Kathleen Buerer's Selected Writings

KATHLEEN BUERER

Selected Writings

I hope you enjoy these selections.

THE LEGEND OF THE WHITE BUFFALO CALF WOMAN

AS RELAYED IN BY THE SIDE OF THE BUFFALO PASTURE

Her legend, handed down from the time when the Lakota people followed herds of bison across the prairies, is premised upon an understanding of how the life-sustaining mammal provided everything native peoples needed to survive: Its hide was cured for shelter and clothing, its meat consumed for sustenance. Bones and sinew became tools for hunting and internal organs were used as carrying pouches. The presence of the animal on the plains predates human existence. Thus, it is understandable that the people dependent upon it for survival were certain their demise would follow its disappearance. And when faced with famine because the buffalo had become scarce, their hope was in two young braves sent from camp to search for traces of a herd.

The young men walked for days. Weak from hunger, they no longer trusted their vision when they saw a cloud forming on the horizon. Was it a rain cloud or something of their imagination? It appeared to be moving toward them and they stopped to watch it float across an otherwise lucid sky. Instead of passing over them, the cloud descended before them. As it touched the earth, they stared in disbelief as a beautiful maiden appeared in the midst of the mist and stepped out of the haze. When Her feet touched the ground, the vapor vanished.

She was dressed in dazzling white deerskin robes. Her long black hair hung in perfect braids on each side of a face more radiant than any they’d seen. Tempted, one of the men stepped lustfully toward Her. He disintegrated into a pile of bones at Her feet before She explained to the remaining warrior that She had a message for his people. The respectful messenger returned to his village and informed the elders of the maiden’s manifestation. They began preparations for Her visit that included the construction of a ceremonial tent. Four days later, She arrived on foot and stood before the villagers. Greeting them, She presented the parcel cradled in her arms to the elders. They thought She held a baby; but when the coverlet was removed, the startled chiefs saw the first smoking pipe. The woman explained the symbolism contained in Her gift: how the bowl represented the earth yet the smoke that came out of it would reach the heavens. She taught the men about its spiritual significance; words spoken in the presence of the pipe must be honored because they would be known by the Great Spirit. The Holy Woman met with the village women and explained how important the care and nurture of the children were to the welfare of their society. When She had finished speaking, the women understood that the work they did was just as essential to the survival of their nation as the braves’ hunting expeditions. The community was admonished to give thanks for the bounty of the earth and celebrate the sustenance it provided and the promise it afforded. Their land would nourish them if they lived according to certain principles and practiced the ceremonies She taught them.

As the beautiful woman prepared to leave the villagers, She promised to return to them if they were again in need of Her message. Then She fell and rolled upon the earth. With each tumble She reflected a color symbolic of the directions of the universe. First She was black, then yellow, and then red. When She ran from them, Her people saw Her as a White Buffalo Calf, the most sacred of all beings. After Her visit, peace and prosperity returned to Her people.

MEETING MIRACLE, THE LIVING LEGEND

©Kathleen Buerer

Stories inspire us, they always have. Those handed down through generations often obtain mythical stature. One assumes the retellings may have embellished whatever truth the tale originally contained. There is no guarantee of any element of reality. Still, we listen.

Old stories captivate us. They offer explanations for things unknown or misunderstood and answers to questions that have puzzled humanity for ages. But if they can’t be believed, how will readers, seekers of knowledge, ever know what is or was or may be true? Can fact be separated from fiction, reason from legend? In today’s world, can we find meaning in mythology?

I ask these questions because I think I met a living legend. She stood at our first meeting in a muddy pen surrounded by several dusty brown beasts just like Herself. Thousands of people, some religiously reverent others merely curious, had come to gaze at Her before I saw Her in the Summer of 1995. By that time, She had lost the snowy fur of Her birth. I’d made the sojourn to Her farm after reading about Her on the pages of the Washington Post. But She was not your average news item. She was Miracle, the White Buffalo of Janesville, Wisconsin. To some Native Americans, a White Buffalo is a sacred being -- a status earned through a role in tribal history.

Miracle was born in the early morning hours of August 20, 1994 and died September 19, 2004. Her father died shortly after She was born. The Medicine Men who know about such things say his departure so soon after Her arrival was in accordance with Her prophesies. But I don’t know of ancient forecasts for Her life or the future. I experienced Her in the present and that was enough for me. The time I spent with Her changed my life so drastically and left me feeling so blessed by Her mystery . I’ve spent several years trying to tell the tale of the only part of Her truth I understand.

