I enter the forest and I hear it… My dad’s voice. It never fades and it never falters, still echoing beyond his twilight… “Walk like an Indian” he whispers; and I fall in line. I move in silence and I make myself small, each footstep carefully placed upon the ground, listening and watching, waiting in reverence for secrets to be revealed.
He was never an artist, my father. He was a businessman, a well-organized straight shooter working in a well-organized straight shooting world that got him in the end. And yet I owe him for the wonderment, for the sacred, for this desire to see and see that has never once left me, that still feeds me to this day. I owe him this silence that covers my world and leaves me open to anything.
Later on I’ll bring the kids here and I’ll tell them about Indians; I’ll watch my youngest daughter’s eyes widen and her stride will slow and she’ll look around and I’ll know right then and there… Some voices never die.
But not now. Now the forest is mine.
My fortress, my refuge, my shelter.
My song and my cathedral.
Now I hush.