“No one. No one is worthy,” said grumpy Skunk. “Everywhere it’s the same. There isn’t anyone living according to the teachings. No one who remembers what we taught them in the beginning. None is worthy.”
“There must be someone. Somewhere,” said Woodpecker.
“Where?” asked Moose.
“This is what we should do,” said Owl, after much talk. “We will send out a scout. The scout will travel far and wide and if he or she can find one Family of Man that is still following the teachings, still living in the way we taught them in the beginning, then we’ll come out of hiding and teach them again. But if such a family cannot be found, we will disappear forever and leave Man to his destiny. Whatever that may be.”
“But who will go? Who will be this scout?” asked Honeybee.
“I will go,” said a loud, distinguished voice. Everyone looked up at the branches of a nearby pine tree to see Eagle perched there. “I will be this scout. I will fly around the face of the world and try to find one Family of Man still living in the original manner. My eyes can see far, my wings are strong. I will go.”
No one could think of a better scout than Eagle and so, after resting for a day, the great bird flew off on his search. The rest of the Animal People remained in the valley and bided their time with talk of the days before Man, and the legends and stories that had been born in that time. Eagle flew endlessly. From one part of the world to another he soared high above the settlements where Man had made homes and searched for people living according to the old teachings. Here and there he grew hopeful when he saw flashes of the guidance the Animal People had given Mankind, but time and again he was disappointed to see them display the new ways of disharmony.
Still, Eagle believed that there must still be Families of Man that were faithful to the teachings and so he flew and flew. He knew that if he failed to find people honouring the Earth and living good lives, he and his Animal brothers and sisters would say goodbye to Man. Man would be left without guides and teachers and he would fail to discover who he had been created to be. Eagle did not want that to happen, for despite their new separateness the Animal People loved Man and wanted very much for him to fulfill his destiny. So he searched and searched.
Back in the valley, the Animal People grew restless. Eagle had been gone for a long time and it was beginning to look as though no one would be found who lived in the original manner. But one day a great cry went up. Someone had spotted Eagle slowly flapping his way back towards them. The Animal People gathered themselves into a circle again and when Eagle finally swooped down to join them they were anxious for news. The look on Eagle’s face told the story.
“I’ve been everywhere,” said the tired bird. “I’ve searched from the moment I left until the moment I returned and there is no one anywhere that lives in the old manner.”
A hush fell over the circle.
“Well, that’s that, then,” said Owl.
“It’s over,” said Heron.
“We’ve no choice,” said Bear.
“Yes, yes, we do,” said Eagle. Everyone looked at him, surprised. “I will go on one more circle. We owe Man that. Good teachers never stop being teachers and we owe Man the effort to look again.”
“But you’ve been everywhere,” said Badger. “Where else can you possibly look?”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” said Eagle. “I’ve been looking, searching with my eyes for what my soul wants to see. But our sister the Bat said it best when we started all of this. I’ll search again, but this time I will use my feelings instead of my eyes. I will let my feelings guide me. That, after all, is the one true search.”
So off he went. The West, the “Looks-Within Place,” called to him and he flew in that direction. After a day he soared over the crest of a hill and there, alongside a stream, was a small wigwam. Closing his eyes, he breathed in very deeply as he soared over it and he felt a warm calm come over him. The more time he spent soaring over that wigwam, the more the sense of calm grew. Finally, a man, woman, and child emerged from the forest. They were carrying berries, a few fish and some herbs. When they arrived at their wigwam they made a tobacco offering and said a long prayer of gratitude for the gifts they had received that day. Eagle was impressed and settled high in a treetop to observe.
For four days he hid himself in the tree and watched this Family of Man. They prayed. They treated each other respectfully and kindly. They offered blessings back to the land. They walked gently upon the face of Mother Earth. On the fourth day, when Eagle followed them to a wigwam half a day away and saw them share their food, hides, and herbs with another family, he was filled with a tremendous joy. He raced back to the mountains to tell his brothers and sisters. There was rejoicing amongst the Animal People for the righteous family Eagle had found.
They came out of hiding. They were still willing to be the teachers Man needed in order to find his purpose on the Earth, but they were cautious. Man’s readiness to take control had worried them. They had learned the truth—that knowledge and gifts too easily gained were also too easily squandered or ignored. So, just as they had once helped the Creator hide the wonderful gift of Truth and Life so that it would be a search, they would make the teachings they carried a search as well. Learning had to involve sacrifice. That is why, to this day, the Animal People venture very cautiously into the world of Man. They still come, and they always will, but it takes a careful eye to spot them, an open heart to hear the message in their call, and a spirit ready to learn the teachings they carry.
II
HUMILITY
Beedahbun. In Ojibway it means “first light.” It refers to that moment when the edge of the visible sky becomes tinted a hard electric blue. A blue that has never been adequately represented in art or even in words, but one that anyone who has been awake at the birth of a day remembers forever. It’s a blue that sears the purple darkness, burns it off and claims the sky as its own. It’s a trumpet-call blue, a fanfare for the arrival of Grandfather Sun. I woke in time to see it and as I stood there shivering I felt a strange calm come over me. I didn’t move. I merely stood there, locked in place, watching the coming of the light. I realized that there are colours that go far beyond the spectrum of light. Tones and tints and hues that come alive in the sky for fractions of seconds before stretching themselves thinly, elastically into another subtle, spectacular display. I saw the richest palette and as the sun began to have its way with the sky I gave thanks for the clarity that allowed me to see it.
