Buffalo Continues to Manifest

As one gets older, and comes closer and closer to facing the inevitable nature of mortality, there are many variables that come into clearer focus. The coincidences that occurred in the past, become less and less amusements, but in fact, expand to become something that one begins to pay acute attention to.

About three weeks ago, I wrote a poem to many of you, (and will repost), BUFFALO HEADING NORTH, that came in a mad flurry of words and thoughts that expressed the way that I was feeling, that nature was running its course, and that there was indeed an inevitability of the break down of the body and mind. Through the poem, I realized that as is the nature of the animal kingdom, the herd would either cull out the blight, or protect it, depending on how important the herd deemed wisdom over physical break down.

For several days, I was obsessive about the poem, because it expressed so much of my frustration and fear of losing my place in the herd. With buffaloes, as it is with many herd animals an injury can mean certain death, and often does, if the injury becomes a liability.

For many years now, after I had my hip operated on, I have felt the gradual pain and break down of both body and mind, watching a limp grow more pronounced, feeling my back begin to also carry pain, and not knowing what was happening. Although now I understand more of what was happening to me, instead of finding my place in the herd with shear physical energy, I have sought to make a transition into becoming important to the herd through finding the wisdom of experience. The first traces of isolation, however, occur because those with physical prowess are going to continue doing so, those with health are going to pair up with the many that can run with the wind, and those without slowly begin to find themselves falling behind. An injury that doesn't heal itself becomes a liability, and the situation is compounded if you were one with once great physical energy, that you did in fact, once lead with the same prowess you now only see in others.

In my case, since I never had children, (but always wanted them) the instinctual loyalty and closeness one gets as a result is not available to me, so I have to rely on family members that are still amongst the living, but even that closeness begins to subside. And that's just the point of fact, EVERYTHING begins to subside. How could this happen to me? How can I even begin to explain? 

Opting to begin making music as a way to counteract my ability to physically work all day and night, I am also realizing how very precarious that is as well, even though I can do it for a few hours a day, it is not exactly optimum pay, especially when one has fallen so far behind. Still, I really do enjoy it, and most recently, I found the perfect place for me, and, I have to tell you, it is the BUFFALO who is leading me.

It is very odd how sometimes the very obvious, right there in front of us, is so often lost as well. I started a job at a large and beautiful restaurant and saloon, Bill Johnson's Big Apple, but before I started, I had been in there many times to look at the saloon, noticing all the old photos and posters on the wall, etc. How odd now to realize that the place I picked to put the stage was right beneath a great buffalo head, however, I didn't even notice it there, even though I noticed everything else in the place! In fact, I built the stage, placed the stage and played for two nights before I DID notice it, and that because someone posted a photo of me playing, with buffalo head above me! Why I did not make this obvious connection, I don't really know, other than perhaps some kind of denial that it existed and was pointing me in the right direction. As I said, the obvious is sometimes lost to us, and in my case, as lost as it could be. Then people started saying, "Wow, Raymond, look at that buffalo right above your head!" Perhaps my reluctance to notice it was also to enhance the impact it would have when I did notice it.

So, writing a poem, BUFFALO HEADING NORTH, and then re-writing compulsively on the poem until present, and then getting a job where I am playing music right beneath a giant buffalo head, well, coincidence? See what I mean? How readily we are to deny and somehow explain away its existence. How do I explain away this great coincidence? How do I get around the fact that there are plenty of places in this world where I could have found myself playing music that did not happen to be below a buffalo. See what I mean? It isn't scary really, its more of a how do I honor it? How do I explore the depth of its meaning?  Shall I start the religion of the Great Buffalo? Well, some of this is worth looking into—I started by reviewing the poem and what I know about buffaloes.

Symbolically, its probably the most revered and meaningful of the animals in North American, and much of that because of its history. Without writing about its history, (most people know that) I will write, however, about my own history with the buffalo.

I think my connection with the buffalo started as a young child. In Boulder, Utah, the town that my family is from. I was always mesmerized by The Henry Mountains, a mountain range west of Boulder. I remember looking at the mountains as a child, and was further intrigued when I discovered that The Henry Mountains was the home of a buffalo herd, one of the few places where a buffalo herd could be found. The other thing I learned about the Henry's was a gold strike that occurred there in the late 1800's, for a child, buffaloes and gold strikes do all kinds of things to the imagination. Over the years, my intrigue with the mountains maintained the posture, they were like the mountains that watched over Boulder.

(flash forward to four years ago)

There were three sightings of a buffalo in Boulder. One in Salt Gulch, one in Upper Boulder, and finally, one in The Draw, which was on the other side of town. I remember being instantaneously empowered by the story that was told around town by the people. A story of a buffalo sighting spreads fast in a small town. And then, when I found out the buffalo was killed by the local police and the game warden, I was devastated. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I'm sure that I wrote about it, but this morning, I could not find the post over the two hundred and sixty that I have posted here. But I know its there. There is more history of the buffalo and my life, but for now, I will tell you that the symbol of the buffalo has great significant meaning. I do remember telling people as a playwright, the one person show, the one person play that a playwright must write sometime in his life is called The White Buffalo. It is the play that is the hardest to find and to write. The buffalo has always turned up symbolic in my vocabulary, it's' meaning and the 'why' sometimes a mystery, but it is there.

