Post by Spirit of the Lynx on Jul 4, 2007 16:43:24 GMT -5
From: ♫Mysti♫ (Original Message) Sent: 9/5/2004 6:09 PM
Dear Readers,
Swift Eagle was 93 years old when I met him. He knew death was near and mentally he "called out" to someone, anyone who could hear him, to come to him and help him. While I was sleeping , in dream state, I "heard" him. It was one of those dreams that seemed so real. When I woke up I could remember every detail. I passed it off as an unusual dream, mentioned it to my husband and children, then dismissed it from my mind.
The dream wouldn't go away. The next night I dreamed it again in even more detail. I was flying across the tree tops, through the woods, to sit at a campfire with an old Indian man. He introduced himself as Swift Eagle and talked about his wife, Shawanna, and their three children. He told me he was dying and asked for my help... that dream ended, and again it was as real as the first. I could smell the smoke of the campfire, felt the dampness of the woods and heard the night sounds.
The following night it happened again and the dream continued. Swift Eagle again asked for my help, and he called me Red Bird, like he knew me. H explained that he had lessons he knew only by memory, that he wanted written down before he died. He begged me to meet w/ him and write them down for him. I agreed to do it. This began a strange adventure for me. I would teach school all day, tend to my husband and children and household duties in the evening ,and at night my strange journeys would begin after I fell asleep.
Swift Eagle explained that there would be 32 lessons and poems. He said that some would be long and difficult to write, but he'd go slowly so it would be easy for me. He said that he would give them to me by topic, line by line, so I could write them down when I woke up, and it happened. I'd wake up in the middle of the night, write what I'd remember, go back to sleep, receive more, wake up, and write. I learned not even to look at what I was writing until it was finished. When I did read it over, I found lessons in a strange poetic form complete with title and verses, and when one was done, not another word would be added.
This went on for weeks, then weeks turned into months. The dreams were changing. After the 18th or 19th lesson, I was no longer sitting with him by the fire in the woods, but was sitting by his bed in a hospital. It was a four bed room with three old men in beds. The fourth bed was empty. His bed was by a window and I sat there. The other two men were not aware of my being there and yet I could hear them snoring and the night noise of the hospital. I still didn't know were the hospital was located, but after two or three visits, it became comfortable ,and the lessons continued.
Swift Eagle was becoming weaker and the words and lines slower. The lessons continued.. night after night, line by line.
I was getting used to the interrupted sleep. The mornings proved interesting to see what I'd written down, but I was beginning to doubt my sanity. This sort of thing never happened to me before. Why me? Was I going insane? Was this all just a figment of my imagination? I became concerned enough to ask my doctor about it at a routine exam. I even showed him one of the lessons. He didn't know what to make of it, but said that as long as it wasn't hurting me to allow it to continua and he assured me I wasn't having a midlife crisis or cracking up as I feared.
It continued. Swift Eagle's illness was worsening. He was becoming weaker. We were on lesson 30. I could see IVs being added. He struggled to remember, tired out easily, and his mind wondered. It was as though he had so much to say and so little time left. He said "32 lessons" and we were almost finished. He knew it and I knew it, but we didn't speak about it. He knew he needed morphine, but refused it because he knew it would dull his mind and he couldn't remember the words to give me. The lines were coming harder... in bits and pieces. and finally lesson 32.
He was slipping in and out of a coma. "Have my lessons published," he requested. "Send five copies to my people."
That morning I woke up withe the lasts few lines. The lessons were completed. My job was finished. I "knew" Swift Eagle had gone to walk with his ancestors. His bed was empty.
So, I present to you, dear readers, these 32 lessons. They aren't mine. They are the exact words he gave me. He told them to me, corrected my mistakes, and left them with me. His instructions were clear: "write them down for my people." I hope you will read them, ponder them, and find some truth in these written words of Swift Eagle.
Sincerely,
Joan R. Neece
Mgr's Note:
This transcript of Swift Eagle was given to me by its editor Ron Neece who was the author's husband.
