David Carson - Crossing Into Medicine Country: A Journey In Native American Healing

Also by David Carson (and Jamie Sams)

Medicine Cards:
The Discovery of Power Through the Ways of Animals

Copyright 2005, 2011 by David Carson

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique or substance as a form of treatment for physical or medical problems, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature, based on his experience, about traditional Native American healing. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

ISBN: 978-1-61145-395-9

For Jason

This book would have never been written without the amazing human, plant, and animal teachers in my life. With affection, I bow to all.

With love to my family, to Sara, Greta, and my wife, Nina Sammons, for their continual encouragement and suggestions all along the line. To all my relatives.

Special acknowledgments and thanks to Gershon Winkler and Lakme Batya Elior, M. J. Bogatin, D. H. Latimer, and Gary Heidt.

Deep gratitude to Cal Barksdale, who inspired me and helped beyond all measure in this work. Thanks are due also to Tessa Aye.

A LONG TIME AGO ALL THE STARS CAME DOWN TO EARTH for a visit, at least that is what I was told as a child. When the stars flew back up to be in the midst of the night sky, the country where the Big Dipper had been became Oklahoma.

The Great White Father in Washington said, We're going to put all the Indians in that big skillet and cook them. That will be their land. So they did. And after all the Indians were cooked, the Great White Father said, Now we're going to take your skillet. You don't need it anymore. Soon Oklahoma was no longer Oklahoma, land of red people. Now the state belonged to practically everybody and their dog.

I'm one of the mix-ups, called an Okie coyote or breed. Though of Choctaw descent, I don't qualify to be an FBIfull-blood Indian. And I've found a lot of things that disqualify me from being white, too. We breeds are different, a bunch of coyote mix-ups out barking at the moon. Some people call coyote a half-breed, and some say he has no breeding at all. Oklahoma is full of such mix-ups as me. The trick if you are a coyote is just to be one. Be proficient. Be a coward when others are brave. Be brave when others are cowardly. Tell lies when others speak truthfully. Tell the truth when others are lying. And so on until everyone is mixed up. When that happens it will be the same for everyone. There'll be no more mix-ups.

I have long been interested in various occluded aspects of the ancient legacies of Native America. When I was growing up, my aunts Ruby and Agnes along with my mom, Opal, belonged to Native women's circles that were devoted to preserving secret knowledge and unwritten practices. For instance, these circles cleansed and fed power objects. During the lunar year, there were times to open and close sacred medicine packs and perform life-enhancing ceremonies. Many power songs were sung and the memory kept. These oral teachings were closely guarded and passed from women to men, then from men to women. The sacred information and training flowed over time in this manner from one generation to another. Some awareness of this rubbed off on me, but I certainly didn't know it then. I was too busy being a kid and having fun. From my aunts, I learned to observe animals in the wild and about their powers. My mom taught me to be proud of my Indian heritage and to respect the beating heart of its traditions. When I grew older, I sought to gain some of this secret knowledge through formal apprenticeship and by going to live among the indigenous people of Montana and Canada.

But now, here I was back in home countryback in the Choctaw nation. I was driving my old clunker pickup truck. My daughter Sara sat next to me. We were just outside of Talihina, a town situated on the periphery of the Ouachita mountain chain in the southeastern part of the state. The Ouachitas go due east almost to Little Rock, Arkansas. A segment of the Choctaw Trail of Tears is a part of their sad history, and the mountains are considered holy and big medicine. At the turn of the century, there were doctoring enclaves up here and some say cabals of wizards and witches. They say Rolling Thunder, the famous medicine man, obtained his power in these mountains when he was a young man, and he was one of the few conjures willing to share it and treat white people and scientific types who had no faith in it.

I don't think I'd like to live here, Sara said. It's too remote.

You ain't seen nothing yet, I said. We're going out where the hoot owls make love to the chickens. And the chickens like it.

Sara laughed. She was my light in a fog bank of trouble. She lived the ancestral way pretty much impeccably. Her face was full of health, life, and beauty. But we had just been through the proverbial meat grinder of the American justice system, and were pretty beaten up inside.

I always go back to Oklahoma when I am spiritually mal-nourished, or in times of great trouble. Outsiders never understand how such a historical hornet's nest of rigidity and intolerance can also be the source of truth and light, yet it can. And here I was with Sara back in the red land that was my heritage. We were on a sad mission. My son Jason had recently been sentenced to fourteen years in prison for vehicular homicide. This had happened in Iowa City, Iowa.

I wanted to find my old teacher, whose name was Mary Gardener. Mary was a snake-skirted woman, as they are called. In olden times, snakes symbolized the umbilical cord, and snake-skirts were midwives. But that isn't all they were. They were keepers of highly secret knowledge. I wanted to get a certain kind of medicine from Mary Gardener to slip to my son for protection while he was serving time. Snakeskirts have the knowledge to capture and empower this medicine. It was the only thing I could think of to do since I had turned his life, not to mention my own, over to lawyers. Mistake. Things had gone downhill ever since.

Anyway, that was my mission. Even if I was unable to locate a snakeskirt, perhaps I could get the medicine from someone else. I still had a few friends in lowly and lonely places. This particular medicine was not talked about much, the holders believing in secrecy. The medicine is called hagee or sabeeha,