The Face of Eternity
by Liza Johnson • Huntington

As I pull out of Mom's garage, the constellation Orion meets me overhead. It is still dark at 5am, and I am headed out of town to the Pishkun where I hope to find some spiritual renewal. Mom just broke her hip and developed pneumonia, and I am faced with the possibility of helping her move from her beloved home to assisted living. The prairie surrounding the Pishkun is similar to the landscape of my mother’s childhood, which shaped her rugged character. I too have been deeply affected by this land.

The Pishkun is 20 miles outside Great Falls, Montana. The Blackfoot Indians used to drive stampeding buffalo over these cliffs where they would tumble to their death below. This was how they ensured their supply of meat for the long, tough winter months. As I drive down the winding gravel road, the vastness of the land and the dark sky fill me with awe. At the top of the cliffs where I park my car, I see a dark blue halo forming on the horizon. As I begin the mile walk to the edge of the cliffs, I am aware that the protective shield of my car disappears, and I am alone in this vast expanse of space. Out in the middle of this land I make myself vulnerable. Although I feel fear, the cool mystery of the darkness and the roughness of this place pull me forward. There is the wild taste of stars. Slowly, as the light begins to change, the landscape softens; tall prairie grasses rise up out of darkness into silvery wisps; rocks begin to take shape on the path; now and then I hear the deep lowing of cattle below.

When I arrive at the edge of the cliffs, I can see for miles. Far off the twinkling lights of Great Falls form a necklace around the distant mountains. To the right, Square Butte rises up like a giant table, offering itself to the sky. As the first ray of sun breaks the horizon, purple, red and orange light spills out over the layered rocks. The stillness of dawn cracks open as the wind comes down from the heavens and sweeps across the land. I sit sheltered from the wind on a great antediluvian stone chair, covered with light green and bright orange lichen formed over thousands of years. Behind me are several abandoned sweat lodges that appear like strange skeletons. A sense of sacredness still emanates from these lonely structures.

I am aware of my body and the coldness of the stone. When I stand up and make my way along the shale ledge, time seems to slow down. I notice a beetle making its journey with steadfast determination. It opens my vision to all the small communities of other life around; the prairie dogs pop their heads out of their earth dwellings, warning each other of this strange visitor; the wild hare blends into the branches of a thorny bush, sitting so still that it looks like a stone; the skin of a rattler is hidden deep in the dark corner of a shale ledge; the red-tailed hawk soars in the orange light of dawn, its tail catching the first rays of sun. The beautiful warble of the yellow-breasted meadowlark, sitting on a lone branch of sagebrush, says, This is my land! I suddenly feel reverence for these other communities that live beside, underneath and all around me and how they are deeply related to my well being in this moment. Their existence enhances my own with mystery and the joy of living in such a multi-faceted awareness.

Back in town, I decide to visit a second hand store which sells Native American jewelry and clothes. I want to know if there is a local shaman who does sweat lodges or healings. The woman at the cash register gives me the name of a man and later that day I call. When I come to his office, I am surprised to see that he works in the same building my father did some thirty years ago. I follow him to his office, overwhelmed by his presence. Long black braids sprinkled with silver fall down his back. One half of his face is beautifully handsome and the other half is scarred and has the look of an old hawk or eagle. We talk for a little while and I tell him that I need a healing and that I want to pray for help with my mother. He agrees to do a healing and later we meet at his house.

He greets me at his front door with an austere look. He tells me to wait while he gets ready. He emerges with an abalone shell, a bunch of sage which he gathered on the reservation and two huge Golden Eagle wings. He lights the sage and the smoke curls upward offering a peaceful feeling. He smudges all of the corners of the room, the windows and the doorways. I feel protected, as though the sage has created an invisible chamber for the healing. Some plants are regarded more sacred and powerful than humans, and sage is one of them. It is a medicine that guards sacred space so that evil spirits cannot enter. At this moment, I sense the awareness of the smoke as it hunts around for negative energy.

He tells me to stand and begins a prayer for me and my Mom. I ask for help and guidance and he begins to pray in his native tongue. He sweeps the huge wings, pungent with the smell of sage, all over my body. My ears tune into the sound of his deep voice speaking a language I have never heard. Sometimes the words, her mom, Liza, grandfather, grandmother break out of the strange sounds. Tears begin to fall down my cheeks. They feel good against my skin.

Later on, as the sun begins its orange descent, I visit Mom in rehabilitation where she is struggling to recover. Her hands grip the pink padded ace on the handles of the walker and she begins her long journey down the corridor. She takes one step and drags her other leg. Shoulders raised, breath turning into little gasps, she continues on this mighty task. Her spirit is like that of the sagebrush, whose tough roots reach down into the arid ground, defying death, the blistering sun and relentless, mighty wind. As I gaze more deeply into her, the wrinkles on her face and her crooked bony feet and hands suddenly appear primal, enduring, sacred. My mom, the early morning landscape and the visions of her childhood on the prairie intermingle into an ancient face of eternity.

Liza Johnson, MFT, does groups and sees individuals and couples in her psychotherapy practice. She has extensive experience in Jungian Dreamwork, Alchemy, and Shamanism. Reach her at LJohnson7@aol.com.