This story is for all those folks who have decided to take up the indigenous religions as a spiritual path. I see well meaning folks, tired of the over structured hierarchy of the mainstream religions, take up the study of Native American religions and unfortunately so often apply the oppressive structure they have been attempting to flee to the new religion. My, now wife and I once got into a discussion about the meaning of seeing so many rabbits on a hiking trip. She kept questioning me, "What are you so afraid of that you keep seeing rabbits?" I told her a version of this story to explain my personal view of rabbit energy and to highlight my belief about the Native ways. I grew up in an environment which allowed for the belief in spirits, and also for questioning of it. I was aware of spirits on different occasions in my life. At time I would see the spirits of the trees. I remember once looking at the mulberry trees across the street from our house. Their leaves and branches where all aglow with a red energy. This energy seemed to emanate from the very center of the trees. I asked my brothers and the other kids who were around at the time whether they could see the red energy. They couldn’t. I was "seeing things" they said. Another time I was amazed while in a strangely aware state to see a pterodactyl flying across the field across the way. Again my brothers accused me of seeing weird things Being only eight or nine I deferred to the wisdom of my more learned, older brothers. I didn’t like being different, so I pretty much talking about seeing things like that. As I grew, so grew and interest in spirituality. Quietly inside of me and interest developed as I had the various experiences which did not easily fit into the normal reality. An interest in comparing religions developed as the interface between the dominant Christian experience and my understanding of the Lakota religious life progressed. I listened with great interest to the stories my Dad told about life growing up on the reservation. These stories were mostly just plain growing-up stories, about going to school, trying to could girls, fishing and eating worms. Regular Dad and son stories. Sometimes I would get what I thought was a special treat. Hearing a story about the spiritual life on the reservation, a glimpse of life other than the Catholic boarding school experience. I remember tales of my Dad going off to the most remote, secluded place on the reservation to watch the Sun Dance. Being a young man in the Early ‘30s these events were still something that went on in spite of laws outlawing them. "These old practices were not supposed to be going on", he would warn. He felt honored and special for having been able to witness them before they were all but discontinued. I was horrified, yet at the same time intrigued with the tales of men piercing their chest and back skin with wooden stakes and being connected or hung from the sacred Tree of Life. Right then I knew that I was destined to danced the Sun Dance one day. My Dad doubted that. "Only the full-bloods do that and then only in secret." I would listen with rapt attention to recollections, descriptions and accounts of healing ceremonies and other miraculous things. My Dad told me of the time when my great grand mother passed on. In those times the whole family lived in a one-room log cabin. My great-grandmother had, as one of her prized possessions, a treadle type sewing machine. She evidently loved to sew and always had many projects going on, a pile of unfinished projects were at her machine at the time of her death. The story goes that after her funeral the family had gone to bed for the night. When all was quiet the sound of the pedal sewing machine was heard cranking. All night the sound continued. None of the family dared light a lantern to see what was there. The sewing noised continued on through out the night and only subsided just before dawn’s first light. The morning sun revealed that during the night the partially completed pile of sewing was now all sewn and neatly folded in the basket by the machine. The effects of spirits on perceptions was accepted by me at that time, I believed that a person could see things which "weren’t real", but this was a story of a spirit doing in the material world. I sought out that kind of power. I came across a book of witchcraft and pagan beliefs. I became very superstitious after reading that book. I wouldn’t pick up anything that had a stick laying across it, for fear that a ghost had placed it there. I would yawn lest a ghost slip down my throat and take over my body. I was constantly trying to keep the holes mended in my window screen for fear that evil spirits could come in through the larger openings. All of these taboos, which now seem so silly, scared me at age nine or ten. These fears also earned me the ridicule of my brothers and friends. Being somewhat long suffering by nature I put of with the teasing for was seemed like an eternity. During one of our trips to the cemetery on the hill the teasing reached the point where I could not long stand it. I was being careful not to step on or walk across an area where I expected anyone could possibly be buried. The other kids let me have it for that. Was little Bobby Gene afraid of ghosts? My brothers and friends had finally gotten far enough under my skin. I remembered that there was an incantation in the witchcraft book for raising the spirit of a departed person from the grave and in my annoyance I announced that I could do that very thing. They gladly took up the challenge and demanded that I perform the ceremony. I agreed. I wasn’t too keen on actually encountering a ghost. However, it was the middle of the afternoon and counted on the bright sunshine to scare away any ghosts. I noticed a powerful, electric southwest wind came up as the other young boys took their positions under my direction. We had picked the oldest grave in the place, a