Mysti,
Mgr
Mystic Forest.
Dear Readers,
Swift Eagle was 93 years old when I met him. He knew death was near and mentally he "called out" to someone, anyone who could hear him, to come to him and help him. While I was sleeping , in dream state, I "heard" him. It was one of those dreams that seemed so real. When I woke up I could remember every detail. I passed it off as an unusual dream, mentioned it to my husband and children, then dismissed it from my mind.
The dream wouldn't go away. The next night I dreamed it again in even more detail. I was flying across the tree tops, through the woods, to sit at a campfire with an old Indian man. He introduced himself as Swift Eagle and talked about his wife, Shawanna, and their three children. He told me he was dying and asked for my help... that dream ended, and again it was as real as the first. I could smell the smoke of the campfire, felt the dampness of the woods and heard the night sounds.
The following night it happened again and the dream continued. Swift Eagle again asked for my help, and he called me Red Bird, like he knew me. H explained that he had lessons he knew only by memory, that he wanted written down before he died. He begged me to meet w/ him and write them down for him. I agreed to do it. This began a strange adventure for me. I would teach school all day, tend to my husband and children and household duties in the evening ,and at night my strange journeys would begin after I fell asleep.
Swift Eagle explained that there would be 32 lessons and poems. He said that some would be long and difficult to write, but he'd go slowly so it would be easy for me. He said that he would give them to me by topic, line by line, so I could write them down when I woke up, and it happened. I'd wake up in the middle of the night, write what I'd remember, go back to sleep, receive more, wake up, and write. I learned not even to look at what I was writing until it was finished. When I did read it over, I found lessons in a strange poetic form complete with title and verses, and when one was done, not another word would be added.
This went on for weeks, then weeks turned into months. The dreams were changing. After the 18th or 19th lesson, I was no longer sitting with him by the fire in the woods, but was sitting by his bed in a hospital. It was a four bed room with three old men in beds. The fourth bed was empty. His bed was by a window and I sat there. The other two men were not aware of my being there and yet I could hear them snoring and the night noise of the hospital. I still didn't know were the hospital was located, but after two or three visits, it became comfortable ,and the lessons continued.
Swift Eagle was becoming weaker and the words and lines slower. The lessons continued.. night after night, line by line.
I was getting used to the interrupted sleep. The mornings proved interesting to see what I'd written down, but I was beginning to doubt my sanity. This sort of thing never happened to me before. Why me? Was I going insane? Was this all just a figment of my imagination? I became concerned enough to ask my doctor about it at a routine exam. I even showed him one of the lessons. He didn't know what to make of it, but said that as long as it wasn't hurting me to allow it to continua and he assured me I wasn't having a midlife crisis or cracking up as I feared.
It continued. Swift Eagle's illness was worsening. He was becoming weaker. We were on lesson 30. I could see IVs being added. He struggled to remember, tired out easily, and his mind wondered. It was as though he had so much to say and so little time left. He said "32 lessons" and we were almost finished. He knew it and I knew it, but we didn't speak about it. He knew he needed morphine, but refused it because he knew it would dull his mind and he couldn't remember the words to give me. The lines were coming harder... in bits and pieces. and finally lesson 32.
He was slipping in and out of a coma. "Have my lessons published," he requested. "Send five copies to my people."
That morning I woke up withe the lasts few lines. The lessons were completed. My job was finished. I "knew" Swift Eagle had gone to walk with his ancestors. His bed was empty.
So, I present to you, dear readers, these 32 lessons. They aren't mine. They are the exact words he gave me. He told them to me, corrected my mistakes, and left them with me. His instructions were clear: "write them down for my people." I hope you will read them, ponder them, and find some truth in these written words of Swift Eagle.
Sincerely,
Joan R. Neece
Mgr's Note:
This transcript of Swift Eagle was given to me by its editor Ron Neece who was the author's husband.
Mysti,
Mgr
Mystic Forest.