Long ago my parents bequeathed their blond haired, hazel eyed child with a Native American name. I had to wear it for many moons before it began to fit comfortably on my psyche and speak to my soul. Little did I know that I would reside on the back of the great fish with split tail , Paumonauck which has become my home and, as such, part of my identity.
Every Labor Day the Indian in me yearns to be part of the Shinnecock Pow Wow celebration on the East End of the fishes tail. Every year I try to convince the rational me that it is not a good idea to go to the Pow Wow alone and every year I lose the battle and arrive there amongst the "real" Native Americans. I actually do possess Iroquois blood, about 1/4 on my Father's side of the family, but it is my nubious spirit which really gives me the feeling of belonging there.
I have had several bizarre experiences at that Pow Wow and I always hope for the Great Spirit to provide me with another. Last year I was moved to tears by an Elder Woman of the Shinnecock Tribe performing an interpretive dance to the familiar Baritone voiced version of the Maillot Lord's Prayer. I was sure that in a 3 day Pow Wow I would have missed it this year but, like a gift from the Heavens, as I was walking to the gate to buy an entrance ticket I hear the beginning arpeggios of that hauntingly beautiful piece of music and arrived just in time to see the magnificent woman, again do her dance. The roughneck behind me quipped "Oh, so did I arrive just in time for the born again revival?" I shot him a look that would have melted his gold chains and said "It's the Shinnecock's version of The Lords Prayer, be respectful". He tipped his hat to me and was off in search of less aggressive female fare.
John Running Deer is the prophet of the Shinnecock tribe. He has had visions of earth changes which harken to those seen by Edgar Casey, the sleeping prophet. I wandered to his booth near the back of the field to see if he had updated his maps. But really, I was hoping that the veil would lift and provide me with another validation that we are more than the illusion we appear to be. Several years ago, in the same place I was innocently sampling some exotic oils when a young Jamaican man walked past me and I was almost knocked down by the power of the energy that was created. I looked startled, and so did he and he said "Wow, did you feel that too" I had and was moved in places I thought were long dormant. Mr Running Deer witnessed the whole thing and told us that we had been together for many lifetimes, most notably on Atlantis. I never saw the young man again but still feel a sense of loss at the power of that connection. It is the kind of thing that the rational mind refutes but the heart is not so easily fooled.
I am not a consumer by nature and thus it takes something really special to make me open my wallet at these affairs. An exotic Mayan Man was selling these paintings made on handmade paper. I was very drawn to them and spent time with his broken English trying to ferret out the meaning of what he had created. I wanted one and picked 2, one large for $60, a fortune, and a smaller one for $10. After paying him and walking away I later realized that I had taken 2 smaller paintings, one was very thin and had ridden as a parasite on the other. I had walked a full mile before I made the realization and fought with myself to return the stoleaway. The heat and my feet were deterrents and I came home with all three. I hope he knew that it was an honest mistake. He is probably very accustomed to barterring andI am not comfortable with that fare.
My less than agressive driving style and consequent fear of the tailgating SUVs behind me often leads me to discover back roads and quiet spots. Dune road runs along the slippery side of the Great Fish. Today it was badly pock marked by Earl's enormous wave rollovers. But I braved it anyway and drove in the little gullies between the fierce Atlantic and the inlet. The sky was so intensely blue today that its reflection upon the water was startling as I crossed the bridge which connects the mainland with Dune Road in Hampton Bays. Even the clown in the SUV behind me slowed to a crawl taking in the grandeur.
Tonight the azure sky will feed one of those autumnal sunsets that turn the horizon fiery, silhouetting the Great Fish briefly on a brazier of searing pinks and reds before he sleeps in the shadowy brine of the sea. I will bid summer farewell in my usual manner, perched on the gray, aging benches behind the nature center at Cedar Beach. There I will wait for that magical moment when the two Ferries from Bridgeport and Port Jefferson make their trek across the Sound , drawn toward each other like those magnetic Scotty Dogs my Grandmother had on her refrigerator when I was a child. I will wait until they merge into one against that fiery backdrop and then ubiquitously slip past each other pursuant of their separate quests. But it is that second when they appear to be but one ship that speaks to me so strongly. Are all our moments of unity but illusions?
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