Her legend, handed down from the time when the Lakota people followed herds of bison across the prairies, is premised upon an understanding of how those life-sustaining mammals provided everything native peoples needed to survive: Their hides were cured for shelter and clothing, their meat consumed for sustenance. Bones and sinew became tools for hunting and internal organs were used as carrying pouches. The presence of the animal on the plains predates human existence. Thus, it is understandable that the people dependent upon them for survival were certain their own demise would follow their disappearance. And when the buffalo became scarce and the people were famished, their hope was in two young braves who left camp to search for a herd.

The Holy Woman met with the village women and explained how important the care and nurture of the children were to the welfare of their society. When She had finished speaking, the women understood that the work they did was just as essential to the survival of their nation as the braves’ hunting expeditions. The community was admonished to give thanks for the bounty of the earth, to celebrate the sustenance it provided and the promise it afforded. Their land would nourish them if they lived according to certain principles and practiced the ceremonies She taught them. As the beautiful woman prepared to leave the villagers, She promised to return to them if they were again in need of Her message. Then She fell and rolled upon the earth. With each tumble She reflected a color symbolic of the directions of the universe. First She was black, then yellow, and then red. When She ran from them, Her people saw Her as a White Buffalo Calf, the most sacred of all beings. After Her visit, peace and prosperity returned to Her people.

Some Native Americans believe Miracle was the reincarnation of the Holy Woman who appeared to their people long ago. Having awaited Her return with the same passion Christians sustain for Christ’s second coming, many indigenous people believed Her arrival foretold a new age of planetary harmony. Some believers interpreted Miracle’s birth as a simple reassurance that the Great Spirit had not forsaken them. To those who may have abandoned their traditional faith practices, Her presence designated a time to recommit to ethnic beliefs. There are others who believed Her appearance held hope for reconciliation between the races. Her return meant white men would begin to accept the truths contained in traditional Native American values. There are many perspectives regarding Her significance, but I didn’t have any preconceived notions about Her. I went to visit Her when I was in the Midwest for a summer visit with my family and I prayed to Her. However it is that one “hears” answers to prayer, I heard Hers. She spoke to me. For several years, I returned to Her farm as often as I could, wanting only to sit alongside Her pasture and be blessed by Her mystery. At first it was difficult to assimilate my experiences at the farm with my suburban upbringing; but I’ve been aided in understanding by other writers who’ve shared their stories, their level of understanding with their readers. One of my favorites is Doug Boyd. He wrote of the time he spent with the Medicine Man, Rolling Thunder. Dee Brown begins the introduction to that tale like this: “Almost everyone who has ventured even slightly into the spiritual world of the American Indian can relate inexplicable happenings.”

Spending time with Miracle was how my “inexplicable happenings” began. I’ve written the story of the insights She offered me during several challenging times of my life. My first book, By the Side of the Buffalo Pasture, describes the circumstances in my life when I was blessed by Her being. I’ve been told it leaves a reader with a sense of hope. I can’t vouch for the authenticity of Her legend, I've retold it as I learned it. I make no claims to understanding Her mystique, I can only say that the time I spent with Her brought me new ways of comprehending bits of the great mystery and left me with a sense of trust (faith if you will) in things unseen. She brought me hope. I want to share it.

INTRODUCTION TO THE MEDICINE WHEEL

FROM BY THE SIDE OF THE BUFFALO PATURE

©Kathleen Buerer

The table was approximately three feet in diameter. Across the surface were two rows of stones. They formed a plus sign inside a circle of rocks set close to the edge of the table. The candle burned at the center of the table, the center of the circle, and the place where the two rows of stones intersected. This, we were told, represents the medicine wheel, which in turn reflects all things. The unity of all creation is represented by the circle before us for many reasons, the most simple of which is that the earth is round. Those who believe in the wheel maintain it can be used for understanding and healing individuals, communities, and the world. Those who practice the wheel believe that each human being is born with a dream. That dream is one’s purpose for living. The goal of everyone’s life is the sharing of their individual gift with the rest of humanity. If the culture into which one is born fails to recognize the particular talents (or gifts) of any individual, their dream is shattered. Their spirit is not affirmed, it is crushed. A crushed spirit makes for an angry, oftentimes violent human being.

My mind strayed from the voice of my teacher, and I thought about those wounded souls sitting in detention halls, serving time in school suspension or prison. I wondered about their wasted human potential, the nature of their lost gifts, and how they might come to be healed. When my thoughts returned to the presentation, our teacher was explaining how individuals are able to recover their true spirit and begin to live in harmony with their dream. Once peace is restored to them, that person is able to facilitate peace on the planet because the anger they had been experiencing is no longer present in the universe.

