Native Spirits & Spirit Pennies of Skamania Coves

“Was the feather talking to you?” I asked.

“Not exactly,” she said. “I had a feeling, as if being guided by the land or the spirits of the land, to go in that direction. I didn’t know what they wanted me to find until I found the feather. It belonged to a Turkey Vulture. This seems fitting because vultures eat dead animals, keeping the environment clean. This is what we are doing—except clearing the land of stagnant energy.”

She continued, “Feathers are used to direct the smoke from the smudging bowl to where it needs to go. The smoke both cleanses and blesses so we’ll be smudging each location. I brought my own feathers, but the land has shown me that using one of its own is better. Following this lead, I feel we should use dried vegetation from the forest here. We will honor the land with her own medicine.”

Together, she and I gathered dried fern stems, fallen leaves, pinecones, fir needles, brown wild grass, blackberry leaves and blossoms, and anything else that seemed like it would burn. Then we took the items into the Riverhouse. She took a bowl from the cabinet and started singing and chanting a beautiful song of words I didn’t understand as she tore and crushed and crumbled and mixed the gathered plants.

“I am feeling into the medicine… The white sage and tobacco I brought are incredibly sacred to the Native people and I feel it’s important to add them to the mix.”

She reached into her basket and pulled out long brown fragrant leaves of tobacco. We tore the oily leaves into small sections. The fabulous smell filled the house as if an old man had lit his pipe. She hummed in acceptance and appreciation. Next, she added the flakes of sage into the bowl now filled to the rim with a potpourri of color and smells.

Then, she took a handful of this sacred “medicine,” held it above her head and recited a prayer of sorts and then placed it into the abalone shell. She set it aside with the lighter next to it.

From her basket, she took out the box of cornmeal, “Corn has been described as the gold of the people. It is valuable for it does more than just feed us. It also offers protection.” She took a small bowl and filled it with the yellow powder.

“Since you are the new steward of this land, I feel it is important that it be you who sprinkles the corn around the perimeter. And it should be you who will smudge the buildings. But first, I must clear the land.”

I followed her outside and watched as she stood on the lawn, facing the river with her eyes closed. She held out her arms, swaying slightly with her palms down as she sensed the energy in her hands. Then, she slowly brought her hands together and moved them around each other as if tying knots. It was a beautiful, if not powerful dance to witness. Next, she then interlaced her fingers, flattened her hands, and lowered her arms as if pushing something of substance into the earth.

Her eyes remained closed as she explained the dance, “I am casting an energetic net 100 feet all around, above, and below. I will use this net to gather all the stagnant, dark, ancient energies left behind. It will gather the remains of disease, war, and its tools of death. I may need to do this a few times, but it will cleanse and purge the land, bringing it back to its natural state.”

She turned her palms up and raised her arms pulling at the invisible net (filled with scary stuff).

“Oh… I see guns, weapons of war…. There were many wounded perhaps killed…. I need to weave a tighter net to pull out the energy left from those who were harmed.”

She repeated the process. When she was finished, she raised her hands as she released the energy to the sky.

“Now, we protect the land to ensure it remains clean. Please, take the cornmeal and sprinkle it around the perimeter.”

I rushed inside, grabbed the bowl, and walked the fence line sprinkling the powder. When I finished, she directed me to bring the abalone shell filled with dried plants, the lighter, and the feather to her. She lit the herbs until they caught fire and began to smoke, then handed me the shell.

“Let’s begin by smudging The Ritz first,” she said using the nickname of the old, dilapidated garden shed.

The small one room building was more of a hut. Its roof weighed down with pounds of moss and grass and weeds. We pulled open its door. Inside the dark, dirt covered room lay a couple of abandoned wooden pallets and nothing else.

Or so I thought….

STORY CONTINUES >>>>> CHAPTER FIVE: NATIVE SPIRITS