He is a whisper in a dim room in a country where poverty is defined differently. He wears his magic around his neck, and a person might not see the talismans and totems hanging on the walls and from the ceiling.
He does not own the Shamanic Temple; he is the steward in this time. The temple and its shaman reflect the living. It has constructed itself of the reclaimed corrugated siding of its people. In other lives it made itself of wood, straw, mud, or stone.
A cathedral with stained glass windows reflects a thing that is removed from its people; sanctuary offered in the shadows of the cold stone floors.
A Shamanic Temple is a servant of the communal spirit that is the living, the dead, and those yet to come. The Shaman is the keeper of the sacred space upon which the temple builds itself. Constant, since the dawn of time, it contains the power and magic of its people. This is legacy; this is a birthright.
You don't know this thing. The hum of the earth scares the other students and they push and shove and laugh until the temple is only a shack. This is how the Shaman holds the space. If you are not of the temple, you cannot see it. You do not have to be anything other than the willingness to discover that you *are* part of the world; and in that moment you see him.
You sit on the temple floor and listen to the Messenger. You hear the whisper of the truth of you. A truth as old as time; an unbendable thing. He does not ask of you; the temple asks. You look up and see the entire world. He is a universal truth, and so are you. Go forth, and be who you are, for you have been sanctified by the earth.