It is said that the Creator gave all the Two-Legged Beings

a sacred fire. This fire cannot be seen with the eyes—

it can only be felt by the heart.

In the beginning of days, the Creator took clay from

the earth and formed all of the Two-Legged Beings.

And while he made them he could not help but love them—

for the heart of the Creator is in his hands.

And because of this love, he gave all the Two-Legged Beings a

piece of himself—a sacred fire. It is a light that lives inside the

heart of every man, woman, and child. A light that guides and

helps us to see things clearly. For while our physical heart keeps us

alive, this sacred fire keeps us alive to others, and to our Creator.

In this way, all the Two-Legged Beings of Mother Earth are

inseparably connected to him and to each other—

woven together like a blanket.

Before placing us on Mother Earth, the Creator wrapped his arms

around all the Two-Legged Beings and said, “Whatever happens,

always remember that nothing is more important than WE.”

He then told them to love and serve one another. He warned

them that if they failed to do so, their sacred fire would begin

to darken and their hearts would become cold and callous.

For when WE withhold from one another,

WE darken the sacred fire within ourselves,” he warned.

“But when WE give to one another—then our heart is

at peace and our sacred fire grows brighter

In honor of their Creator, the Two-Legged Beings lived in this

manner. They loved one another and lived as WE.

But then, after many years, one of the Two-Legged Beings

began to believe a lie—a counterfeit to truth.

And that lie changed everything.

“What was the lie?” interrupted Strong Wolf.

“That something was more important than WE,”

said the old man.

“What was more important?” asked Strong Wolf.

“Perhaps it was himself,” said the old man with a shrug.

“Or perhaps it was an idea, or a way of seeing things, or

maybe it was just his opinion about rocks.”

Strong Wolf raised an eyebrow. “You mean you don’t know?”

Again the old man shrugged. “Does it matter? For if anything

becomes more important than WE—more important than

our sacred connection to one another—then we set ourselves

up for division. And as we separate ourselves from one

another, we blind ourselves to the others’ sacred fire. Blinded

to the truth about others, we become lost ourselves.”

As the old man spoke these words I looked toward my

brother. If anyone needed to hear this message it was him.

It was his pride that had divided our family.

To my surprise, however, he was looking at me.

His eyes dark, brooding, and full of blame.

I shook my head and looked away.

Once the man believed that something was better than WE

he no longer wanted to serve his people. For in his mind,

why should he? Were there not more important things?

Believing this lie, his heart turned from the Creator and from

his people. As he broke that connection, the sacred fire within his

heart grew dim. His view of the world became cloudy and dark.

He became suspicious and hateful toward WE. He withheld his

light from them. In time his heart grew hard—cold and callous.

For when you turn your back on the light,

you see only a world of shadows.

In turning away from truth, this Two-Legged Being needed to tell

himself new stories. For as we walk upon Mother Earth, we listen

to the stories of our people and write our own. The stories we

tell ourselves help us see a purpose in our walking. Up until the

moment he turned his heart, this Two-Legged Being believed the

story of his people—that nothing is more important than WE.

Now he needed a new story—one that supported

his footsteps away from his people and preached

that something is more important than WE.

So, in the secret chambers of his heart, he wrote the “Philosophy

of Me,” which placed his needs above the needs of his people.

But after writing this story, the man felt neither peace nor joy.

Then again, how could he? For it was a lie.

Its only purpose was to justify his darkness.

Desperate for peace, he resolved to teach this story to others.

“Perhaps,” thought he, “if they believe it, then I will feel better.”

So he went forth and told The People of WE his story—

that something was better than WE.

Like a pebble dropped into a lake, his “Philosophy of ME”

rippled through the People of WE.

In time many began to believe

that something was better than WE.

Believing this, many of the Two-Legged Beings turned their hearts

from one another. They lost sight of the sacred fire in others.

Thus blinded to truth, they descended into darkness.

They began to fight against each other.

High above them, the Creator looked upon

the creation of his hands and wept.

“I wanted them to become creators,” said he. “Builders of peace.

But now they are destroyers. Makers of war.”

The Burden of WE

The old man finished speaking and a hush fell

over our camp. A log in the fire crackled loudly.

Strong Wolf snorted with contempt.

“That’s it?” he said. “That’s your ‘medicine’?

Did my father write that legend? It sounds an

awful lot like the nonsense he believed.”

“What?” I said.

“You heard me,” said Strong Wolf. “That legend is

packed with the same kind of philosophies our father

would go on about. It’s all of that absurd talk about ‘being

one,’ or ‘living as WE.’ He wanted to strangle the life out of

everyone who was different. I couldn’t stand it!”

“You couldn’t stand it?” I questioned. “More like you just

couldn’t do the right thing and obey your parents.”

Strong Wolf snickered. “Oh, that’s funny, coming from you.

The one boy who ignored his parents and went into the

Great and Terrible Canyon—all by himself—and got lost.

It wasn’t until I found you—”

“You didn’t find me,” I said, rising to my feet.

“Father found me.”

