By Julian Spalding

This essay involves the Rogue Valley of Southern Oregon, my Osage Indian ancestry, The Osage Reign of Terror and a current best seller; Killers of the Flower Moon. I am writing this in May, the month the Osage call the Killer of Little Flowers Moon because frost came so often at this time of year, killing young flowers.

My story starts on the Osage reservation. Like so many native tribes, Osage territory was shrunk from a territory that originally covered most of Missouri, Arkansas, Oklahoma and Kansas, to banishment in the corner of northeast Oklahoma in the late 19th Century. The tribe, which had been consigned to a Kansas reservation, was given the option of buying some non-productive land from the Cherokee tribe. The land became Osage County. In a bizarre twist of fate, in the early 20th Century, oil was discovered under the land. The Osages, who had managed to buy mineral rights with the land, soon became the richest people in the world as they benefited from oil leases and royalties. The money was apportioned to the 2,229 living members of the tribe who were born before 1907. Their shares of the mineral rights were called “headrights,” which were inherited by their descendants in perpetuity.

My grandmother was one of the original headright owners. In the early decades of the new century, she enjoyed the wealth shared by all headright owners. But there was a dark side to this sudden wealth, explored in depth in Killers of the Flower Moon. Sensing an opportunity to acquire some of this wealth, unscrupulous men married Osage women, killed their new wives through a variety of methods, including shooting, poisoning and blowing up an entire house with the occupants inside. The headrights of men were also stolen by their white “guardians.” The government had set up a guardianship system, since the Indians did not know how to manage their sudden vast wealth. However, the guardians were invariably corrupt. In fact it turns out most of the local institutions, from bankers and lawyers to law enforcement, were part of a grand scheme to defraud the Indians.

The resulting Reign of Terror began in the early 1920s. At that time, my great grandfather, Clarence Trumbly, lived with his extended family on their allotted land just over the border in southern Kansas. My grandmother had married a Scotsman named Thomas McAdam when she was sixteen. My mother, Betty Jane McAdam, was born in 1922. When she was two or three years old, Clarence moved the family to Grants Pass, Oregon. I never heard family lore that said the reason for the move was the Reign of Terror, but I can’t imagine that that was not a major factor since hundreds of Osages were being murdered at that time.

Clarence bought land in the Applegate Valley and a theater in Grants Pass where my Mom told me she used to see movies for free since her grandpa owned the theater. She grew up in Grants Pass, graduating from Grants Pass High School. Her mother, grandfather and other relations are buried in the Grants Pass cemetery with grave plates bearing their names.

When my mother was sixteen, she was working in a store when my father Raymond Spalding saw her and, as he told me, “When I saw that beautiful woman, I said, ‘I’m going to marry her’!” They married about 1942 and settled in Ashland where my Dad and his father, Elmer Spalding, owned a lumber mill called Sugar Pine Lumber Company. My Dad wrote a short autobio where he mentioned that his mill stood at the corner of Ashland Street and Tolman Creek Rd., the current site of Bi-Mart and Shop n Kart. When I was two or three years old, my Dad sold the mill and moved his family to Eureka, California where I grew up. I eventually graduated from UCLA, married, had a son, and then moved my family to New Mexico where my wife and I had two more children before we divorced.

She left New Mexico, but I stayed, wandering in the desert, for forty years! In 1987, I met my current husband, Terry Brown, in Albuquerque. In 2008, we bought a home in Talent, moving in 2009. When we shopped at Shop n Kart and BiMart, it felt strange to walk on the cement floor of these two stores—a floor my Dad poured when he built the mill in the late 1940s! But that’s another story—the Spalding family who ran lumber mills in the valley for several generations.

My maternal ancestry stems from the Osage Reign of Terror, without which I might not have been born, and, likely, not in Ashland. My mother lived on her headright income inherited from her mother, and me from my mother—which today represents a portion of my income—a mere fraction of what once provided lavish lifestyles for the Osage of Oklahoma. After a sixty-year absence, I had returned to my own ancestral land of Oregon.

