Next Saturday, my grandson will celebrate his Bar Mitzvah, the Jewish initiation ceremony into adulthood. I love coming-of-age rituals, where young men and women demonstrate their mastery of new skills, learn ceremonial language, chants, dances and stories of their culture. Draped in resplendent ceremonial garb, they stand before members of the community to be welcomed as full members of the tribe.

On that day, the Torah will be taken from the Holy Ark, and my grandson will be called up to chant from the sacred text. He will wear the prayer shawl I wore at my own Bar Mitzvah, and it will thrill me. But in addition, I wanted to sponsor an additional initiation ceremony that had special significance for me, a Warrior Sweat Lodge Ceremony. My grandson, whom I call Red Boy, had participated in Native American sweat lodges before and wondered whether a Warrior sweat was hotter than the others he’d been in. I told him it would be hot, but I thought he could handle it. He wanted to do it, so I invited men I know personally, representing many faiths to join us in this sacred Inipi ceremony.

Yesterday at dusk, we all stood in front of the ceremonial lodge. Red Boy’s father cleansed us with cedar smoke and an eagle feather before we crouched to get in. Sixteen men closely huddled inside the canvas-covered, willow-framed hut.
I welcomed each of my relatives then looked at my grandson and said that in this lodge are men who have a story to share about what it means to be a warrior. Just because there are only men around you doesn’t mean that women are not present. A woman helped gather and bless the stones we are using today. Her blessings for you are with us, and we are sitting in this lodge which is the symbolic womb of the Earth Mother. Women bless us with life and sustain us in life, always respect them.

I gave him the necklace I was wearing around my neck. It had been given to me several years ago from a Masai warrior on the Serengeti Plains in Kenya. He gave it to me with this story: his 13-year-old brother was guarding the family's cattle, their most precious commodity, when he became aware that a lion was stalking them. As the lion moved closer, his brother positioned himself between the herd and the predator. He crouched down, braced his spear in the ground and when the lion leapt at him, he aimed the spear at its massive chest on which the beast impaled itself. “This is a tooth from that lion,” I said, as I took off the necklace and put it on him. I told him he didn't have to kill a lion to be a man; what is important, however, is to stand up for something and someone other than yourself if you want to walk the path of a warrior.

Then for the next two and a half hours, around the red-hot lava stones that released “the breath of the grandfathers,” men talked about their heroic exploits and about their vulnerabilities; it was an incredibly intense and inspiring experience.

We sang Hebrew songs, Amazing Grace, Native American chants, and closed with a Grateful Dead tune. But the highlight came afterwards when my grandson walked into my bathroom looking for a T-shirt he could borrow. I said that in the midst of all the singing I forgot to give him a closing blessing and wanted to do it now. Having just showered, the steamy bathroom was not unlike the hot, steamy sweat lodge, but now it was just the two of us. I placed my hands on his head, just as my father (whose name my grandson bears) had done to me, and recited the threefold Hebrew blessing: May the Lord bless you and keep you, May the Lord look kindly upon you and be gracious unto you; May the Lord bestow favor upon you and grant you peace.

I felt the tears and awesome splendor of this moment, the initiation of my Red Boy.

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At a recent healing retreat I was sitting around the fire, and shared uncertainties about, the future, the dreams that still call to me, and the business still to be taken care of. The next day, a relative came up to me and said “I’d like to give you something that might be helpful in defining your plans. I’ll give you a call and we’ll get together”.

When we met, she gave me a Pendleton blanket; they are highly prized in Indian country, and I had given them as gifts at honoring ceremonies, but had never received one. This Pendleton was from their new Legendary Blanket series called "Keep My Fires Burning". The pattern honored storytellers, shaman and elders who pass on the customs, beliefs, and history of their culture, to future generations. It is a gorgeous, brilliantly colored, 6’x 8’ blanket that depicts the silhouettes of a storyteller with braided hair, sitting around a fire, speaking to three young people, his finger pointing up to the sky. We blessed it over fragrant cedar smoke and then she placed it over my shoulders saying “I’ve had this for a while and it doesn’t feel right for me, but maybe it will speak to you”. I was deeply touched.

Later, I wrapped it around me, then draped it over my shoulders like a shawl, and finally tied it around my waist. Slowly I began to dance, and chanted in the crimson dusk. I heard the words from the silhouetted storytellers lips; Devere Eastman (Lakota) telling me "I have only a fifth-grade education, and the most important thing I ever learned in school was that ignorance is spelled egonorance; it’s not all about you". Harrington Luna (Pima), said "they can only put your body in prison, never your Spirit", Nelson Fernandez (Mohave/Luiseno) "it's all good", Bill Tyner (Shawnee) "sing in your own language, the Great Spirit understands them all", Bill Dalton (Hopi) “forget about the answers, it’s enough to know the questions are important”.


