Years ago when my life was more complicated and difficult than it is now, I went to see my friend, Slow Turtle, Supreme Medicine Man of the Wampanoag Nation of Cape Cod. I was sure he knew everything there was to know, and in his wisdom and spiritual ascendancy, he would help me to solve my problem.
He was also the Executive Director of the Massachusetts Commission on Indian Affairs with offices in Boston. So I made an appointment and bought some Kinikinik tobacco to take him as you never ask a Native American spiritual leader for help without offering something in return. Tobacco has sacred qualities and is the preferred offering because it opens the door to the Creator.
Some elders say that tobacco is used to connect the worlds since the plant’s roots go deep into the earth and its smoke rises high into the sky. Ceremonies using tobacco invoke a relationship between the energies of the universe and the Creator, and the bond forged between earthly and spiritual realms is not to be broken.
On the appointed day, I sat across from Slow Turtle, feeling a little shy because I had only seen him at pow-wows and a mountaintop retreat in Vermont before. Never in an office, over a desk with a polished glass top.
We talked of this and that, matters of no importance, because you don't just blurt out your request to a medicine man until he indicates that he is receptive. Finally, he reached for the pouch of tobacco I had placed on the desk between us and moved it in front of him.
That was my cue. He was ready to hear me. I could ask him what I needed to know.
Showtime.
"Slow Turtle," I said softly. "What do men really want?"
He picked up the pouch and turned it in his hands. He looked out the window for so long that I wondered if he had heard me. He opened the pouch and dipped his fingers in the tobacco for several minutes. Finally, he turned back and looked deeply into my eyes. His own were filled with sadness. The tension was unbearable.
And then he spoke.
"Nobody knows," he said.
Slow Turtle led his people with great kindness, humor, and humility, and inspired all who knew him to live better lives. He never aspired to be a saint as he believed that the Creator gave us bodies to enjoy as well as souls to elevate us.
One of my fondest memories is watching him frolic in the surf with 3 or 4 small children riding on his shoulders, back, and under his arms, all shrieking ecstatically at the crashing waves.
Slow Turtle walked the Spirit Trail on October 27, 1997. His ashes were put to sea near his home at Mashpee, Massachusetts. He will always be missed by those whose lives he touched, however briefly, including mine.
