It-Spo-Iotisti - Truth (The Californians 1992) (6 pages)

PRAVG EES TAHOE <CaAR LEI RZOURSN AT AMIN S MVA CYMRU NEED) 190982 It-Spo-lotisi: Truth my Pit River People, it-spo-iotisi means to “talk straight,” to not tell a lie, to speak only the truth. It is a spiritual agreement with the self to “not talk crooked.” This is a part of the natural character of humanity that is not a personal belonging, although it is a secret that a person contains. This is also the element that distinguishes a “real” person from a “notreal” one. It-spo-iotisi is not an ethereal delicacy that can be cultivated or created. Either you are born with it or you are not. Should you have it, it is born within your existence in a tender part of your being and it is the connection between your spirit and the power that sprinkled the stars in the universe not many seasons ago. It-spo-iotisi mingles with the secrets and blood of the heart — like the millions of stars that mingle with the vastness of time and space. It is a truth that is made visible by living in a good way and cherishing that life. It-spo-iotisi makes trust grow and it calms many fears. It cannot be altered or assaulted, neither can it be changed as it flowers in the spirit — a spirit that wraps around wisdom, knowledge and peace. It is also related directly to the innocent child that dwells within us. It-spo-iotisi is a warm welcome and good visit at the end of a journey. It is the calm wherein the goodness of friendship finds the power to blossom. It is the recess where dignity is master. From this center, in all directions, thoughts flow that are healthy. At all times, It-spo-iotisi over-produces and its excess accumulates for future activities . In the old days when my silver-haired Grandfathers sat around the fire and spoke softly in the evenings of their memories and their dreams, there was no place for anything but “straight talk.” It-spo-iotisi proved to be then, and is yet today, a most valuable part of existence — as valuable as breathing. For herein can be found the total purpose for the existence of humanity, and, perhaps, the purpose for the existence of the entire universe. To know that there is “straight talk” is to be rescued from so much damaging language. When the oceans of present-day society are polluting the meaning of words, it is good to know that there are still the little springs, little fresh-water geysers where one may drink and find satisfaction. [: Ajuma-wi, one of the languages of It is so good knowing that somewhere there is the bubbling cleanliness of truth. I ama barefoot, dirty little boy plodding in the red dust and feeling it “smush” like water between my toes. Perfume from a smoldering fire made of seasoned juniper in the safety of the ponderosa pines in the early evening makes the softness sweeter. Sun is perched upon the horizon of our end of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Axo-Yet (Mt. Shasta, the dwelling place of Mis Misa) is splashed orange. Full moon just appears in the lavender velvet in the east. Night birds cast their songs from tree top to tree top and across the land. Their songs climb the eastern mountains and cascade down the other side like a rainbow spilling into the silent valley. As the orchestra of the day birds completes its stanza over the thousand hills tinted champagne pink, an owl calls. From the old barn another answers, through a jagged hole in the shingle roof. In the quiet of the golden fields, antelope and deer look across the silence — ever alert. The drop of hardened pine-pitch that I picked from the bark of a ponderosa a while ago is softening in my mouth and the sweet medicine coats my throat. Bats and nighthawks dart and swirl in the powdered shadows as mosquitoes scream around our ears. Little fire dances and the old ones in rolled up levis, worn leather lace-up shoes and crumpled hats talk softly. They hesitate for long, long periods then talk softly again. The old stories of creation, of conflict, of the first white people, are told again and again under the protection of evening and by the warmth of the fire that paints flickering splotches of powder-orange upon their wrinkled features. My Grandmothers bring to my Grandfathers a cup of sage tea with a spoon of sugar already stirred into it. They look with deer-soft eyes upon the glowing fire, breathe the evening, and return to the little kitchen to talk in whispers in the flickering light of a kerosene lamp. Beneath the umbrella of stars there is a soft peace. There is no need for anything but it-spo-iotisi, as it fulfills itself in the tenderness of the moment. It is here that I learned many stories given by the old people, and it is here that I first learned of Mis Misa, that little powerful being that balances all that is unknown about the universe and dwells within Axo-Yet (Mt. Shasta). — Darryl Babe Wilson In the time of legends, the Mouse Brothers found the prize of truth on Diamond Island (Alcatraz), when the tribe needed its healing. Darryl Wilson’s great grandmother gave birth to his grandfather while she was confined there with the others swept up by the military. by Darryl Babe Wilson, told in part by Pit River Elder Craven Gibson. here was a single letter in the mailbox. Somehow it seemed urgent. The address, although it was labored over, could hardly be deciphered — square