To understand how healing can occur, the symbolic significance of the wheel must be accessed. The candle burns at the center of the universe, which reflects the Great Mystery encompassing both Mother Earth and Father Sky. The four largest stones on the table each represent a direction in the universe. Indigenous peoples honor the cardinal points: north, south, east and west. They believe each direction has a significance which can be explained in imagery. The sun rises in the east where all life begins and birth is reflected. Traveling clockwise, youth is represented by the south, the west middle age and to the north seniority. Animals are often assigned to the various ages. The eagle represents the east as she soars above all and sees far beyond herself. Here one sees oneself and one’s reason for being. The mouse is typical of the south because he is timid and lacking courage like the adolescent he represents. But he must find the strength to move forward into adulthood, which is represented by the bear, who is strong yet bound to the earth. The white buffalo corresponds to the north. Symbolizing the wisdom of the ages, She is known as the great giver of information who is able to help others resolve their conflicts and achieve their dreams. The row of stones linking the symbolic south with its counterpoint to the north is known as the Good Red Road. It is the path of the heart where one leaves one’s place of youthful innocence, releasing fears and finding the courage to pursue one’s purpose and share one’s gift. This pathway is about climbing from the place of hiding to the home of wisdom because only by taking this journey does one honor one’s self and serve the greater good.

The road from west to east is known as the Black Road. Along this road one travels from the point of introspection (the bear’s hibernation) and strives for the destination of illumination. The bear walks firmly upon the earth. His strength is acknowledged; but in spite of it he struggles with life’s conflicts and contradictions. Maintaining balance along the Black Road is challenging; but when one learns to live with life’s paradoxes, the light and the dark, within and without, one sees with the clarity of an eagle and is able to soar above earthly dilemmas. Then, one can walk the Blue Road from east to west.

Between each of the four largest stones, three smaller stones followed the edge of the table. Their presence identified ours as a women’s wheel and signified the innocence and wonder of childhood, adult capabilities and competence, and the elder’s wisdom of the ages. Regardless of the chronological age of the person, native awareness recognizes the presence of the child, woman, and crone simultaneously within each woman. Listening to the feminine voice involves an understanding of which element of her spirit is speaking.

The wheel represents the search for harmony and balance in life. In ancient times, Aristotle wrote about this same quest. He called it the Golden Mean. Using the medicine wheel facilitates the process of establishing balance. The east represents the spirit, the west the body. The north represents the mind, and the south reflects nature. Life will be unbalanced if one lives only in the mind. The answers to life’s challenges won’t necessarily be resolved unless one spends time in nature and understands the natural world as well as individual thought processes.

The races of humanity are also represented in the points of the compass. The north represents white, the south red, west is black and east is yellow. The struggle for harmony between the races is reflected as is the realization that individuals of every race struggle to find and maintain equilibrium.

The wheel is also used to illustrate the seasons of the year: east is spring, south is summer, west is fall, and north is winter. When I began to understand the native concept of the cycle of life, the importance of yearly events diminished and was replaced with an awareness of the timeless nature of life on the planet. Whatever events occur during one single lifetime come into perspective when viewed within the cyclical nature of the universe and its seemingly countless revolutions.

I came to understand the importance of respecting an individual’s journey within the wheel, because life takes one to different points at different times, and I began to appreciate why native people think of time as circular instead of linear. Time is circular not only because of the cyclical nature of the seasons, but because individuals may move back and forth between chronological or emotional stages as they confront the various challenges of their lives. A lifetime is not necessarily linear because even though one is growing older, new challenges can make one feel young and vulnerable allowing opportunities for deeper growth. We studied the Cheyenne medicine wheel, but learned that there are many different types of wheels as well as a variety of rituals involved in their use. Different tribes may associate different colors or characteristics to the cardinal points. The diversity among tribal people and their spiritual practices wasn’t going to simplify my search for spiritual truth. But during this seminar it didn’t matter since I wasn’t presented with a variety of options from which I had to choose. Acceptance of other possibilities was easy when benign explanations were offered and no presumption of “correctness” was presented. Allowing for differences in procedures left no room for condemnation or criticism of another style of worship. Rejection of technique was as much of a non-option as criticism of others’ beliefs. Intent and acceptance were all that mattered. That and the realization that our course was an introduction – there was much more to be learned!!

