When the Wind Taught Me to Howl Again

When the Wind Taught Me to Howl Again

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar (as Chief Walks-With-No-Crowd)

They say every man has his season mine just happened to last 12 winters too long. They call me Chief Walks-With-No-Crowd, and that’s not a ceremonial name, it's just what folks started calling me after I stopped attending the drum circles, potlucks, naming ceremonies, and gossip gatherings. I prefer the whisper of a hawk’s wing to the loud cackling of folks talking about nothing.

You want to know about healing? Let me tell you something, healing ain’t always sweetgrass and sunrise chants. Sometimes it's you in a crusty buffalo-hide blanket, smelling like smoked trout, arguing with a chipmunk about whose rock that was. Healing is complicated.

I didn’t ask for healing. The Creator knows I tried to avoid it the way a coyote avoids a wet dog. But just like a stubborn relative, it showed up anyway, sat in my teepee, and said, “You remember who you are yet?”

I was born under the sign of the Moon That Argues With Itself. Makes sense. Even as a boy, I had questions. Too many, if you ask my mother, Singing Rock. I was the child who asked why the sun doesn’t fall, why rabbits blink so much, and if the wind ever gets lonely. They thought I was strange. I preferred rocks and stories over sticks and wrestling.

My tribe had names like Dances-With-Bulls, Hears-The-Earth, and Speaks-Through-Rain. Me? I was called Sits-In-Questions before I earned my full name. I became Chief Laughs-at-Storms, not because I was fearless, but because I once laughed so hard during a lightning storm I forgot to run.

But even chiefs get broken. One year, the clouds came and never left. Death took too many my brother, my wife, and my unborn daughter, Little Pebble. Grief sat on my chest like a wet wool buffalo. My spirit dried up like a creek that got tired of running. I stopped singing. Stopped laughing. Stopped showing up.

I told the people I was going on a vision quest, but what I really meant was, “Leave me alone before I throw a porcupine at you.”

I went to the Old Lands, where the winds speak fluent soul. I took nothing but my horse, Mist-Who-Snores, and a piece of smoked salmon. That horse, bless his hairy hide, snored louder than a bear with sinus problems. But he listened. That’s more than I can say for most humans.

I lived by Grandmother Willow, the wisest tree this side of the spirit world. She don’t say much unless you’re quiet enough to hear. Took me seven days of silence, chewing on pine bark, and muttering to ants before I could hear her.

She told me, “Child of Earth, your pain is not your prison it’s your teacher. But you been skipping class.”

She reminded me of a legend I’d forgotten:

Once, there was a turtle who wanted to fly. The other animals laughed at him. ‘You’re a turtle! You belong to mud, not sky!’ But Turtle ignored them. He climbed a tree every day, inch by inch. The owl asked him why. Turtle said, ‘The sky may not be mine, but climbing teaches me patience.’ One day, the wind felt sorry for Turtle and lifted him just a little just enough to see the sunset from above the trees. That was enough. He didn’t need to fly. He just needed to rise.

That story cracked me open like an old seed finally ready for rain. I cried. Loud, ugly, warrior-snot kind of crying. My ancestors probably shook their heads. But after the crying, I slept. Deep sleep. And in that sleep, I dreamed.

I saw myself young again. Laughing. Running with wolves. Holding Singing Doe’s hand. And the spirit of my daughter, Little Pebble, danced across water. She didn’t speak she just smiled. And I knew.

Healing had found me.

When I came back to the village, folks acted like a ghost had wandered in.

One young brave whispered, “Isn’t that the chief who talks to rocks?”

I said, “Only the wise ones.”

They laughed, but I didn’t care. I had healed. Not fully. Not perfectly. But enough. Enough to smile again. Enough to teach.

I sat the children down and said, “Healing is when your spirit comes home. And freedom is when you stop making excuses for why it left.”

Now, let me add some holy humor. You ever try to pray while your horse farts during your sunrise chant? I did. Thought the spirits were answering back. I stood up, all proud, like, “Yes, Wind Spirit, I hear you!” Then I realized it was just Mist-Who-Snores eating wild onions again. So I burned extra sage to purify the area and my nostrils.

My medicine brother, Talks-To-Frogs, once said, “If you don’t laugh at yourself, the spirits will do it for you.”

Healing ain’t linear. Sometimes it’s like weaving a basket blindfolded, upside down, with a squirrel throwing acorns at your head. But every day, I wove a little more. Patched up the hole in my soul with songs, quiet, and good soup. Especially the soup.

I now tell people this: Freedom is not being unbroken it’s dancing anyway, even with the cracks. Healing is when you stop trying to be who you were, and bless who you’re becoming.

If you’re reading this and your spirit’s tired know this:

• You are not forgotten.

• The Creator still carves your name into sunrise.

• The Earth still holds you like a mother.

• And your healing is not lost. It’s just walking the long way home.

If your fire’s gone out, sit by mine. I got room. Might not talk much, but I’ll pass you a bowl of cedar tea and let you borrow Mist-Who-Snores just don’t feed him onions.

Now go sit by a tree. One that’s older than your troubles. Be still. Be foolish. Be sacred. Be weird. That’s the way healing finds you.

From the sacred stillness of the woods,

Chief Walks-With-No-Crowd

Friend of chipmunks,

Keeper of long silences,

Former Warrior of Woe,

Now Brother of Belly-Laughs and Wise Winds

As remembered and reimagined by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar