After The Work

He put the knife down on the table, having finished the design on his latest walking stick. It was another beauty he thought to himself has he placed it in the corner by the others he had worked on. He recalled the first time he needed to use one, having to find a stick on the trail when he had gotten winded from the walk. He was an avid walker, since a child he had walked along the trails and cliffs of his tribes’ reservation. He felt connected to something greater when he walked and sought refuge from life’s worries when he walked. He used that walking stick as it had grown from the tree for several trips before he started carving the handle to be a little more comfortable, then the body to smooth out the knobs, later rounded off the bottom so it wouldn’t split.

Eventually that stick broke, couldn’t recall why, so he found a new one and began to work on it with his knife from its first use. He found another place of catharsis when carving new walking sticks, started to place designs and themes on the body of the sticks. It became a daily exercise to carve a stick even if he didn’t have time for work. He made them for friends and family, began to polish them and wrap leather strips around the handle. People loved them, so he began to sell them at Powwows and local tribal events. It seemed poetic to him to take a decline in his physical prowess and turn it to a positive where he could continue his creativity and emotional investment. He felt connected to his trails even when he didn’t feel like walking when he worked on his wonderful walking sticks.

Now he sat in his room, hands shaking and sore, eyesight growing dim. He knew he was not long for this world. His friends began to visit with more emotion and less conversation. They encouraged him to smudge with them, the wonderful sage smell remaining in his apartment long after they left. He felt a deeper connection with his friends and family during this time. He no longer sold his prized walking sticks, but was making special ones for his son, daughter, friends, and even his ex-wife whom he was still friendly with. The doctors recommended hospice for him because he heart was failing. He didn’t feel that as much has he felt tired all the time. His heart sometimes pounded and raced to keep up with demand. He was getting a sense of the eternal, his Creator was calling soon.

He called his daughter and made plans to go for a walk with her at the state park they used to camp at. He didn’t dare go alone anymore in case he fell, and it was nice to walk with his “little girl”. It was a sunny day, a little brisk as they walked, both holding a walking stick proudly as they went along their way. They spoke about family, their hopes, latest tribal council news, and also enjoyed silence to hear the wind and the birds. “Nature sings a wonderful song” he thought aloud, “No matter how it changes, the birds sing despite the hardships.”

He passed away in his sleep that night, dreaming of his family and his many walks on the trails of his youth. A man appeared to him on the path, friendly and beckoned him to join him. He smiled as he seemed a good companion and walked with him. The man eventually spoke and asked, “Have the trails treated you well?” “Yes” he replied, “They gave me respite and taught me many lessons, and when I could walk no more, the trails gave me a means to love others and leave them something that would help them so they wouldn’t stumble.” The man smiled, and said “Well done, good and faithful servant”. They continued down the long, beautiful path, the his Creator guiding him one last time along the way.