This morning as I wrote, Molly the dog growled. I looked out to the end of our driveway and saw a juvenile male bear reared up on his hind legs chewing on leaves and berries. He was a marvellous specimen. His coat was thick and unmatted, and he had the beginnings of the rounded shape that comes from good feeding in preparation for the long hibernation to come. We watched him until he finally trotted through the yard, across the gravel road and off into the trees. He was one bear in a country of them. I knew he would find a place to hunker down as the morning traffic increased and the high August heat built up. In the cool of evening, he’d emerge again to forage in the berry bushes that surround us. That’s just how it is.
Every day now, the oceans are becoming more acidic. Polar ice is melting. Droughts, floods, earthquakes and wildfires are increasingly commonplace. Bees are disappearing, and there are fewer salmon in the spawning grounds. These are only some of the rapid changes happening all around us. Just as our human lives are affected by these changes, so are the lives of the animals that share our planet.
Bears are a grounding tool for me. Whenever I see one, I am reminded that the old wisdom has something significant to impart about how I negotiate my way in the world. I belong to a web of life that needs all its parts to sustain itself. The ancient teachings are not a romantic throwback to a vanished lifestyle but a resonant reminder of our contemporary responsibilities.
Bears are protectors, my people say, and this presence reminds us that the natural world urgently needs our protection. That is the bear’s particular gift to each of us.
Spirit Place
THERE’S A POINT in our morning walks up the mountain when Molly and I are out of reach of everything. The timber road winds up from the Paul Lake Road, disappearing eventually into the heart of the back country. We always stop at the same small creek, and I hunker down on my favourite log while Molly patrols. Once Molly is content and I feel rested, we cross the creek on footstones I installed during our first year here. After we’ve rounded the wide bend a hundred metres up, we climb through bush that’s unbroken except for the evidence of free-range cattle and the scat of coyotes. We’ve never encountered another person.
Once we reach the alpine meadow, a half kilometre farther on, there is suddenly the feeling of the land. There are peaks all around us, and the pronounced jut of mountain terrain. Nothing moves. There is only the wind for company; Molly and I always stop to appreciate the mysterious push of its presence. The land is empty and full at the same time. It can be intimidating up there. You feel the silence in your bones, and you’re alone in a way that is sharp and unforgettable.
My niece’s husband and I once snowmobiled three portages back into the bush to ice-fish north of Pickle Lake, Ontario. It was the dead of winter. The engines sounded harsh in the crisp air, and when we stopped to drink coffee the abrupt drop-off into silence was eerie. Every movement we made was amplified. My parka sleeve rustled loudly as I drank. We were at the back end of an old trapline, in real wilderness, and we had the feeling of being watched from the trees. The day was sunny and cloudless, casting the trees into deep shadows. The lake glistened so brightly that we had to squint to see, even through the tinted masks of our helmets. I felt very small.
By the time we reached the lake where we wanted to fish, it was noon. The wind had died down, and we settled into our camp chairs to wait for the pickerel to tug at our lines. The platter of the lake was ringed with bush, so our line of view ended at the ragged treetops. Above us was only sky. The sheer white stretch of snow around us was unbroken except for the twin tracks of our snowmobiles. Any idea of human accomplishment vanished.
My people say that the land’s curious balance of fullness and emptiness is spiritual. Sitting out by that lake, I truly understood how powerful Creation is. All it would have taken to trap us there was a bad spark plug. No one can walk fifty kilometres out of the deep bush in the middle of winter. So my realization that the land held all the power was not theoretical. I’d become a speck, a dependent child. I was a being in need of grace, and in one sweeping moment I became a believer in all that is and all that will be. Gitchee Manitou— the Great Spirit.
We caught a load of fish, and we cleaned them so we could deliver them to elders and families on our return. Then we motored back. As we retraced our tracks, the engine noise shrill in our ears, it struck me how easy it is to forget the elemental teachings we receive in this life. Our dependency is immediately transferrable, as mine was to the feel of a throttle and the deep roar of a motor. Once I was safe in the seat of an Arctic Cat, the insight I’d gained was gone in an instant. The land whipped by, and with it the notions of emptiness and fullness. I was back to thinking of myself as an independent being, a man, reliant on technology to define me. I had to remind myself that what was real, what was permanent, was what I’d experienced out there beside the lake.
There is no word for wilderness in any Native language. There’s no concept of the wild as something that needs controlling. In the Native world, there’s no word for control, either. My people say that humility is the root of everything. To be in harmony with the world, you need to recognize where the power lies and to respect that. It’s simple to do when you’re miles away from anybody else, but just as simple to forget once you’re back on familiar territory.
On my mountain walks with Molly in the mornings, I’d only have to twist my ankle or pull a leg muscle to discover where the real power lies. The land can kill, swiftly and without mercy. But it is a generous entity. The land gives us life, and feeling the power of it around me reduces us to our proper size. Every morning I’m forced to recognize my fragility and to acknowledge my actual place in the scheme of things. That reminds me to cherish what I have and to be thankful for all of it. Emptiness and fullness at the same time. In the land, and in me.
