I learned about Native Americans very early in life, through my Dad who had (and still does have) a passion for ancient times. My Dad is a self-study extraordinaire of life and someone who never shies away from the things that light him up or call him forward. He always embraces his passions, whether health, wellness, mindfulness, strength training, history, music, food, business, the great outdoors, culture, or faith… but it’s his lifelong passion for Native Americans that stands out to me today.
From the time I can remember, sacred drumming played throughout our house. Sage burned thickly in the air. Kachina Dolls lined the shelves. I would listen to my dad talk about the sacredness of the land we lived on, the animals that give us life, and the importance of tribal/family connections. He educated me on life through the Native American culture of deep respect, gratitude, and spirit. He even bases the way he hunts through that lens; pray over the animal, treat it with respect, use as much as possible, and have gratitude for its provision. My dad made sure to teach his kids and grandkids the same. He even traveled to tribal lands in order to more fully witness and honor the roots of our nation. Celebrating a culture that not only believed in something holy, sacred, and bigger than themselves, but lived it.
That’s probably why from a very early age I knew my spirit animal in the depth of my bones; Tigers.
I was (and still am!) wildly, almost otherworldly, obsessed with tigers. My heart ached realizing their dwindling numbers. I’ve always longed to protect and preserve their population because to me, they were way more than just an animal. They were, and still are, the spiritual representation of deep, deep intuition, fierce independence, embodied strength, and breathtaking beauty. They are a reflection of my soul. They represented the journey I didn’t yet realize as a child that I was destined to take.
For my tenth birthday, my parents adopted a tiger in my name through the World Wildlife Fund. I got a certificate in the mail and a stuffed tiger I slept with nearly every single night after. My child soul was satisfied in a way that is still hard to put into words. I felt ignited. I felt strong. I felt like somewhere out in the world was a tiger, roaming wild and free… and somehow, someway, we were each other’s keeper.
It wasn’t until a couple decades later that I’d find myself laying on a healing table in the middle of a huge conference room, drums echoing from the speakers, and a healer standing over me asking me to call in my power. My third eye, the center of intuitive insight, skyrocketed open and there it was… my tiger.
Our green eyes met as I watched it saunter forward and lay down directly on top of me. I could physically feel its weight on my body, yet I didn’t feel smothered or afraid. I felt protected. I felt alive, wild, and free. Feral blood pulsed through my veins, as the tiger slowly sunk down into my body, becoming me.
It was pure magic.
So… it probably won’t surprise you to learn I have a daily tiger ritual as well. Every morning as I sip my coffee, I watch videos of my favorite tigers that live at a beautiful wildlife sanctuary near my home. It’s so routine, I don’t even think about it, but this morning was different. As I watched, I felt this deep call to share the power, love, and magic of spirit animals with you. But when I went to sit down and write these words? My brain glitched with this itchy thought:
“You can’t talk about spirit animals, Jaimie. It’s viewed as cultural appropriation. Seriously. Get your head out of your ass.”
Ouch.
As the words echoed through my mind, my heart sank, and suddenly it hit me why so many of us mystics, or magic makers as I loving call them, have gone incognito: Cultural Appropriation.
Not appropriation committed by us onto others… but appropriation from others onto us.
You see… magic makers live life embodying the beauty, meaning, value, and interconnectedness of all things. We don’t act out of haste. We have no interest in finding blame or defending viewpoints. You won’t find us at the latest protest or infiltrating the comment section on posts we don’t agree with. Instead, we gravitate to truth and what brings us life. We are intuitive and put God at the center. We operate in energy and vibes. We see things, and know things, and feel things others can’t (or won’t). We love what we love and move on from what does not feel right. We often live lives that seem quiet and normal to the outside world, but are really vibrant, electric, and overflowing to the ones we hold close.
So, as a mystic and writer, I’ve been stuck in this internal war over what can and can’t be said for the better part of my life. Whenever I feel compelled to write or speak truth as the Maker gives it, my mind immediately goes crazy with questions. “Will this land? Will this offend anyone? Is it okay to write this? Does it even make sense? Will people get it? Am I being too much? Too little? Am I using words people will understand on the soul level?” and so on and so forth.
Add in today’s cancel culture in the name of cultural appropriation, and this battle only amplifies. The world feels like walking in a field that’s filled with unmarked landmines. One wrong step and…. BOOM! You’re a goner. Someone doesn’t like what you say, you say the “wrong” thing, or you say the “right” thing in the wrong way to the wrong person ~ BOOM! Gone.
No nuance. No conversation. Just shame, disgust, and a scarlet letter.
Honestly, this is why I often times go silent. This is why I wrestle with writer’s block so thick it feels like a galaxy pressing against my head. This is why I’ve cried in the bathroom more times than I’d like to admit, at the thought of walking back into my office to hit “publish” on truths so deep my bones might break if they are misconstrued.
But today was… is… different.
Instead of finding myself sugarcoating truth by asking ChatGPT how to say what I want to say without directly saying what I’m saying…I simply roar, “Fuck it.”
Forget hiding out. Forget sugarcoating truth. Forget pretending I don’t see what others cannot. Forget swallowing down so much fire I end up burping flames. Forget dancing around someone else telling me what is or is not “cultural appropriation”. Forget cancel culture….
Because here’s the thing… Magic Makers have been erased, stolen from, and punished since the dawn of time.
Women who in early history were taken from their homes, dragged into the town square, tied to a post, and burned alive while their families watched. Women who have been hung. Imprisoned. Banished. Diagnosed. Institutionalized. Condemned. Ostracized. Drowned. Mocked. Silenced. Shamed. Killed.
Women whose gifts threatened a world built on control. Women who felt too much, knew too much, saw too much. Women who were attuned to the planet and the stars and our humanness simultaneously. Women who paid the price for carrying something sacred in a world that only knew how to dominate what it could not understand.
If you’re a Magic Maker too, you know exactly what I am talking about. You’ve felt it. The circus freak energy or being treated like the bearded fucking lady… the old woman in a shoe… the contortionist trying to fold herself into something more palatable.
So, yeah. We now roar, “Fuck it”.
I mean… a tiger doesn’t wander the earth trying to get everyone to love it. A tiger doesn’t roar quietly to avoid waking anyone up. A tiger doesn’t try to blend in with its surroundings so it can become a member of the village. A tiger literally does not give a shit, and yes, many have been killed because of it… but those that remain still roam. They don’t cower in fear, or hide out in caves, or stop roaring.
A tiger lives.
Magic Makers, we are the tigers. A lineage. A bloodline the world tried to silence for centuries… but not anymore. Not on my watch.
Much Love,
PS: If this stirred something in you, share it. With your sister. Your bestie. Your circle. Your people. Magic spreads through remembrance. Sometimes all it takes is one roar to call the others forward.
