From the Windwalker by Blaine m. Yorgason
Grandfather, he murmured, how is it that so many seasons have flown by, passing so quickly across this man's life, almost without his being aware of their going?
When he takes a drink at the stream, the face gazing at him from out of the water is a stranger to him.
That face is wrinkled and creased.
It shows a stooped old man, one who must use three legs.
He has on his head the white war bonnet, hair as white as the winter snow, thinning until there is almost not enough of it to braid.
O great one, this man sees this image in his mind and he knows it is himself, yet at the same time his spirit cries out, Wait!
That wrinkled frame is not him at all, but is instead simply a prison, a clay prison within which the young man that he is struggles for release.
And, Grandfather, most interesting of all is how this man feels.
he knows he is what others call old, for he has seen many winters pass him by.
Yet somehow he feels no different than he did that clear morning when he first leaped, unaided, to the back of his buffalo runner.
His heart still leaps with joy when it sees in memory his beautiful woman, or hears her voice, or feels her softness.
It thrills when it recalls the sun burning the clouds in the afternoon sky.
It still cries with sorrow when it hears needless pain or learns of senseless brutality.
It still beats with wonder as it observes the birth of a child, or the rebirth of Mother Earth as she greens to life when the time of cold is past.
What this man who stands before you is saying, O Great One, is that he always thought, when he was young, that he would feel old when he reached thirthy winters, or fifty winters, or even eighty winters.
Strangely, now that he has passed even these, he does not feel old at all.
He should say, Grandfather, that he does not feel old until his bones begin to ache with the cold.
Then he feels old!
Still, this old frame within which he dwells is his friend, and does its best to keep up with him.
There have been many times when he has not treated it well, yet it has forgiven him of a great deal.
He should not be so unhappy with it.
When the children of his grandson Smiling Wolf look away with contempt, or pity, then he should say, Do not Worry, old friend.
They do not understand the battles you have fought daily for so many long seasons.
Soon, though, they will understand, for age comes to all, even children, one sunrise at a time.
And it will come to them, each of them,
with as much surprise and swiftness
as it came to you.