WYSIWYG
A WHILE BACK, I got interested in the economic possibilities of the Internet. I’d been busy building a network as a freelance journalist, and I was drawn to the idea that I might be able to generate regular cash electronically. I visited a number of sites that claimed to show you how. The trick was that it would cost a bundle to get the information. There were also all kinds of sites devoted to get-rich-quick schemes, but none of them would allow me to use skills I already possessed.
Nonetheless, I was determined to set up my own enterprise site. I read a few manuals and checked out similar sites, and when I felt ready I began to design a web page. Now, I’m no Internet genius. In fact, beyond possessing the basic computer skills, I’m not very swift at all. So I knew building a website that would function effectively and draw daily hits would be challenging.
Fortunately for me, I discovered a process called WYSIWYG. In website parlance, that means What You See Is What You Get. Rather than spend a huge amount of time learning complicated HTML code, you can use WYSIWYG templates to build your website pages. The process is quick, and as long as you have a plan things usually go along smoothly. At least they did for this neophyte web builder.
Well, I got a site built. Then, unfortunately, I discovered that as far as marketing strategy went, I was severely limited. I have never been much of a salesman anyway and the whole keyword, search-engine-optimizing, monetization thing was beyond me. There was nothing to do but retire the site. However, I’m happy I learned about WYSIWYG, since the concept turns out to be as useful in navigating the real world as it is in cyberspace.
We live between worlds, Deb and I. We often move in academic, literary, artistic and well-to-do circles. We’re part of the diverse group that makes up our neighbours, and we also share a reality with the tenants who live in our rooming house. Deb invested in the place four years ago. It caters to the poor and marginalized, the mentally challenged and disenfranchised. We’ve learned a lot from all of these daily border crossings.
The rooming house sits on a quiet residential street in Kamloops. After much renovation and repair, it looks like an ordinary, though small, apartment building. It’s no
longer the visible nightmare it was when Deb bought it. And along with all the paint, the mortar, the new plumbing, the electrical work and the carpentry repairs, my wife brought another element into that building: heart. More clearly than I could, she saw beyond the dirt, grime, disrepair and hopelessness that permeated the building. She saw the potential for true community, and she set out to create it.
It was hard slogging. First, we worked to eliminate the active addicts. We knew, as former substance abusers ourselves, that you can’t help anyone who is running drugs or booze through their system every day. There were people living there who just wanted peace and quiet, and it was our job to establish that for them. After many months and many difficult interactions, the drunks and other addicts were gone.
For most of those who remained, life was drudgery: empty days, welfare cheques, the dispiriting to and fro between agencies where the staff were the only people they got to know well. These were people whose stories rarely get told. They were, and are, victims of life’s rampant unpredictability. They became our friends, and sometimes our inspiration.
Take Robin, for instance. Thirty years ago, Robin was a mechanic and builder. There wasn’t a thing he couldn’t do with tools, and fast production cars were his passion and his joy. He was tall and lean, strong and capable. Then a horrible accident left him disabled. He suffered a brain injury, and the surgeons who worked on him left an open hole in Robin’s head just above his temple.
He could no longer work. He could barely walk. He spiralled downward until he became a welfare stat. He had lived in that rooming house, a pit of despair, for more than twenty years.
When we saw that open hole in Robin’s head, we began to question the agencies. No one knew anything about Robin. He’d been allowed to just drop out of sight. So we bugged people. We bugged the brain injury people and the home care people and welfare workers and community-living advocates. Eventually we got some action. A year and a half and two operations later, Robin’s head had been returned to its normal shape, and the hole had closed and healed. He walks better now. His eyes shine. He jokes with us and accepts regular visits from the other tenants who want to watch TV, especially the shows featuring production car racing.
Before we came along, Robin’s room hadn’t been painted or maintained in all the time he’d lived there. The former landlord just hadn’t cared. Robin had one friend who visited him. He managed on the $500 that welfare provided monthly, though there wasn’t much left after the landlord had taken out $375 for rent. Yet even after we got Robin the medical attention he deserved, he had no unkind words to say about anyone or about his situation. Instead, he took it all with grace, dignity and a measure of good humour. He still lives in the meagre, humble way he has to, and he always has a smile and a joke for us. What you see is what you get. That’s how Robin is.
There are others in that rooming house with similar tales, people to whom life happened while they were looking the other way. Stewart, a former engineer whose mental decline led him to homelessness. Samantha, whose husband abandoned her and left her penniless when she developed multiple sclerosis. Jennifer, a former nurse. Tim, an athlete and contractor who could no longer work after suffering a brain aneurysm. They had all landed on the street, incredulous at finding themselves there.
None of these folks grouse about their circumstances, either. None of them blames anybody else. They just live their lives and behave like the people they are. What you see is what you get.
Deb and I meet many people in the moneyed world who try incredibly hard to be seen as important. Status is the ultimate qualifier. Keeping up with the Joneses is the great, grand chase, even when the Joneses don’t give a damn about you. Their world is the HTML code of life-building: complicated, tricky, time-consuming, confusing and accessible only to the elite.
