I grew up with Good Friday. I cannot say that Good Friday for me was a day for celebration, because I was an impressionable child and I read a lot. My knowledge of the world came from books. I was brought up to believe that Good Friday was a day for sacrifice and the ultimate sacrifice was the man who carried his own cross to the hill of Calvary. The story filled me with dread because of the excessive violence and I saw the parallels to my own life. I could see why people saw the crucifixion story as a story of courage and perseverance. If one was suffering, it.
Most of us rely on the visual or audial for validation of the existence of other worlds. Eastern European, Asian and First Nations mysticism gained traction in our society because of the pump and circumstances displayed for all to see. Smudging, ceremony, dance and drumming give us the authenticity we require to know that god exists. We have a visual expectation of how a shaman should appear and sound and accept the authenticity of the individual’s gifts based on their appearance. My great grandmother, Muma Gayle looked like an ordinary person. She had her head wrapped in a red and white, stiffly starched, plaid cotton headdress, like the senior women.