Washington memorial look-a-like on a chest high pedestal. Counter-clockwise I had the boys circling, chanting "Spirit of ‘So and So’ arise. Spirit of ‘So and So’ we seek your presence." Seven times, according to the ritual, we circled, chanting. As we finished the recital and the seventh circumnavigation of the grave, the top half of the gravestone began to sway. We stood there awestruck, the rocking motion became more pronounced. We backed away from the burial plot. The tombstone which had stood for over 80 year continued to sway in wider and wider arcs. Finally it rocked and walked itself to the edge of its base and fell ‘plop’ directly over the top of the grave. With great velocity a pack of little wild boys exited the cemetery gates. Not slowing down one bit, we ran around the bend and down the hill, where, as luck would have had it, my oldest brother and his friend were at our house. Explaining our predicament they agreed to come up the hill and reset the gravestone. Once of bigger guys had replaced the stone, we received a lecture about playing in the graveyard. I was told to never play with witchcraft again. Other than the occasional magic, I would put on a fishing lure, that I might catch a bigger fish than my brothers, thoughts of magic mostly disappeared. Along about fifteen or sixteen years of age, I found myself "the man of the house." My Dad had become very ill and spent many months in the Veteran’s hospital. The loss of his income his the family very hard. The money my mother brought in from the sewing factory didn’t go too far. My oldest two brothers had already gone, one married and the other off to college, so they weren’t around to feed fee, but there were still five of us kids at home and money was very short. Mom mad enough to get the family its staples; bread, rice, and potatoes were always in the house. Often though, unless I went out and brought in a rabbit, squirrel or a bird, we had no meat to go with our meal. One short afternoon during the deepest part of winter, I was out on what had become my nearly daily hunting expedition. Looking for game was difficult that day. The snow was piling up, ten or twelve inches and it continued to fall. There was not sign of rabbit or squirrel anywhere. With evening coming on the approach of twilight seemed to intensity the snow. Flakes the size of small fists muffled all sound and reduced visibility to 50 yards or less. In that eerie, soundless place, there was a feeling reminiscent of the experience years before at Crawdaddy Creek, or of the wind in the graveyard. An electric connected to all that was around me feeling. In rapture I moved easily and silently through the small woods, content to bathe myself in the joy of the sensation. Across my peaceful sense of awareness came the sharp image of my family going hungry. They were at home and would be getting hungry soon. I would be potato soup or maybe rice, or worse it might be macaroni and cheese, again. Looking around I called out mentally to the inhabitants of the wood. I had come to take one of them to feed my family. It was getting late and I did not want to go home empty-handed and face the younger kids’ disappointment. With that thought in my mind a rabbit appeared about 50 yards away. In clear conditions, with good light, a head-shot would be assured, without meat ruined. The conditions were not good though. I eased closer. I could move nearly silently through the grass on any occasion. Now the deep fluffy snow completely camouflaged my sounds. My only concern was about my movement being detected as I moved in closer for a better shot. The rabbit moved a little farther away. I braced myself by a tree. Despite the poor visibility, I would have to chance this shot from this range. I still could hit the animal easily, but didn’t feel confident of not harming the meat. I brought my rifle to bear on the small brown animal and was nearly at the point of squeezing off a sure shot, when another rabbit entered the scene. Encouraged with the possibility of getting in a double kill and taking home two nights’ game, I paused a moment. Suddenly, the second rabbit ran up to the first. Rearing up on its back legs, It began to prance in front of the other rabbit. The first bunny then also join the jib. They put their paws together and danced. I was awestruck. The absolute silence of the snow fall became a symphony to guide the young rabbit lovers in their mating ritual. For minutes they continued, they as much as I, in the ecstasy of this experience. The darkening skies brought me back to may more practical and serious mission. I had to take one of those rabbits, or both, if I could. I could barely tolerate the idea of killing them while they danced. My vision blurred, I blinked back the sorrow mixed with snowflakes that welled up in my eyes. I took hold of my resolve and leveled my gun. I thought to myself, "I could wait until they finish mating, and then take the male out. That way there would be offspring coming along soon to replace him." Even that was a horrible thought. It was repulsive to me to take one and leave the other to witness the death of its mate. Besides it grew darker and still the rabbits waltzed. Putting my finger to the trigger I thought of my family and their needs. I felt pity for the enraptured rabbits. From my belly rose a wish that I could be different somehow. No sooner had my vitals communicated their desires than yet another rabbit ran into view. The third animals was barely thirty feet away. An easy head short, no wasted meat! I looked into its eye and it communicated to me. "take me. You can always be provided for and it doesn’t have to take the beauty and joy out of living." I took the easy shot. I picked up my prey. The sound of the gunshot, my movements and field dressing the carcass did nothing to impinge on the activities of the other two animals. I headed for home, satisfied and happy for my family; the rabbits danced on…