How can we know who we are if we don’t know our roots? Only when we know our lineage can we place ourselves in historic time and recognize where we are and where we belong.

© Julian Spalding 2017


By Julian Spalding

Richard Rudd In his monumental work, “The Gene Keys: Unlocking the Higher Purpose Hidden in your DNA” (Osprey Publishing Ltd. Kindle Edition), states “Nature knows exactly what she is doing, and we should take heart from this.” That simple statement reveals a potentially powerful insight into the mystery of our times. If Nature indeed knows what she is doing, from that flows a deeper realization of the historical trajectory in which we find ourselves. Is it possible we are the culmination of a vast experiment of a vast intelligence we can barely fathom from our limited human intelligence? Is it possible that our very disconnection from “Nature” is actually Her intent?

It has often been postulated that humans are destroying our habitat because of our belief that we are separate from and superior to Nature. Yet we are in reality a part of Nature. We are not separate. May we not, then, be a part of Nature herself creating the Dream of the Planet? Is it possible that we are part of a great evolutionary process, in which the current state of planetary destruction is a necessary ingredient for a Great Transformation?

The term dissipative structure was coined by Russian-Belgian physical chemist Ilya Prigogine. Out of that postulation came his Theory of Dissipative Structures which states that when a system is ready to move to a higher frequency, it disintegrates into a chaotic state. Out of chaos comes a new order, an order that would not have been possible had the previous order not devolved into chaos. What looks like chaos at one level, looks like a birthing in the new dispensation. One way of looking at this process is how a caterpillar voraciously devours everything in its path, until, sated, it stops eating and spins a cocoon. Inside the chrysalis, the body of the caterpillar turns to a mushy substance. Its cells disintegrate and new cells begin to grow called imaginal cells. At first the imaginal cells are experienced as foreign and the old caterpillar cells try to destroy them, but eventually the caterpillar surrenders to the process and the imaginal cells begin to build a new creature which eventually emerges as a butterfly, an entirely new creature.

If the caterpillar cells had not dissipated into a chaotic mush, the imaginal cells could have not emerged out of chaos and the new creature could not have been born. Is it possible we are experiencing just this process on a world scale? Does Nature know what she is doing?

Richard Bach said, “What the caterpillar calls the end of the world the master calls a butterfly.” –Perhaps Nature calls the end of the world as we know it, the birthing of a new world. Melody Larson writes, “A caterpillar event occurs and we have the choice to view it from the caterpillar’s perspective (the limited view of the ego/personality) or from the Master’s perspective (the eternal view of the Soul.) From the Master’s perspective a disaster is not a disaster at all but the necessary and wonderful adventure into a bigger life–the butterfly life.”

Clearly, from our limited human perspective, we are witnessing the beginning of the death throes of industrial civilization. This is cataclysmic, beyond human ability to fully comprehend. What does this mean for our way of life? How will we survive? Will we survive? Maybe a better question is who will we be together in the face of this unprecedented challenge of our time? I doubt if we will emerge the same people we are now. Industrial man may not be able to survive in the new world. The Gene Keys states, ” A new network of neuro-circuitry in the solar plexus is superseding the reptilian fear-based neuro-circuitry of the old brain.” If this is true, then we may be literally evolving a New Human Operating System.

“Between 2012 and 2027,” says the Gene Keys, “a core awakening fractal of humanity will lay the foundations of a new world that will reshape this planet from the inside out.” It goes on to say, “After this awakening has occurred, one will no longer exist as an individual. Awareness will operate collectively.” This process is so far beyond our current collective awareness as to be inconceivable.

The Gene Keys also states, “Our current generation is the sacrificial generation. Our collective body is purging humanity of its ancient toxins.” It may not be advantageous from an evolutionary point of view for 7 billion humans to exist on the planet. How this process will play out is anybody’s guess, but if Nature indeed knows what she is doing, then those of us who are awakening to a greater reality may be the imaginal cells of the caterpillar building the rudiments of a new human and a new planet.

