The Indian lived

«We did not think of the great open plains, the beautiful rolling hills, and winding streams with tangled growth, as “wild.” Only to the white man was nature a “wilderness” and only to him was the land “infested” with “wild” animals and “savage” people. To us it was tame. Earth was bountiful and we were surrounded with the blessings of the Great Mystery. Not until the hairy man from the east came and with brutal frenzy heaped injustices upon us and the families we loved was it “wild” for us. When the very animals of the forest began fleeing from his approach, then it was that for us the “Wild West” began. (…)

Nothing the Great Mystery placed in the land of the Indian pleased the white man, and nothing escaped his transforming hand. Wherever forests have not been mowed down, wherever the animal is recessed in their quiet protection, wherever the earth is not bereft of four-footed life – that to him is an “unbroken wilderness”.

But, because for the Lakota there was no wilderness, because nature was not dangerous but hospitable, not forbidding but friendly, Lakota philosophy was healthy – free from fear and dogmatism. And here I find the great distinction between the faith of the Indian and the white man. Indian faith sought the harmony of man with his surroundings; the other sought the dominance of surroundings.

In sharing, in loving all and everything, one people naturally found a due portion of the thing they sought, while, in fearing, the other found the need of conquest.

For one man the world was full of beauty, for the other it was a place of sin and ugliness to be endured until he went to another world, there to become a creature of wings, half-man and half-bird.

Forever one man directed his Mystery to change the world. He had made; forever this man pleaded with Him to chastise his wicked ones; and forever he implored his God to send His light to earth. Small wonder this man could not understand the other.

But the old Lakota was wise. He knew that a man’s heart, away from nature, becomes hard; he knew that lack of respect for growing, living things soon led to lack of respect for humans, too. So he kept his children close to nature’s softening influence. (…)

In talking to children, the old Lakota would place a hand on the ground and explain: “We sit in the lap of our Mother. From her we, and all other living things, come. We shall soon pass, but the place where we now rest will last forever.” So we, too, learned to sit or lie on the ground and become conscious of life about us in its multitude of forms.

Sometimes we boys would sit motionless and watch the swallows, the tiny ants, or perhaps some small animal at its work and ponder its industry and ingenuity; or we lay on our backs and looked long at the sky, and when the stars came out made shapes from the various groups.

Everything was possessed of personality, only differing from us in form. Knowledge was inherent in all things. The world was a library and its books were the stones, leaves, grass, brooks, and the birds and animals that shared, alike with us, the storms and blessings of earth. We learned to do what only the student of nature learns, and that was to feel beauty. We never railed at the storms, the furious winds, and the biting frosts and snows. To do so intensified human futility, so whatever came we adjusted ourselves, by more effort and energy if necessary, but without complaint.

Even the lightning did us no harm, for whenever it came too close, mothers and grandmothers in every tipi put cedar leaves on the coals and their magic kept danger away. Bright days and dark days were both expressions of the Great Mystery, and the Indian reveled in being close to the Great Holiness.

Observation was certain to have its rewards. Interest, wonder, admiration grew, and the fact was appreciated that life was more than mere human manifestation; it was expressed in a multitude of forms.

This appreciation enriched Lakota existence. Life was vivid and pulsing; nothing was casual and commonplace. The Indian lived – lived in every sense of the word – from his first to his last breath

– Luther Standing Bear (1868-1939), whose Lakota name was Ota K’te, chief of Oglala-Lakota Sioux subtribe.

Luther_Standing_Bear

How wolves change rivers


“For more wonder, rewild the world” by George Monbiot. Narration from TED.

When wolves were reintroduced to Yellowstone National Park in the United States after being absent nearly 70 years, the most remarkable “trophic cascade” occurred.

Memória de uma intensidade

Vives-me na lembrança
como algo que não és, criança
que eu, por defeito, construí,
imagem de um buraco de si.

Invades-me o apolíneo sonho,
sempre com aquele ar tristonho
do pequeno grande ditador,
incapaz de acolher o amor.

És como a página amarelecida
desse livro que é a vida,
tão árduo e complicado de se ler,
e lês, quando deverias viver.

Mas, mesmo contra vontade,
não deixo de ser, na realidade,
uma tua diáfana extensão,
no inconsciente e na irrazão.

Como se lá estivesse unido,
nesse lugar tão pouco comprido,
tudo o que a consciência separar,
por excesso de se vigiar.

Não há solução possível para nós,
senão um silêncio cortante e atroz
e a distância sempre aumentada:
da mais pura intensidade, fazer nada.

Assim como o fogo cinza faz,
e o rio fluente, no gelo, jaz,
também assim, petrificados,
guardaremos os nossos dados.

Numerologia eventual

Se acontece uma vez, é acaso.

Se acontece duas vezes, é coincidência.

Se acontece três vezes, é trivial.

Se acontece quatro vezes, é probabilidade.

Se acontece cinco vezes, é regra.

Se acontece seis vezes, é lei.

Se acontece sete vezes, é real.

Se acontece oito vezes, é necessidade.

Se acontece nove vezes, é absoluto.

Se acontece dez vezes, volta ao início.

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Se cada pessoa soubesse que vibração é som, e som é vibração, garanto-vos que nem abririam a boca e teriam medo das vibrações que os próprios passos devolvem. O mesmo medo e inquietude que manifestam os animais (e o “menino selvagem” de Truffaut), em permanente escuta, receptivos ao mínimo ruído e vibração, e, em virtude disso, eles ouvem o avançar das ondas sísmicas, quando tudo já aconteceu no epicentro, mas que só irá impactar a superfície muitas horas depois. O medo, no animal, é uma técnica de fuga.

Só sou uma pessoa por lapso temporário. A maior parte do tempo sou um animal com muito medo (a palavra exacta seria “pânico”).