The Wisdom Of Age
I was born upon the prairie, where the wind blew free and there was nothing to break the light of the sun. I was born where there were no enclosures and where everything drew a free breath. I want to die there and not within walls. I know every stream and every wood between the Rio Grande and the Arkansas. I have hunted and lived over that country. I lived like my fathers before me, and, like them, I lived happily. The white man has the country which we loved, and we only wish to wander on the prairie until we die.
- Ten Bears, Yamparika Comanche, one of the principal chiefs at the October 1867 council at Medicine Lodge Creek (Kansas).
I’ve been fascinated by Indians since, as a 13-year-old, paddling with the YMCA outdoor canoe tripping program in Northern Quebec, I encountered their abandoned villages and cabins. And yes, I still call them Indians, still struggle with terms like First Nations and indigenous people because my fascination led me to live with them in the bush, and that’s what, in those days, they called themselves. Anyway, that’s not really the subject of this Song Within. The subject is aging.
For the last few days, as I prepared for the announcement of the publication of the new Heron Dance art journals, I’ve been sleeping a few hours, working, then sleeping three or four hours when I got too tired to work. Nevertheless, I always make time for an hour long walk on the beach with Ada, my dog. I’m in Myrtle Beach for the next three months. Today, for the first time, walking on the beach, I walked slow. Partly that’s aging. There are things I used to be able to do that I no longer can.
Thinking about aging brought to mind an old western movie I saw decades ago. Some Indians are sitting in a teepee, the elders on one side, the young warriors on the other. The young warriors want to attack settlers encroaching on their land. The elders are more cautious. This is a warrior society. They live in rich, fertile hunting lands because they’ve chased away more timid bands and tribes who once lived there. Status in their culture derives from courage and victory in battle. The settlers are easy targets. They won’t have a chance against the young warriors.
The decision will ultimately be made by the elders. As an aside, when I lived with Indians, I was surprised how often the band I lived with deferred to an elder woman when major decisions, and often when mundane day-to-day decisions, had to be made. For instance, whether or not to allow me, a young white man canoeing through their land, to camp. The elder would decide with a single word, yes or no. Or maybe no words – just a nod or shake of her head.
Getting back to the movie, the elders were once young warriors. They are the survivors. As young men, they were the brave ones – their stature now established based on their accomplishments in war. Their primary consideration now though was the good of their community. They were aware of unintended consequences. They knew of the repercussions of the loss of friends on the battlefield.
If they attacked, they’d very likely prevail. But the result would be reprisals by the US Cavalry who moved without elders, women and children. And the Cavalry were of an industrial economy. The Indians were from a stone age culture that had not yet invented the wheel. And the scouts of the US cavalry were the tribe’s historical enemies, so evasion through moving camp was not an option.
No, the wisdom of age decided, we won’t attack. We’ll live our lives as long as we can, hunting, moving freely on the prairie. We let the settlers stay and the wagon trains pass through. The young men need to chill.
Age brings a perspective possible no other way. When I was a younger man, and knowing what I know about history, I was on the young warrior’s side. Now, with the perspective of age, the elders’ position makes more sense to me.
. . .
Imagine yourself ten or twenty years from now. What would your older self advise about the decisions you are now pondering? What setbacks, mistakes, even disasters, would your older self help you avoid?
. . .
Heron Dance is about to publish two art journals and two planners. One, The Song Within, is derived from these posts. They are beautiful books, the result of a lifetime of wandering, seeking and searching, succeeding and failing. And working at art. You can check them out here.
I’ve been fascinated by Indians since, as a 13-year-old, paddling with the YMCA outdoor canoe tripping program in Northern Quebec, I encountered their abandoned villages and cabins. And yes, I still call them Indians, still struggle with terms like First Nations and indigenous people because my fascination led me to live with them in the bush, and that’s what, in those days, they called themselves. Anyway, that’s not really the subject of this Song Within. The subject is aging.
For the last few days, as I prepared for the announcement of the publication of the new Heron Dance art journals, I’ve been sleeping a few hours, working, then sleeping three or four hours when I got too tired to work. Nevertheless, I always make time for an hour long walk on the beach with Ada, my dog. I’m in Myrtle Beach for the next three months. Today, for the first time, walking on the beach, I walked slow. Partly that’s aging. There are things I used to be able to do that I no longer can.
Thinking about aging brought to mind an old western movie I saw decades ago. Some Indians are sitting in a teepee, the elders on one side, the young warriors on the other. The young warriors want to attack settlers encroaching on their land. The elders are more cautious. This is a warrior society. They live in rich, fertile hunting lands because they’ve chased away more timid bands and tribes who once lived there. Status in their culture derives from courage and victory in battle. The settlers are easy targets. They won’t have a chance against the young warriors.
The decision will ultimately be made by the elders. As an aside, when I lived with Indians, I was surprised how often the band I lived with deferred to an elder woman when major decisions, and often when mundane day-to-day decisions, had to be made. For instance, whether or not to allow me, a young white man canoeing through their land, to camp. The elder would decide with a single word, yes or no. Or maybe no words – just a nod or shake of her head.
Getting back to the movie, the elders were once young warriors. They are the survivors. As young men, they were the brave ones – their stature now established based on their accomplishments in war. Their primary consideration now though was the good of their community. They were aware of unintended consequences. They knew of the repercussions of the loss of friends on the battlefield.
If they attacked, they’d very likely prevail. But the result would be reprisals by the US Cavalry who moved without elders, women and children. And the Cavalry were of an industrial economy. The Indians were from a stone age culture that had not yet invented the wheel. And the scouts of the US cavalry were the tribe’s historical enemies, so evasion through moving camp was not an option.
No, the wisdom of age decided, we won’t attack. We’ll live our lives as long as we can, hunting, moving freely on the prairie. We let the settlers stay and the wagon trains pass through. The young men need to chill.
Age brings a perspective possible no other way. When I was a younger man, and knowing what I know about history, I was on the young warrior’s side. Now, with the perspective of age, the elders’ position makes more sense to me.
. . .
Imagine yourself ten or twenty years from now. What would your older self advise about the decisions you are now pondering? What setbacks, mistakes, even disasters, would your older self help you avoid?
. . .
Heron Dance is about to publish two art journals and two planners. One, The Song Within, is derived from these posts. They are beautiful books, the result of a lifetime of wandering, seeking and searching, succeeding and failing. And working at art. You can check them out here.