But, what if we played a different game, one that doesn't have anything to do with money?  What if the youth got to take two steps closer to the prize if they knew traditional songs;  if they knew how to keep a canoe upright in the water, knew the tides and winds for long distance travel; if they knew how to weave ceremonial gear; how to make medicine from plants.  What if two steps were allowed for making an important contribution to the family.  Maybe three steps if they knew their lineage.  And maybe you could claim the prize in one giant step if you said you knew how to pray.

And, don’t even get me started on the prize at the end of the field!   What kind of thinking is that?! There is one prize and you are all in competition to get it!  Really?  So much for diversity, for different strengths and inclinations, different spiritual gifts.   

Before I retired, we sometimes did an exercise similar to this with clients.  What is wealth in Indian Country, we asked.  How does a man or woman come to gain respect?  

Don’t be mistaken, I rush to add.  Money is wonderful.  I love having a bank account and a comfortable house.  But let’s not get confused; there is a difference between having money and being wealthy. 

I want to be careful what paradigm I let inside my mind, and whose game I agree to play.

Circles, and other shapes, elongate and rotate to become flowers, one rolling into another, shapes and colors that are themselves meaning and message, furling and unfurling.  The slow opening of a fern, the baby coiled in the mother’s stomach, a flower lifting its head.  In these, Sara understands the gesture of human hands, the patterns of flight and the movement of fish.  

Underneath, blue veils unwind to display threads of brilliant red and gold, a purple shimmer, a woman’s shawl. Sara knows she is watching the heart of creation stream across the boundary of time, the essence and nature of what is to be, what is, and what was.  Not substance as we know it, but ecstatic consciousness aware of itself; she knew herself to be separate and whole  and perfect in this flood of beauty, because, exquisite as the images and their meanings are, they are subordinate to the euphoric love emanating from the pool.  If love were distilled, the result would be this lake at the heart of the mountain, a lake that isn’t water. 

Tears run down the watcher’s cheeks.  Whatever needs to be forgiven has already been.  Whatever the longing, the answer has already arrived.  Confidence is not lost and gained, because trust in the unnamable is absolute.         
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Still, kneeling, Sara bows her head.  “I am here, blessed one,” Sara says.  “I am the watcher, and I am here.”