PRAVG EES TAHOE <CaAR LEI RZOURSN AT AMIN S MVA CYMRU NEED) 190982 It-Spo-lotisi: Truth my Pit River People, it-spo-iotisi means to “talk straight,” to not tell a lie, to speak only the truth. It is a spiritual agreement with the self to “not talk crooked.” This is a part of the natural character of humanity that is not a personal belonging, although it is a secret that a person contains. This is also the element that distinguishes a “real” person from a “notreal” one. It-spo-iotisi is not an ethereal delicacy that can be cultivated or created. Either you are born with it or you are not. Should you have it, it is born within your existence in a tender part of your being and it is the connection between your spirit and the power that sprinkled the stars in the universe not many seasons ago. It-spo-iotisi mingles with the secrets and blood of the heart — like the millions of stars that mingle with the vastness of time and space. It is a truth that is made visible by living in a good way and cherishing that life. It-spo-iotisi makes trust grow and it calms many fears. It cannot be altered or assaulted, neither can it be changed as it flowers in the spirit — a spirit that wraps around wisdom, knowledge and peace. It is also related directly to the innocent child that dwells within us. It-spo-iotisi is a warm welcome and good visit at the end of a journey. It is the calm wherein the goodness of friendship finds the power to blossom. It is the recess where dignity is master. From this center, in all directions, thoughts flow that are healthy. At all times, It-spo-iotisi over-produces and its excess accumulates for future activities . In the old days when my silver-haired Grandfathers sat around the fire and spoke softly in the evenings of their memories and their dreams, there was no place for anything but “straight talk.” It-spo-iotisi proved to be then, and is yet today, a most valuable part of existence — as valuable as breathing. For herein can be found the total purpose for the existence of humanity, and, perhaps, the purpose for the existence of the entire universe. To know that there is “straight talk” is to be rescued from so much damaging language. When the oceans of present-day society are polluting the meaning of words, it is good to know that there are still the little springs, little fresh-water geysers where one may drink and find satisfaction. [: Ajuma-wi, one of the languages of It is so good knowing that somewhere there is the bubbling cleanliness of truth. I ama barefoot, dirty little boy plodding in the red dust and feeling it “smush” like water between my toes. Perfume from a smoldering fire made of seasoned juniper in the safety of the ponderosa pines in the early evening makes the softness sweeter. Sun is perched upon the horizon of our end

of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Axo-Yet (Mt. Shasta, the dwelling place of Mis Misa) is splashed orange. Full moon just appears in the lavender velvet in the east. Night birds cast their songs from tree top to tree top and across the land. Their songs climb the eastern mountains and cascade down the other side like a rainbow spilling into the silent valley. As the orchestra of the day birds completes its stanza over the thousand hills tinted champagne pink, an owl calls. From the old barn another answers, through a jagged hole in the shingle roof. In the quiet of the golden fields, antelope and deer look across the silence — ever alert. The drop of hardened pine-pitch that I picked from the bark of a ponderosa a while ago is softening in my mouth and the sweet medicine coats my throat. Bats and nighthawks dart and swirl in the powdered shadows as mosquitoes scream around our ears. Little fire dances and the old ones in rolled up levis, worn leather lace-up shoes and crumpled hats talk softly. They hesitate for long, long periods then talk softly again. The old stories of creation, of conflict, of the first white people, are told again and again under the protection of evening and by the warmth of the fire that paints flickering splotches of powder-orange upon their wrinkled features. My Grandmothers bring to my Grandfathers a cup of sage tea with a spoon of sugar already stirred into it. They look with deer-soft eyes upon the glowing fire, breathe the evening, and return to the little kitchen to talk in whispers in the flickering light of a kerosene lamp. Beneath the umbrella of stars there is a soft peace. There is no need for anything but it-spo-iotisi, as it fulfills itself in the tenderness of the moment. It is here that I learned many stories given by the old people, and it is here that I first learned of Mis Misa, that little powerful being that balances all that is unknown about the universe and dwells within Axo-Yet (Mt. Shasta). — Darryl Babe Wilson In the time of legends, the Mouse Brothers found the prize of truth on Diamond Island (Alcatraz), when the tribe needed its healing. Darryl Wilson’s great grandmother gave birth to his grandfather while she was confined there with the others swept up by the military. by Darryl Babe Wilson, told in part by Pit River Elder Craven Gibson. here was a single letter in the mailbox. Somehow it seemed urgent. The address, although it was labored over, could hardly be deciphered — square