Dancing in my spirit blanket, I heard my relatives remind me that it’s never been about the stuff we accumulate, our lives, legacy, and culture are defined by our stories. In the enveloping darkness, the life I wanted to live became clearer to me-----share what’s inside you, do what you love to do, and don’t do that for which you have no heartfelt reason.

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The last week has featured a deluge of publicity about the deplorable conditions at Walter Reed Army Medical Center, perhaps the most prestigious military hospitals in the country. It began with an expose in the Washington Post telling the story of returning veterans from Iraq and Afghanistan, shattered in body and mind receiving poor care, in dilapidated rooms, facing mountains of red tape and little support.

Since then there have been TV specials, Senate hearings, and a Newsweek lead story entitled "Failing our Wounded". The cover showed a 21-year-old Army specialist who was sitting on the stool next to her artificial legs. Marissa Strock at. she was in a Humvee that rolled over an improvised explosive device (IED) the broke her bonds, lacerated her liver and lungs, and resulted in the amputation of both of her legs below the knee. Marissa said she was proud to serve, said "the doctors were fantastic but the hospital just doesn't have enough people to adequately handle all the wounded troops coming in here everyday."

Looking at her picture brought tears to my eyes, and it intensified my rage at our government for getting us into this mess with neither exit strategy nor commitment to these maimed young people

Last Sunday’s New York Times (March 4, 2007) told a front page story of an 18-year-old Infantry Private, leaving her small Colorado River home town, for a flight to Fort Hood, Texas. There, Private Kane, US Army, Fourth Infantry Division, will be trained and probably to go to Iraq.

Resha Kane, a 5 ft. tall, honors student at Needles High School, Class of 2006, enlisted in the Army right after her senior prom. She saw the military as a way to further her education when she returned. On her return she plans to go to college with her GI Bill benefits and study biochemistry. Resha was escorted to her flight in a motorized caravan led by a dozen flag-waving motorcyclists. In the photograph that accompanied the article she was looking into her father's eyes as she said goodbye, and I found myself weeping as I wondered in what condition she might return.


Forty years ago, I confused my feelings about the war in Viet Nam with the returning warriors; I will not make that mistake again. In my morning meditation I pray for Resha Kane every morning; I put out loving energy and see her smiling joyfully on her return. I will be among those who will welcome you home warmly for your warrior courage.

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I heard Brad Allenby, an ASU professor who is both a lawyer and PhD environmental scientist, speak on the subject Can Technology Save Us? Allenby defined technology as the expression of a dominant species’ ability to control the established order. He said that human beings are the dominant species on this planet and will define who and what we and the planet will become. He cautioned that whoever gets to define what it means to be human could get ugly. I believe him and we need to address these issues in healthcare delivery.

The new genomic research has given us capacity to create a new and enhanced variety of human. We now have the ability to eliminate diseases, predict a person’s future health problems, eliminate imperfections and also enhance desirable qualities. Testing a patient’s genes will allow doctors to tailor treatment options for an individual. It can predict who will or won’t respond to specific drugs and the potential for side-effects. Pharmacogenomics will design genetically engineered drugs that will maximize a person’s ability to be cured from cancer. This whole new area of healthcare is called “Personalized Medicine,” and it’s the wave of the future.

Personalized Medicine raises interesting ethical issues; these tests and drugs are expensive and third-party payers don’t cover them. Most doctors are not trained to administer, assess, or use the tests for patient care. Now, lawyers are getting involved because patients will sue doctors who fail to order genetic tests before prescribing drugs, or their insurers for withholding payment. Insurers will want genetic profiles before providing coverage and will exclude high risk applicants.

Lawyers are becoming the catalysts that are getting us to address these serious ethical issues. Last week, I attended a meeting at the Arizona State University Law School where these issues were addressed, and it became clearer to me that humans are a design space and economics is the driving force in its evolution. We are on a potential course to create a caste system of individuals and nations who can afford these advances and those who can’t.

I applaud this discussion, and lawyers may be able to illuminate these issues (perhaps even help us with the process), but we can’t let lawyers define a culture’s morality. Economics and legal liabilities can’t be the only incentives that determine our medical future. Surely we cannot re-design ourselves by elevating some at the expense of others. The practice of medicine must still be values-based rather than economic; we must still take care of souls and not just bodies.


If we become just another genetically modified organism, we may have created a disease resistant, long-lived synthetic species, but we will have lost our souls. The soul of our humanity is worth saving, or as Duke Ellington said, “It don’t mean a thing, if you ain’t got that swing.”

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