It's a matter of honor, death. It's your white page, do you see? Or your shame. Either you're worthy of it or you ain't. To accept it, to face it wit… - N. Scott Momaday

One autumn morning in 1946 I woke up at Jemez Pueblo. ...in the bright morning ...I found the last, best home of my childhood.

My Grandmother was a Storyteller;
She knew her way around Words.
She never learned to read and write, but somehow
She knew the good of reading and writing;
She had learned how to Listen and Delight.
She had learned that in Words and in Language,
and there only,
She could have whole and consummate Being.
You see for Her, Words were Medicine.
They were Magic and Invisible.
They came from Nothing into Sound and Meaning.
They were beyond price.
They could neither be bought nor sold, and
She never threw Words away.
She told me Stories and
She taught me how to Listen.
I was a Child, and I Listened.

This belongs to an eagle, he says. And the eagle belongs to the earth and sky. The feather, by itself, may seem a small thing, but the creature of which it is a part is very powerful. That power resides in this feather. It is a power tha tbinds all thing stogether. When I fold this feather, its power flows into me.