AT THE BABY HOSPITAL

FROM

REFLECTIONS ON A HAITIAN PILGRIMAGE

True to his word, a fellow pilgrim held my arm as we walked into the dispensary of the Sisters of Mercy Children’s Hospital in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. He stood next to me as we lathered our hands and arms at a sanitizing station set up in the hallway. One long table held basins of warm water, pitchers for pouring more water, bars of soap in little dishes and towels for drying. Nearby, a physician leaned over a countertop. He was busy counting pills and distributing medications. Their pharmaceutical aroma mixed with the heavy scents of disinfectant and used baby diapers wafting down the hallway made me wretch. The doctor glanced my way. “Have some peppermints,” he suggested as he slid a small bowl of wrapped candies over the tabletop. “They’re good for nausea.” I smiled my gratitude, but I didn’t want to eat anything. “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t need to be the one getting sick on you.” “Don’t apologize,” he said, his tone as soothing as a lullaby. “You’ve never seen anything like this. It’s bound to affect you.”

My companion for the morning had assured me before we left our hostel that he would lead me through the maze of hallways and into the outdoor play area used by the children at the facility. We were both toting bundles of toys for the toddlers, but he managed to wrap an arm around me and guide me down a long corridor until we stood in the doorway of a stark room constructed of unpainted cinder blocks and bare concrete flooring. There were no toys or picture books in sight. No colored murals or crayons or paper. No stuffed animals. No educational toys. There was no chalkboard, or television or stereo. There was one long low metal table, and the staff worker sat on it as she watched over her charges.

Twenty-six scantily clad children ran toward me, arms outstretched, demanding to be lifted. There were open windows along one of the walls allowing for plenty of fresh air and sunlight. Peering around the corner, I was able to see through the doorway that led outside. Once I had an escape route in mind, I turned my attention to the many hands pulling at my skirt and tugging on my arms clamoring for attention.

The children knew that visitors brought presents and hugs, and they clung to my companion and me as we removed colored pencils from their boxes and attempted to distribute them. Many impatient hands wanted to be filled. I repeated the word un -- one in Creole, several times intending to give each child a pencil. But some children wanted more than what was already in their hands and they grabbed at the pencils in one another’s hands. When a tussle broke out, the stronger overpowered the weaker and celebrated their victory by holding up the small hands with a pencil clenched in each fist.

I tried to make sure each child had at least one pencil before handing out the pieces of paper. It was a challenge because the children struggled to get closer to me often tripping over each other in their enthusiam. Eventually, everyone settled down and for one short, sweet moment, they were all quietly occupied making marks on pieces of paper. Some of the children took more time creating their masterpieces than others. The ones not as artistically inclined quickly gave up on their projects and moved through the open doorway into the fenced yard beyond their playroom. When I was certain the last child had finished her picture, I picked up the pencils and paper left on the floor and handed them to the attendant. She smiled at me and I followed the children outside where they were free to run and play. Just a manageable few tugged at my clothing – still too many to lift. So I led them toward the glider, enticed some to climb on and began to push the back of the old metal swing. Soon I found myself enjoying the clarity of the powder blue sky and the fresh smells of the outdoors where the tropical greenery contributed pleasing aromas to the smell of the warm moist air.

After awhile the attendant called the children to her and I followed them back inside. Obeying her commands in Creole, the children sat on the floor, legs stretched out in front of them, backsides against the wall. When they were all in place, she placed a bowl of food between the legs of each and their concrete floor became their table as they spooned their individual portions of porridge. Realizing I’d lost sight of my companion, I wandered down one interior hallway and stepped into a large room across from the playroom.

Its walls were coated with a faded yellow paint that peeled back in spots revealing the gray hues of their cinder block foundation. The room was decorated with an occasional crucifix, or picture of Jesus, or Mother Theresa hung lopsidedly. There were no mobiles dangling from the ceiling or educational pictures adorning the walls. No teddy bears or cartoon characters. No baby rattles or pacifiers. None of the stacks of playthings I’d so often seen in children’s nurseries at home. Another long table lined the wall to my left, its top was crowded with soap and water and clean towels. Underneath the table, buckets held everything that needed to be washed. White metal cribs were lined up in several single file rows and filled the interior of the room. In the middle of the room, one of the sisters balanced a baby’s backside against her hip. With the child’s torso slung over her crooked left arm and his face turned away, she struck the middle of his back with her open right hand until he vomited onto the bare concrete floor. I stared at her and wanted to apologize for that, but I wastoo stunned to speak even after she explained that the baby was choking. The smell of sickness and urine mixed with the indoor heat, and the walls of the room began to blur before I chastised myself for having wandered off without my companion.

By then the children, most of whom had been quietly lying on their backs or reclining in their cribs, had seen me. One by one like dominoes in reverse they grabbed onto the rails of their cribs and pulled themselves to their feet. Once standing, they raised their arms toward me until dozens of outstretched hands were reaching in my direction. Their cries were heartrending.

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