading chants and prayers. His was a practiced persona, perfected in and for this context, and a great medium of spirit.
By about 4 AM, back pain was in control, and it seemed as though flying lizards might storm the teepee. I was ready to throw in the towel, but Jimmy counseled me that what we did this night would reflect on all our family. I knew it would reflect on him too, in this important peer group, so I hung on by my fingertips, squirming continuously in vain quest for back relief. After three eternities and the ritual of morning water, the sun was well up and we finally took a break. We all left the teepee, but with the admonition not to go far because breakfast would soon be served.
That sounded pretty good, but as it turned out, breakfast was in fact another prayer meeting, only with bread and fruit, for another hour and a half. When it was mercifully over, I felt the most enormous relief, like coming up for air after you’ve virtually passed out from holding your breath. Oscar’s wife Ruby and her friends were finalizing dinner for all in the house. What followed when everyone finally settled into another fine fellowship was one of the warmest and best holiday gatherings I’ve ever enjoyed.
Neither did my distressed slouching during the meeting reflect very well on Jerry, the honoree, and I was embarrassed for that, though thrilled to catch up with him in the hospitable aftermath of the meeting. He gave me some good-natured feedback about learning to sit, and I restrained the impulse to say that’s why I might have preferred a solo with the medicine. But I have to admit that the journey described here helped speed me down the path I’m on, and I greatly value the NAC perspective.
My subsequent sessions with the medicine have been solos. At this point, I would honestly prefer the meeting context, but that’s not physically feasible. So, when I badly need perspective, strength, and guidance, I might grind up six or eight dry buttons and make tea, which I’ll drink with Native American drumming on YouTube in the background. I feel the same sentient entity settle into the same space within the ribcage, like a power source for guiding, healing spirit.
The only remarkable visual I have to report is a clear 3-D vision of the 60’s pop group Paul Revere and the Raiders that came bursting out of my shocking pink painting of “Cubist Flowers” while I was lying back on the couch facing the painting. That made me laugh. But more significantly, this was at a time when I was in the middle of the final, definitive dissolution of my immediate family, and I felt intense jets of energy shooting the negativity out of each of my ten toes, so I could begin to find a more positive direction. At the same time, I felt an assurance that everything would be all right, or at least that I would be all right getting on on my own, and that I should accept what I can’t control, and that I must do my best to walk right over terrible loss. The sense of this was clear, and the relief palpable. I could see the path forward, and thanked the medicine for lending a strong, healing perspective.
Much later, Lance, who had worked the fire through the meeting at Taos Pueblo, hosted a meeting for Jimmy at his place in Arroyo Hondo northwest of Taos, as Jimmy was recovering from a heart attack and some other hard adversity. I hated that I couldn’t attend the meeting, but Jimmy suggested I come up for the post-meeting fellowship the next morning.
The group was just coming out of the teepee when I arrived. The high plain stretching out to the sacred mountain was about as beautiful a scene as a traveler might desire. A greeting line formed outside of the teepee, and I shook hands and introduced myself to each person, until I came to none other than Oscar. I reminded him immediately of his first words upon meeting me long before, at the Thanksgiving meeting (i.e., that he “couldn’t make an Indian of me before the meeting”). He laughed and told me to come see him, and maybe he could. I thought that might be well worth doing. The fellowship that morning was a New Mexican version of agape, with many colors in the rainbow, enough to heal and inspire, and make me a true believer.
