May my heart be in the Heart of the Earth

May the Heart of the Earth be in my heart

May my heart be in the Heart of the Sky

May the Heart of the Sky be in my heart.

– Mayan prayer

There’s been much confusion over my lifetime over which tribes are my ancestors. Word of mouth over the generations has it that I’m Cherokee both maternally and paternally. I identify most with the Cherokee woman who married a French Canadian in the 1700’s. In my heart, I know her.

The other bloodlines, I’m told, are Shawnee, Blackfoot and maybe others. These are my mom’s side. It’s obvious that Native American blood runs on the maternal side of my family tree, as so many of my relatives and ancestors look “Indian”. According to my mother and aunt, who have searched for years to find a paper trail to a tribe, it was custom to destroy records of Native Americans by the Christian Church. My personal history has been erased.

Long before I heard that, I was angry. Interestingly, I have a son who is also angry. Whenever one of us hears of injustice to Native Americans, we grieve. When he learns American history in school, he comes home with questions that come from an emotional place.

You don’t have to be a full blooded Native American to connect with them on a Soul level. I’ve had visions and experiences that prove to me that I am related. But they are mine and I know that most people can not believe me; including some Native Americans who insist on being full blooded to “count” as one of them.

This story, New Age Tragedy in Sedona: Non-Indians in the Sweat Lodge, in the news recently, caught my eye because it points to an issue long held by many Native Americans. They feel as though, and in my opinion rightly so, that everything has been taken from them. Their land, their customs, their way of life, their ancestors, and now their most sacred practices such as the sweat lodge.

So-called “New Agers” have conducted sweat lodges for years. They use it for purification purposes. Some are taught and guided by someone from a tribe but many are simply done incorrectly. Such was the case of the one in Sedona in which two people died.

The article brought up some interesting points.

First of all, there’s the question of the relationship of Indian religion to American culture. Non-Indians have been making a lucrative business out of the appropriation of Native ceremonies for years. Ray’s weeklong event in Sedona cost each participant more than $9,000. A search of any number of Web sites advertising these “Indian ceremonies” will turn up sweat lodges that average over $100 per event, and four-day “vision quests” going for around five hundred dollars, “all meals included” and “Visa and MasterCard accepted.”

Indians all across the country are upset, saying white people stole the land, killed the buffalo, and now want to steal the religion. The trouble is that most indigenous people in the Americas identify as Christian. Even the Native American Church, that features peyote as a “sacrament,” is incorporated as a church and uses the Bible as part of the altar display.

I’ve never known a sweat lodge that wasn’t free of charge. The same goes for dancing, drumming and practicing any number of traditions. There was always a tremendous humility that we felt and for me, trying to reconcile who I am today with who I feel I am as Soul.

I have friends who devote themselves to providing provisions for reservations and assisting wherever they are needed. It’s hard for me to have sympathy for “wealth creation guru James Arthur Ray”, who exploits Native American ceremony.

It is said that many Native Americans are angry at those who would rob them, imitate them and otherwise dishonor their culture. I understand and feel this with you. My hope is that some of them remember that some of us Remember and want peace. We reach out for what is familiar and true to us. We no longer look like full blooded tribe members, but should that matter?

Did you not learn from what was done to you?

Oh!
Inside music
flowing I am
grasping at flowers
sprinkling rain in
my thoughts.

Should I fly higher
over blue sea faraway?
I may not return
today.

Soul that is free.

—DT

Cre8pc says no topic is too strange or taboo at Akesana, so I decided to tell the story about how I became known as “Dancing Thunder”. Everybody thinks it’s an odd tale, but it is a true story, so here goes.

Sometime around 1993 I began having a series of dreams in which I was meeting my lover in a secret place in the mountains somewhere in the Carolinas of the United States. Ever since I can remember, I “felt Indian”. My ancestors are Cherokee. My grandfather told stories of a Cherokee woman in our family tree who married a French Canadian. In my heart, I always felt like I knew her, but of course, there was no sharing this with anyone.

In my dreams I was running off to see my lover. We’d meet at a certain rock that jutted out from the edge of a hillside thick with evergreen trees. From our meeting spot you could look out and see the valley below. It was incredibly beautiful. There were no houses, no buildings and no people anywhere. My lover was a tall Native American man. He was older than me and wise. I never understood why we seemed to be hiding. I did, however, get a sense that he was a warrior and in some of the dreams I was saying goodbye to him. I sensed that there were wars against the white man at that time and I was caught up in love with a man who fought them.

As the dreams continued, I began to “remember” bits and pieces about the Trail of Tears. I remembered the dread and agony of  saying goodbye to my home. In my waking state, during this time, I had tremendous urges to go to the mountains. I live near some and would often drive out to be in them. On one such trip I was driving along the highway and a huge thunderstorm rushed in. Lighting was everywhere and to my surprise, I could hear a sizzle of electricity near my rear view mirror. I believed the mountains had a message for me.