Our tenants don’t confuse belongings with status. They don’t confuse money with worth. They don’t waste time on blame and denigration. They just live. When they talk to us, there’s no decoding necessary. We know who they are, and we’re comfortable in their company. What you see is what you get. From where I sit, they’re the ones who’ve got it right.
On the Wings of Eagles
I’VE NEVER BEEN a graceful person, though I’ve always wanted to be. Ever since I first saw Gene Kelly dance on television, I’ve craved the gift of fluid motion. In the years since, I’ve watched Gregory Hines tap dance, Mikhail Baryshnikov leap, Karen Kain float. I would have settled for bending my body to the rhythm like the Soul Train kids did, but dance has remained a mystery for me. I can roll my rump and shake my hips to a rock beat, but that’s more tribal excitement than real dancing. Deb and I attempted to learn ballroom dancing once, but it was a disaster. I was so busy trying to remember where my feet went that I was incapable of anything else. I couldn’t keep my arms in position because I was concentrating so hard on counting out the time. It worked much better for us when she led and I settled for being pushed around in the right direction. As a young man, I came closest to being graceful on the baseball field. I could read the path of a ball off the bat from centre field, and my running catches were often spectacular. At shortstop, I could whirl and fire the ball across the infield like nobody’s business. But when the cleats were off and the dancing shoes were on for the last night of weekend tournaments, I regressed to hopeless floundering.
One afternoon in the summer of 1989, my friend and elder Jack Kakakaway and I were walking through the foothills outside Calgary. It was medicine time, and we were scouting sweetgrass to gather for ceremony. There was never a lot of conversation between us when we were out on the land. Jack believed that moving in silence was the best way to hear the land speaking to you. So we were content just to walk and allow our senses to become attuned. As we topped a small rise, we watched an eagle soar across a wide expanse of bush. I felt honoured to witness the display of its strength and grace.
“That’s how I’ve always wanted to be,” I told Jack. “Graceful. Just like that.”
He smiled at my words. We continued walking for a long time. Then Jack sat down on a log in a clearing and motioned for me to sit beside him. Those times were magical for me. Jack would talk openly about the land, share stories and teachings about how the plants around us were used and what they represented for our people. I was a rapt audience of one, and what he said to me that day has never left me.
“You only admire the display,” he said. “The important thing is how the eagle learned to do that.”
He explained that the eagle’s grace doesn’t come easily. The bird’s flight looks effortless, but we miss the teaching if we see only the end product. Each eagle feather is made up of thousands of tiny filaments, Jack said, and the eagle has to control them all, whether the wind is blowing or the air is still. Only that skill will keep the eagle aloft. Just as importantly, the eagle must learn how to see the world, reading the treetops and the grasses for information.
There are no flying lessons. One day the young eaglets stand at the rim of their nest with the whole world in front of them. They can hear the call of their parents high above. To fulfill their destiny and become who they were created to be, each of them must make that first frightening jump, test their ability to fly. The lessons for us in the eagle’s first leap concern courage and faith. All of us need courage and faith to soar.
Uncovering your gifts is a spiritual process. That’s what an eagle in magnificent flight can remind us of. It isn’t easy to be graceful. You must learn to really see the world and negotiate it, and that takes humility. Practising with courage will allow us to develop faith, the abiding knowledge that we are blessed.
Full of grace. Grace-full. Degree by degree, over the years, I’ve tried to practise the eagle’s teaching in my life. I still can’t dance, but I’ve learned that sometimes I can fly.
What We Share
THERE’S AN AIRY sort of confidence in knowing that you’ve seen your share of ups and downs. Staying on your feet, answering the bell for the ne
xt round, is what we mean by maturity. But for many years I found it difficult to see my life as anything but a series of injustices and slights. Being a Native person seemed a prescription for agony. I wrestled with a need to square the deal.
For a long time, my main motivation was payback. Every success, every forward step, was an opportunity for show-manship, for sneering in the face of society. I had a “look what I can do despite you” sort of swagger. Anger creates barriers. Resentment builds distance. But I didn’t know that then. All I knew was that indifference relayed back to the source was what life asked of me, and I was hell-bent on delivering.
It made things difficult, that constant measuring up. Some good people are no longer in my life because of my relentless cultural and political one-upmanship. I broke hearts and relationships because I couldn’t see any other way of easing the churning in my belly. Then I met Jack Kakakaway.
Jack was an Ojibway man who’d fought in a war, beat the bottle, found his cultural centre and reclaimed a ceremonial, traditional life for himself. He was a teacher, and a good one. I think he saw a lot of himself in me. He recognized the angst, the feeling of being lost that was masked as protest. Jack Kakakaway understood my heart and spirit far better than I did, and when he began to guide me I think that was his own form of payback, a thanks for the gift of grace in his life. He led me to ritual and the stories of my people. He helped me to see who I was and led me to a vision of who I might become.
Jack and I were talking one day about the challenges I saw to my burgeoning sense of identity. I spouted off about the Canadian mosaic and the displacement I felt as a First Nations person. I felt threatened by the new Multiculturalism Act. I believed it was an assimilationist document that would cause us to lose our identities and our rights as First Peoples.
One Story, One Song Page 2