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Indian in the Big Apple

A wise and elderly American Indian had a burning desire to go to the city and observe first hand the wonders and terrors of life away from the reservation. His friends and pastor counseled him regarding the wickedness he would see and the frantic lifestyle he would be caught up in. They were fearful that leaving his quiet contemplative ways, and the surroundings of nature’s peacefulness would be too great a strain for one so old. Nevertheless, he persisted, saying he could not be satisfied until he had experienced a city.

He contacted a fellow member of his tribe, a gifted young artist who lived in New York City, finishing art school to better prepare himself for interpreting the Indian world to others. Arrangements were made for the visit.

The artist was careful not to overwhelm his reservation brother with too many sights and sounds too quickly. One beautiful day they faced the challenge of navigating one of New York’s busiest streets at noontime. The two Indians, from their culture of few space constraints, were packed body to body into the roaring herd. They had spoken earlier of the awesomeness of these millions of humans living in this map dot of space, as contrasted to the few thousand of their tribe, scattered over thousands and thousands of New Mexico reservation acres. They also shared familiar “Indian reflections” on the ways of “white men” and their need for such cities of opportunity, no matter what the spiritual or emotional cost. The young Indian thought deeply of his own immersion into such a culture and what he could lose of himself.

Suddenly the elder Indian stopped in the midst of the logjam of this human river, which parted and continued around him. He turned to his young companion and said, “I hear a cricket!” “Impossible,” said the friend. “In all of this roar and din, you can’t possibly hear a cricket!” “I am sure I hear a cricket,” said the Indian. He strode out boldly, crossed the street, and walked slowly past the storefronts, his young companion hastening to catch up. “There,” he said, “There is the place of the cricket.” He was pointing to a shrub growing in a concrete planter in front of a cafe. And there, as they parted the limbs, they saw the cricket, perched on a very dusty branch, singing furiously, as crickets are supposed to do.

“What incredible hearing,” said the young friend. “No,” said the elder, “my hearing is no different than yours. I have just learned how to listen and I know what to expect to hear. Let me show you what I mean.” He took a handful of change from his pocket and tossed it on the sidewalk. Almost every head within a 500-yard range stopped to look down or stopped and looked because others were looking. “See what I mean?” said the elder Indian. “It all depends on what you have learned to listen for.”

“Yes,” said the young artist, “and I must ask God to forgive my many times of failing to listen for His quieting and still small voice in this booming and perpetually noisy city. I am guilty of not expecting to see and hear Him in so great and wicked a place.”

“My young friend,” said the wise old Indian, “there are God’s beloved everywhere singing furiously and faithfully their life songs of spirituality.”