In my dreams, I learned my name was “Timid Thunder”. I loved this name! It described me perfectly! I’m very shy. I’m not comfortable around people unless I know them. But, if I come across anything unjust or unkind, I develop such fury. I can rebel and spin on a dime when I or someone I love is threatened.

Months of these dreams turned into years. By the time I got AOL and a computer, sometime in 1994 or ‘95, I was used to them. I had grown my hair long and studied Native American spirituality, metaphysics, and read everything I could on karma and reincarnation. Because by this time, as you may have figured out, I thought I was remembering a past life.

In those days, it was unusual to use your real name in AOL chat groups and places where like-minded folks gathered to discuss topics of interest. I had joined many spiritual and metaphysical groups to meet people from around the world who were also exploring and asking questions about religion, dreams, eastern traditions and so forth. I used the name “Timid Thunder” as my computer name.

That is, until my online friends got to know me! Before long, I was teased for the “Timid” part. It was clear I could be the “Thunder” part. I loved feeling like I had a dancing soul…free, non-judgmental, open minded, and oh, yes….loving laughter and sharing new ideas, no matter how ridiculous they may sound at first.

One day someone emailed me with a scolding that included the sentence, “And, by the way, you are in no way TIMID Thunder! You need to change your name to what you really are!” And with that, I switched it to “Dancing Thunder”.

The name became mine for years. Even my family stopped calling me by my birth name and called me “DT” or “Dancing Thunder”. All my friends at home and especially new friends called me Dancing Thunder. It was a name that just felt perfect.

In time, the dreams stopped. I kept my studies going and to this day, anyone who knows me is aware of my love for all things Native American. I connect, somehow, with the strong Cherokee woman who was respected by men and honored in her later years as a wise ancestor.

For now I am older, and while I no longer search for my lost lover and mourn my homeland, I am proof that a dancing heart lives on forever, lifetime after lifetime.

I am a house person.  I’m not sure what that means, but according to my dreaming mind, houses are the key to understanding me. I just wish I could understand house language.

Creepy House

In the 1980’s I had a series of nightmares. For weeks on end, I’d dream of this old gray farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere, with a long driveway leading up to it.  I’d enter the house and it would heave and bellow at me pure evil. The walls would threaten to crush me alive. The windows bled red oozing blood. It had a voice and that voice ranted and screamed and threatened to kill me.  I thought for sure I was losing my mind.

In my waking life, I was out of control.  I could trust no one.  I was engaged and that broke up. I dated again and found that guy in bed with another girl. I had no idea who I was but I believed that I would never be loved.  A series of events culminated in my making the decision to walk away from all the things that made no sense and were hurting me. And the bad house dreams ended.

Green Street House

Another house comes to my dreams and has never stopped.  It’s based on a real building, where I lived in poverty.  The landlord let me have an apartment in an unfinished section of a building, where light bulbs hung from the ceilings, there was no drywall so I looked at pink insulation and it was old and dirty.  I made my home there, went to work every day and never showed anyone where I lived.

I continue to return there in my dreams. Only now, the building is much larger and beautiful!  It has grand staircases, thick draperies, halls leading to rented apartments and always, there is a room for me.  In my dreams, I escape from wherever I am, drive to this building and stay in my apartment that awaits me.  I’m never expected to pay any rent. In some dreams, my landlord is a grandfatherly type.  In some dreams, he was my husband and we had a daughter. In other dreams I brought friends to my apartment.

I’ve been to see the building.  Indeed, it was renovated and is now a gorgeous apartment building in the city.  And to this day, when I’m under stress, I go there in my dreams to rest.

Parents House

Two houses have competed for my attention since I was 18 years old. One is the farmhouse I grew up in.  I always go there in my dreams. It’s been renovated so that the bathroom is larger.  It has more rooms and is filled with antiques and collectibles.  The house glows in a soft, reddish gold light.  Nobody ever goes there except for me.  Outside the house, in my dreams, I’m always alarmed because an entire town has been built around my house.  In reality, the house is not far from where I live now and I know for a fact it is as isolated in the countryside as it was when I lived there.  With this house, I’m always protective and usually uneasy.

The other very common house dream consists of a house that I’ve never lived in.  It’s always my parents house in my dreams and these houses change in appearance often.  Typically they have two kitchens. And always, these houses are gigantic!  They’re empty, hollow, dark and eerie.  Sometimes my parents are in them and they welcome me.  My mother always has flowers around. I seem to be invited to drop by anytime.  Every once in awhile the larger, more overwhelming house is replaced by a smaller, cozier house in the country.  Those versions also have many rooms.  These rooms tend to be decorated expertly and everytime I walk around them I marvel at their beauty.  When I visit a parents house, they seem out of reach.  They’re there but not.  But I’m always welcome to be in their house.

Some people have totems. Some can hold gemstones and get an inner message. Some people hear voices.

I dream in houses.  Real estate, in my dreaming mind, may be more than real.