I was cold—teeth-chattering cold—but when I began to pace around the perimeter of my circle, stamping my feet for warmth, I could see the world in all directions slowly shrugging itself into wakefulness. With the coming of the light, shadows that had been labyrinthine dungeons throughout the night skittered playfully away to the chirping of birds and the cajoling natter of chipmunks from their burrows and nests.
There had been other mornings when I had awakened in the outdoors, shivering a lot worse than I was at this moment. Mornings when I had come to wherever I’d fallen or passed out the night before—wet, cold, quaking from hangover and despair, the morning terror that drinkers endure until a splash of alcohol can chase it off. There are colours that exist in that kind of awakening, too, that have never been captured. Only they are the colours of nightmare transferred to wakefulness—sharp, cutting colours that slither and slide, creating their own unnamed perils in the shadows, which seethe with indescribable monsters and horrors. The difference between that kind of waking cold and how I felt on this morning was the difference between darkness and light. I was thankful to wake to a welcoming world.
The sun rose. The animals and birds began their days and I walked the perimeter of my circle, watching everything and feeling less alone. After an hour or so my body warmed and I sat to enjoy the breakfast of water I’d rationed out. Never had anything tasted as clean as that first sip. I made a tobacco pouch in thankfulness for water and sat there throughout the morning, working hard at keeping my m
ind focused on simply watching the world.
It was hard. I’d always needed to know what the next step was going to be, always had to have an out, a getaway, an alternative to anything difficult, and in that circle on the rock ledge there was no room for planning—only the world I was unused to watching. I wrestled with the desire to daydream, to fantasize as I had always done; keeping my mind within the borders of that circle was one of the hardest struggles I’d ever endured.
Then the ants came. At first it was only an adventurous one or two crawling over my blanket. They scurried about and then made their way into the grass to disappear. Soon, others came. It wasn’t long before a whole army of large black ants was swarming over my blanket and around me. I wanted to swat at them, drive them away, kill them, but I remembered that I was sitting in a sacred circle and that all life within it was sacred. So I let them be. Then, I wanted to move to another part of the circle, but because it was so small there really wasn’t any place to go. Finally, realizing the futility of things, I just let them have their way and do whatever it is that ants do. After an hour or so they disappeared and I never saw them again.
I thought about the ants for a long time after that. I thought about how uncomfortable they had made me, how anxious and upset, and how those feelings made me want to strike back, to conquer, to control. I made another tobacco offering. I was thankful because, in their busy scramble around me, the ants were teaching me something very important about life.
I had always struggled to stay in control, with familiar protective strategies. But the world always marched on, just as those ants had, and there was never really anything I could do about that. I could swat and destroy, or deny and ignore, but nothing would stop the march of the world. My power was small. But the power of life, of Creation, was great. Whenever I wouldn’t accept change and fought against it, I was telling myself that I was bigger than life, bigger than Creation, and really, at the top end of it, a better decision maker than the Creator himself. It came to me then that if that circle was like the world, then everything in it was equal, worth the same as everything else. The ants had just made me uncomfortable. When I wanted to either kill them or just ignore them and wish they weren’t around, I was telling myself that I was worth more than they were, that my comfort was the most important thing. The ants were showing me that discomfort is a part of the world, too. Part of life. They were showing me that to appreciate being comfortable, cosy, snug, safe, I had to learn to appreciate the opposite. I had to know how it felt to be uncomfortable. Those tiny creatures were telling me that there will always be something that comes along and makes me want to do something to change it so that I can be comfortable again. But if everything is equal and worth the same as everything else, what I need to do is learn to accept the discomfort—change—as a part of the world and a part of life. Growing through discomfort and change and being respectful of life, chasing harmony and peace instead of conflict and irritation was, and is, at the heart of the Native way. The ants taught me that. As I sat there and looked back at my life again I realized how addicted I was to fighting change, how unaccepting I had always been of the power of the universe, the Creator’s will. The evidence became clearly visible to me when I looked back at my teenage years.
When I ran away for the last time, there was only one place to run: the streets. I had a Grade 9 education, no job, no work skills, and no idea of what I was going to do. I just knew that running away from things was easier. And when I got to the street I found two things that I had been looking for all my life.
The first was acceptance. The people who lived on the street didn’t care where I came from, who I was, how I felt, or what I thought. All that mattered to them was that I kept my mouth shut, did as they did, and didn’t cause anyone else any trouble. If I could abide by these rules I was welcomed as just another part of the crew. I loved that feeling. After all the years of being burdened by shame and hurt, simple acceptance into a circle of people was like magic. I didn’t want to be anywhere else. So I learned very quickly to choose what everyone around me was choosing and to be like they were. I grew my hair out, smoked, and behaved as much like a rebel as everyone else.