© Julian Spalding March 2016

I am moved to respond to Jeffrey Gillespie’s column, “Alan Kurdi: Person of the Year,” (Ashland Daily Tidings Jan 8). Initially I simply wanted to agree with his assertions that we are often presented in the media with whitewashed versions of events which reflect the character of our nation, including the effect of war on the innocent. Witness the picture of Alan Kurdi, the 2-year-old Syrian boy who washed up dead on the Turkish coast. This is in contradistinction with the “bloodied and mutilated children that come to us whenever we invade” which “demolishes the sanctity of Western hypocrisy, reminding us of our imperialistic narcissism.”

Gillespie’s assertions reflect my own concerns about the endless wars of aggression perpetrated by the United States in response to real or imagined threats. My knee jerk reaction to America’s imperial ambitions is to point my finger in righteous indignation. However, if I engage in a little self-reflection I might look at how my reactions reinforce my own propensity to self-righteousness. I have to ask myself, “What is it in me that reinforces imperialism?” The word is defined as extending a country’s influence through force. When I turn my attention within my own being I often notice the need to extend my personal influence without regard for the feelings of others.

It is so much easier to look outside myself for justification of my mental attitudes. Looking at this propensity, I realize it is when my ego needs to be “right” it looks for reasons to justify being right. Is it true that a nation of egos needing to be right create a nation that must impose it’s will on other nations? Am I willing to consider my own complicity in national attitudes that may reflect my own need to impose my will on others? This is a much more difficult task than reinforcing my positions through projection onto the world.

This isn’t to say that I can’t be outraged by events perpetrated in my name, but it is encumbent upon me to continually examine my own motives for my outrage. Am I motivated by my desire to create a better world? Or am I motivated by a desire to create a better me—the “me” that imagines myself to be in control of events over which I have no control? I am reminded that I personally have no control over persons, places or things. In the words of Alcoholics Anonymous
“Even though I do have the power of choice, when my emotions get aroused, I sometimes choose to give my power away when I get resentful at that person, place or thing.” My resentment then controls my responses to external events and people. I react unconsciously rather than making a conscious stand for or against something. This can be tricky because I want my actions in the world to be effective. But also I want to maintain my own self-reflective awareness about what is actually motivating my activism. Is it coming from a place in me of caring and heartfulness or is it coming from a place of judgment and righteousness? The latter can snare me by closing my heart. The former allows me to interact with the world from a place of openheartedness. When I am in judgment of others my own propensity to narcissism is reinforced.

When my heart is open I tend to see the world through a lens of caring and concern rather than anger and righteousness. I want to focus my energy more on building networks of caring individuals and less on reactive activism. Can I do both? Andrew Harvey writes of “sacred activism,” whereby one can engage with the world while one’s heart is open, feeling the pain of wars on the innocent, but engaging in a way that is aware of my own actions which may arise from knee jerk reactions. How can I keep my heart open in the valley of the shadow of death? Isn’t that the task all of us ultimately face? This is my challenge.
© Julian Spalding 2016

Memoir vignette

We met in a psychodrama group where all our dirty linen was hung out for all to see. She was the first woman in my life. Many men had slept in my bed, but something about her drew me in—a mystery, depths of feeling, an adventurous spirit. Her face was Oklahoma flat, beneath it an effervescent spirit of wild abandon. I sensed it as we bared our souls in the group. Mary Catherine, a divorced mother with two blond girls, she wormed her way into my heart and we made love on her living room floor. She pulled me into her soft, juicy depths, a new experience for me. We married during the Summer of Love, 1967, by a stream in Topanga Canyon, above Los Angeles with friends, my sister and my mother and her second husband.