Now that I know how to do links and am incorporating them into my posts, rather than explain the symbolism of the buffalo, I will let a link do it for me, Buffalo meaning and symbolism, but I will post the re-written poem of BUFFALO HEADING NORTH. In my search for meaning and survival, the universe has given me many things to contemplate in my quest, but can I hang onto this? Can I begin to teach others how to find spiritual significance in the sometimes vagaries of life? Perhaps my prayer and my way to recovering my health must be given to the buffalo. I've never been one to give into the pretentiousness of latching onto a philosophy that belongs so completely to Native Americans, but how can I sit here and deny this path? How can I deny that I once directed Jere Luis's play, THE LAST BUFFALO and connected to it so completely that I actually believed I  became a shaman for awhile to get people into see it on the side of the highway? I need to start paying closer attention to the buffalo, perhaps many of us should, for me, it may be life or death. I recently read that "when the student is ready, the teacher will appear…" Perhaps the teacher has appeared, perhaps I will follow the buffalo and become one myself as I seem to be manifesting.

Come, buffalo, come…

Buffalo Heading North

By Raymond King Shurtz

I. Introduction

I could not rise today.

I felt so good the day

before I even climbed  

the mountain!

I was manifesting foolish

youth, striking stars

with sticks, laughing

like Butch and Sundance

on the rocky trail

pulling iron on old bones

roping mesquites 

with simple ease

I secretly carried

the bottle of lightning

in my pocket I took

from storms long ago—

capturing them in the

that place between

life and death.

I was a buffalo then—

but then you think 

me foolish to play 

upon these eventide

words of yesterday—

the truth is in the story 

my friend, and stories

are never free. 

I will tell you of my buffalo days. 

I smile to myself in my own 

Recollection—but truth is a 

flighty lover at best. 

II. Buffalo Days

Ten years hence 

I climbed and leaped

like my brother

the fleet footed gazelle

muscle memory

took me to the top!

The wind had cleared!

The sky nary a cloud!

The color of the bluebird,

floating on late winter

breezes for me! For me!  

I looked to the The North!

The North! And Summer! 

Where the grass is thick!

Where the Henry Mountains

loom like the horses of

giant Paiutes riding 

for the hunting grounds! 

Where the snow water melts! 

Aaah, the cool taste of life

where the calves bellow

The sweetness

of new born breath.

But I have walked in to many snows.

And there was the three days

stuck in barbed wire

the deep hole I didn't see

the twist to free myself

the showdown with Gorr of

the Canadian heard,

another blow to the leg and shoulder

and,then, the fire, Oh, the fire! 

This morning did I sleep? Did I dream? 

Pain shot down my leg

Like the jack I wanted

To throw back

In my dry throat

with the cold spring water

of my wild days

to lessen its fire

to make me forget, 

the human part of me

I dreamed it during

The night, it burned

going down, as if I was

one of the ancient ones

of my collective ancestors

feeling the sting

of the fire water

Pain is not a cover

Pain is not a lover

Pain is a price of

A life lived like 

a young buffalo—

much too reckless

taking chances,

fighting with vigor

that was never asked

of me—but Oh!

I had wings on the wind

I had strength in my legs

I had my Grandfather

who stood in the sacred circle

A stoic who would die 

The natural death

protected by the young ones,

never to be left behind.

It was the last trip North

I faced the stumble

the withering of flesh

Oh, God! forget me not

lest I feel the

deep pain,

the gradual limp of doom.

When the limp arrives

nature whispers,

as if the news were 

part of living, part of dying

part of buffalo words

danger has arrived too soon.

The eyes of

my comrades gradually

begin to look away—

retreating from the

sparkle that once

peered into my soul.

"Sorrow,"my brother,

we know. "Fear". 

We will do what we can.

We cannot make

promises though,

what can we do? 

Shall we hold vigilance

this winter? 

Shall we buy you some time

in wooded thickets? 

Maybe I'll head to

The summer pastures—

I smile, I look towards 

the great Navajo mountain

I think—maybe the green

grass will keep the wolves

At bay, perhaps they will not 
notice the wound

as I stand solemnly

in the thicket

I'll find some cool mud

To stand in, maybe I'll

Smile and tell stories

Of a hundred moons

To the young ones

Perhaps I'll survive there,

Until the snow comes

And the stories end- 

when the calves 

spring 'neath mothers

steamy haunches

for the rocky trails

Aaah, maybe one more

season,  maybe two,

with luck and the

random notes

of nature. But

I'll not pray!

prayer is for the

great bear, the eye

of the eagle-the corpses

of bones along the 

brush of trails.

If do survive, it will

be because I've rested well

or because I still know things,

things that only one buffalo

could possibly know.

Or if one, just one, will 

knock at the door of 

kindness with mid-life

strength, and I will tell 

this one story that 

will remain in a buffalo's

soul. 

Will that be enough for

Other buffaloes?

The young ones?

The weaker ones?

The ones who lost

both mother and father?

I will make it a glorious summer,

I will touch the small ones

And if it's there I'll leave my seed

to an old sweetheart, perhaps start a

family I once longed for between

my singular journeys.

Why did I stray so far from the herd?

Why did I feel so different,

after all, wasn't I a buffalo too?

I'll romance this year, hide my leg with

charm and wisdom, maybe we will find

each other after so many years.

The Wolf is so near, he has

been watching me for years. 

all he needs is for me

To run out of independence—perhaps

I'll stay in the middle of the herd,

perhaps I can control my longing

to be alone. He and I have been

playing this dangerous game

for so many years.

Neither of us forget.

The wolf does not care for my stories,

perhaps he does have empathy

for my pain, and he will relieve

My suffering—and maybe he will

render my end with a short bite

To my neck, it could be worse…

Yes, It could be worse.

2/28/13 copyright by Rshurtz