Medicine Men

"There is no other way to guard yourself against flattery than by making men understand that telling you the truth will not offend you.”  Niccolo Machiavelli

I have a friend who will tell me the truth, who I cannot deceive, by masterful words or stubborn denial. He will speak to my heart, check to make that he has not injured me, then speak on.

Today, he and I sat in rare sunshine, a cup of steaming stimulant in hand, and he listened as I explained that I am an asshole because I want power and do not have it, because I wish for humanity to be better, and because I wish to go adventuring on and beneath the high seas of humanity's deep waters.

We picked idly at scabs, checking in to see how things were healing, his words like Hippocrates' hands, searching masterfully for injury and disease. I believe we found no fatal ailment, because it was him who first taught me to seek out my illnesses, my pride, my murder and scrub it clean with honesty and self-charity. Living in tiny rooms will do this for friends.

He and I are both medicine men, if only we could learn which medicines serve specific ailments, speak more plainly and with less conviction, and finally learn patience, patience, patience. For now, we play at being the men we will become, stand in the shadows of our shaman selves, with just enough wisdom to know that we will never guide other travelers if we do not put aside our self-hatred and grant ourselves undeserved pardon.