Life with Mary was a roller coaster into a place unknown. We both changed our names when we became followers of Subud, a mystical practice. She assumed the name Ruth which she retained until her death. Captured by wanderlust, we moved in 1969, living a year in Arkansas with hillbilly neighbors who talked in their dialect about “ingerns” they grew in their garden, fence “postes” and other charming colloquialisms.

While in Arkansas, a litter of puppies appeared and one by one they developed white pustules all over their bodies and died, leaving only one survivor. Fluffy went with us to New Mexico where he disappeared one day. Was it the hippies on their horses and guns who scared him off? Or was it Ruth’s escapade with the Hog Farm men who had their way with her after a day of drinking dandelion wine? Or was it her need to be with real straight men? After all, she married me, a man who only emulated straight men by guessing what they liked in a woman.

The summer of 1970 we had moved from Arkansas to a log house on the Pecos River and a year later to a farmette in Northern New Mexico— myself, my wife, her two daughters by a previous marriage, age five and eight, and our two year old son. The winter was bitter cold as we heated our little adobe hut with wood I had cut and chopped that summer. That year we harvested dandelions from the wild field and fermented dandelion wine in corked bottles stuck behind the old upright piano standing in the corner of our living room/kitchen. One day we heard loud popping. Thinking the hippies next door from the Hog Farm Commune were shooting again, we hit the floor. Pop! Pop! The sound of shattering glass punctuated the room. Oh my god, the dandelion wine bottles were exploding, one by one!

Nine years and two kids later, we split like a ripe melon, saturated from three years living the hippie life. Our relationship had rested on the fermented ruins of our lives, building up to its own explosion a few years later. Little did I realize at the time, as the fermented alcohol was exploding the bottles, that the alcohol that fueled my wife’s despair was building the pressure within our marriage that was to explode our lives: she ran off with another man—a volatile, diminutive man who carried a knife strapped to his ankle. Back then I saw myself as a wronged man, deserted by a woman whose carefully constructed life lay in shards like those wine bottles.

Only much later did I realize the part I had played in keeping the fragile shards of our lives in a semblance of being intact and orderly, as the threads of our marriage came undone, we lying shattered in their ashes.

Julian Spalding ©2015

Japanese Garden’s frilly leaves
feathery, delicate, breeze thrown.
Path meanders lazily among dappled trees
light streaming through leafy clumps.
Stream bubbles, light bouncing off its ripples.
Fiery red leaves, drooping blue atlas,
elegant elephantine tree.
Many hued maples, red, orange, green
among carved stepping stones,
leading to a black bamboo grove,
thicket of tall reedy stalks.
Fresh fall foliage, hangs in the air,
then coats the ground in a carpet of red.
My dog and I silhouetted against crimson
stroll through this Lithia Park jewel.

Julian Spalding 2015


The wisteria is blooming again
drooping through the lattice
dripping sweet scent
bees darting blossom
to blossom. Honey bees
bumble bees, carpenter busy bees
with their buzzing ministrations
oblivious to my solitary concerns.

Bees clamber over blossom
and limb, apis mellifera
bearing pollen laden sacs
to the hive. The honey bearing bee
is too busy to notice me
watching from the comfort
of my deck chair.

How have I failed to notice
the vine hugging the lattice
like a snake coiled around its prey?
Pendulous purple blossoms
hang like dripping poison
ready to strike unlucky
prey venturing too close.

Fountain flows nearby:
a nude pubescent boy
holding a conch shell. He reminds
me of myself as a boy watching
other boys, afraid to linger a glance
too long for fear of discovery.

Secrets once lurked in the
shadows of my heart
long since shared in the
beds of male lovers

Am I that different from the wisteria
With its many blossoms?

© Julian Spalding 2014


I am your garden’s black swan,
a mirror of your hunger.

Caress my smooth, silky skin,
deep purple passion.

I hang pendulous, yield to your gentle tug.
I dream of your teeth in my soft white flesh.

Sink your teeth in me, savor me.
Devour me with lusty abandon.

©2013 Julian Spalding