Strong Wolf looked genuinely puzzled. “Father? Thunder

Bear, I found you. Do you honestly not remember that?”

I raised my hand. “Don’t lie to me, Strong Wolf.

I remember that night well. After Father found me I

committed to live as he expected me to live—to live as WE.

He wanted you to live the same way, but you refused.”

Strong Wolf let out a deep sigh. “There you go again.

Talking to me as though you’re some fine example of

what I ought to be. That’s why we left, Thunder Bear.

The ways of your people were crushing the life out of us.

The tyranny of WE was too much to bear.”

I was about to reply when the Trailwalker cleared his throat.

Strong Wolf and I turned to look at him. He gazed up at us

serenely, the light of the fire dancing across his wizened face.

“The creed of WE is meant to lighten our burdens,

not add to them,” he said.

“Is that so?” said Strong Wolf. “Well, enlighten me.

Tell me how I’m wrong and how Thunder Bear is right.”

“Actually,” countered the old man, “you are both wrong.

If what you say about your brother is true, then the

fact that he has used WE against you—as a way of

breaking your connection to each other—is wrong.

On the other hand, the fact that you hold your own

independence above WE is also wrong.

“Independence is a myth,” continued the Trailwalker.

“We do not make it through life on our own any more

than we make our own bodies. Everything we do in life

is sustained by others. We are brought into this world

through a mother and a father and we are taught

language and skills by our communities. To turn away

from others is to turn away from ourselves.”

I saw Strong Wolf fold his arms and tighten his jaw.

I knew that silent language well. It was the same thing

he would do when our parents would lecture him.

“So, what then?” he asked impatiently. “Are we supposed to

surrender to the community? Become like everyone else so

that everyone else is happy? That’s not living, that’s slavery!”

The Trailwalker was thoughtful for a moment.

When he spoke, he said something I was not expecting:

“I am cold. How about you?”

He then turned, reached into his gatherings bag, and

pulled out a beautiful blanket. Its colors were deep and rich:

red, black, and turquoise, woven together to form

intricate patterns. He wrapped it around himself

and breathed in with satisfaction.

“I love this blanket,” said the Trailwalker. “It is one thing, yet

it was made by thousands of other things: small pieces

of yarn, woven together. Each piece of yarn is similar,

yet different. If all the yarn were the same there would be

no beautiful pattern. Woven together, these various pieces

create a greater whole. In doing so, the yarn does not

become something different—it is still yarn—yet it

becomes part of something larger than itself.”

Taking note of our puzzled expressions, the old man went

on: “In like manner, the two of you are pieces of yarn.

By placing you on Mother Earth, the Creator has woven

you into the tapestry of WE. You are connected to each

other, and that connection—like the weavings of this

blanket—is meant to help you through the walking of life.

When we are woven together, we share the burdens of grief

and joy. With hearts knit together, our joys are magnified

and our tragedies become easier to bear.”

Strong Wolf rolled his eyes. “Wishful ramblings,”

he muttered. “Real life isn’t like that, old man.”

“Strong Wolf!” I hissed. “Show some respect.”

“Don’t speak to me like that,” he growled.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a child!”

“Well,” I began. “Give me a reason to treat you as an adult.”

At this, Strong Wolf pulled himself into a standing position.

“I’m going to go sit by the river.”

As soon as he was out of earshot I turned

to the Trailwalker and apologized for Strong Wolf.

“He won’t listen,” I said. “He won’t change.”

The Trailwalker looked at me, the light from the fire

dancing in his eyes. “No one can change until

they become fully responsible for their life

and the effect they are having on others.”

“Exactly!” I said.

“And my brother will never become responsible.”

“Perhaps not,” said the old man with a shrug. “That is,”

he added, poking the fire with a stick, “unless you change.”

Instinctively I tightened my jaw. “Are you saying

that I’m responsible for him to change?”

“Of course not,” said the Trailwalker.

“For that is up to him. I am suggesting we are responsible

for the person we give others to respond to.”

“What do you mean?”

“As the Wellspring of your people, it was your

responsibility to ensure that he was embraced by WE.

Your heart is turned from your brother. I see it in your

manner. I hear it in your words. When he was in pain, you

turned from him. I feel it from your heart—and so does he.

His heart at war is fed by your heart at war. Your heart at

war is fed by his heart at war. You both keep war alive.

It is a bitter cycle. Someone has to stop it, do they not?”

“So am I the only one who needs to change?” I asked

incredulously. “Do I just forgive and let him continue to

hurt us? Peace doesn’t work if only one person agrees to it!”

“Ah,” said the Trailwalker.

“But that is the first step to ending a war.”

“What do you mean?”

“Perhaps it would help if I told you the second legend,”

said the Trailwalker.

“What about my brother?” I asked.

“Doesn’t he need to hear this?”

“He didn’t go that far.” The Trailwalker gestured

toward the river. Strong Wolf’s back was to us, but he was

clearly close enough to hear us. The old man smiled.

“This story is called The Legend of the Two Kings.”