But I was never hard, never cold inside, never truly bitter at the world, society or people. I was just a scared little boy, still play-acting. I desperately wanted a home for myself, a refuge, a warm place filled with light. Every day we rebels would meet at the pavilion in Montebello Park in downtown St. Catharines. Joints and bottles would be passed around, conjuring up a lot of loud talk, play fighting and flirting with the young teenage girls who always seemed to be hanging around. Sometimes there would be a “job” planned, either a break-and-enter or robbery or even an occasional act of revenge for some perceived slight against the dignity of the “downtowners,” as we were called. There was a car gang called the Night Stalkers who were our sworn enemies and a lot of energy went into planning “gags” on them. A gag was a spray painting or a tire slashing or something like that. I joined in on those talks and spoke as loudly and raucously as I could, but I always craved something more. I couldn’t have told anyone what “more” was, but there was an emptiness that no amount of devil-may-care camaraderie could ease.
So I would sneak away. I would sneak off to the library and spend hours reading books. Reading always filled that emptiness for me and so I became voracious. I read history, geography, politics, architecture, astronomy, anthropology, sociology, fiction, poetry, and books on art, film, and music. There was a listening room there, and I would sit and listen to classical music and be lifted right out of that city. I filled myself with the world in those stacks and then I went back to my buddies in the park and lied.
I would tell them I’d been partying somewhere or passed out from too much dope, sex, and rock and roll. Sometimes I would visit members of the congregation of my parents’ church to borrow money and I’d flash those bills around and tell my pals that I’d been off pulling a job. I told them anything that would fit the lifestyle because I couldn’t tell them the truth. I couldn’t tell them that passages of prose, or the quality of light captured in a photograph or painting, or the languid ache in a passage of symphonic music could set off lights in my belly and fill the emptiness there with a warmth I’d never known before. I couldn’t tell them that there were ideas in the writings of great men and women that led me to a deeper world. I couldn’t tell them how alive the essence of knowledge made me feel because it wasn’t what being a rebel was all about.
I learned to keep my joys as private as my pain.
As I look back on that period of my life I see I was sad. I was sad because I didn’t know that there was so much more that I could experience beyond the books. I thought I was stuck in Montebello Park. I believed that I deserved none of the things I was finding on the library shelves. I didn’t know that the qualities of curiosity and examination were huge parts of the person I really was. I couldn’t accept that because I couldn’t accept myself. I needed other people’s acceptance first and so I kept my refuge in the stacks a secret from everybody so that it wouldn’t endanger the first outright acceptance I had ever found.
The second thing I found was alcohol.
I found drugs, too, but alcohol was what I wanted once I’d had it. Alcohol took everything away. When I had a few drinks I felt none of the burden I’d carried so long. I would be magically transformed into someone who was handsome, strong, intelligent, cool, hip, desirable, lovable, and worthy. In an instant I no longer felt about myself the way I had felt all my life and my secret was pushed way down where I couldn’t feel its presence or hear the all-too-familiar words in my head. Alcohol was my magic potion. I fell head over heels, puppy-dog-eyed in love with it.
But I had created a trap. The alcohol gave me the courage to do things I wouldn’t normally do—things I felt I had to do to ensure that my street buddies would continue to accept me. Things like car theft, cheque fraud, and breaking and entering. I drank to get brave enough to break the law. I
was addicted to the esteem of others and I was addicted to the alcohol it took to do the things that earned me the esteem. I absolutely needed both.
Drinking became my life. When there was no money I would do a “run” or a pickup for the old winos and they would pay me with a bottle for myself. We’d sit in the bushes below an expressway where the police couldn’t see us, and we’d drink and tell each other lies about our exploits until we began to pass out. Then we’d come to and do it all over again. I learned to trust the winos and they learned to trust me because I never ever “went south” with their money. Going south meant disappearing, not coming back with a bottle. Because I played by these simple rules I was welcomed into this community of despair.
Life as a wino is relentless. It’s a constant to-and-fro, from liquor store to riverbank, conscious to unconscious, drunk to hung over, inebriated to sick, until it’s all one endless ordeal of cheap sherry and rotgut wine. I liked them because I knew they were always going to be where I expected to find them and there was always going to be a drink waiting for me.
The winos taught me the secrets of living outdoors in a city. I learned about the haven of warm air grates in the cold, about the back doors of certain churches where a sandwich could be had, about dressing in layers so you didn’t need a “tote,” and how to panhandle with dignity and a certain drunken grace.
I went back and forth from the hobo jungles and crash pads to the pool halls and bars where my street brothers were. In those days, everyone had one thing they were known for. Bart was a “speed freak”—a methamphetamine user. Paradise Joe was a “head,” or an LSD fiend. Chips was a “banger”—someone who did anything he could get his hands on as long as it could be shot with a needle. Everyone was known by their drug of choice and accepted, sometimes even renowned for it, based on their consumption and ability to “maintain” or stay in control. I was a drunk. For my birthday I was given a T-shirt with big white letters stencilled across the front that read, “Rick’s a drunk.” I wore that T-shirt proudly because for once I felt recognized, esteemed, and valued. I was a member of a club, and I saw nothing shameful in the proclamation emblazoned across my chest.
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