“What is it?”
He laughed. “Always want the Shake ’n’ Bake answer, don’t you? Well, the truth is that it’s your duty to find out for yourself what it means. You have to spend time going back to that dream, to learn what it’s saying to you. But the good thing is that it’s yours. No one else owns that dream; no one else is supposed to learn what you’re supposed to learn from it. Kinda like you’ve got your own textbook now.”
I finished the bread and water slowly. I felt slightly irritated. I’d expected to end this ordeal with a handful of answers. Now, four days later, all I had was a handful more questions. I wondered about that, wondered whether this “being Indian” thing was always going to be a search, always another ordeal.
“So is that it?” I asked finally.
“Not quite,” John said.
“Not quite? What do you mean ‘not quite?’ ”
“You need to do one more thing before we head back to the city—one more thing to complete this journey.”
With that he stood up and beckoned me to follow him. We headed off into the bush beyond the hill and began to walk.
It was sunny, bright and warm. We walked and talked for miles. John pointed out the birds and small animals we passed, called each of them by their Ojibway names and told me stories about them.
Finally, we stopped at the edge of a small meadow. It was beautiful. The wind played amongst the branches of the highest trees and chased the tops of the grasses like a game. The sun painted large patches of shadow in the forest. There wasn’t a sound to be heard. John and I stood very quietly drinking in the sight. After a while he took a great, deep breath, looked at me, smiled, and said, “Lots going on here, isn’t there?”
I didn’t know what he meant. To me the meadow was just a peaceful little place in the mountains. As hard as I tried I couldn’t see any of the action he suggested was taking place.
“What do you mean?” I asked finally.
Again, he smiled. “Well,” he said, “sometimes your eyes don’t tell you the truth in what’s around you. The most important things are hidden and sometimes you have to learn to see all over again.”
I still didn’t know what he meant and he could tell that this bothered me. “Sit here,” he said, pointing to a log lying in the grass. “Sit here and look around you. Try to see what’s going on. Look really hard. When you think you see it, come back to the hill and tell me.”
Then he walked back into the forest and disappeared. I sat on the log and strained to see this activity that John saw. I saw the grasses and leaves sway with the wind. I saw a few ants struggle past my feet. Now and then a small bird flitted amongst the bushes, and chipmunks sounded their displeasure when a bird got too close to their supply of seeds or nuts. The shadows moved slightly as time passed, but to my eyes there was nothing, no goings-on like John saw.
But I knew he wouldn’t have asked me to stay if there wasn’t something to see. So I concentrated harder. With all my willpower I fought to see something, anything. But there was nothing but a quiet meadow in the mountains. Soon, I began to feel angry at myself, then sad because I couldn’t see what he wanted me to see. Again I thought I had failed. After four days of discomfort and agony, of trying very hard to discover what it meant to be an Indian, a Native, it saddened me and hurt me that I couldn’t understand. The Vision Quest hadn’t worked, I told myself. It obviously hadn’t worked because I was totally unable to see what John intended me to see. I had no vision. I had no clue.
I closed my eyes. I breathed very deeply and slowly. I allowed myself to feel everything I was feeling, and when I felt calm I opened my eyes again.
It was the same meadow. But instead of struggling to see, I felt peaceful. I relaxed. I began to feel at home sitting on that small log on the grass and the more comfortable I became the more closely I was able to look at things. I saw hundreds of varieties of plants, dozens of kinds of trees and rocks, mosses, mushrooms, and scores of bugs moving here and there. I smiled. There was a lot going on when you really looked, but something told me that John had meant me to see even more. So I relaxed and let myself sink deeper and deeper into the feeling of being a part of all that was around me. When I finally walked back to the hill I was smiling, filled with the joy of discovering a great secret—a secret I couldn’t wait to share.
John was busy sitting on the ledge and carving a block of wood. When he saw me he smiled. “Looks like you saw something,” he said.
“Yes,” I told him. “You were right. There is lots going on out there.”
“For example?” he asked.
“There was a tree,” I said. “A big pine tree. It was really tall and strong. And old, like a grandfather. It stood there all proud because it had survived a lot of winters and lightning and floods. But it was really quiet, too—humble, happy just to be a part of the forest. I looked at it for the longest time, let my eyes really see it—every branch, from the top right down to the bottom.
“And there, close to where its trunk went into the earth, was a tiny seedling. It was only about four inches tall, small and beautiful. The more I looked at that tiny tree the more I saw what was going on,” I explained.
John looked at me as if I was the teacher now. “Go on,” he said.
“Well, that little seedling was growing up in the shadow of that big, old pine tree. At first I didn’t think it had a chance because the big tree would use up all the moisture the seedling needed to grow. But then I saw that this wasn’t happening at all. As I watched, the wind made the branches of the big tree move, and when they did the little tree was covered in sunlight. It was really hot out there and I realized that the big tree was protecting the little one. Too much sun would kill it, and the grandfather tree was giving it just enough shade and just enough sun so it would grow.
“Then I saw more. The trunk of the grandfather tree was sheltering the little one from big winds that might snap it or tear it from the ground. When it rained, the waters would be filtered through the branches of the big tree and land softly on the seedling instead of washing it away. When winter came, the trunk would keep the snow from piling on top of the seedling and crushing it. And the roots of the big tree made the soil around the seedling firm so that its own roots could sink deep into firm soil and it would be safe as it grew.
“I could see that little tree as it grew, protected and safe in the shelter of that big, old pine. It got stronger and stronger as it grew and that old pine allowed it to find its own place in the forest. Eventually, I could see that seedling become a proud but humble old tree itself, needing less and less of the grandfather tree’s protection.
“Then there would come a time when that grandfather tree needed to go back to the earth that it grew from. When that time came, instead of letting it just fall and crash to earth, that seedling would be strong enough, humble enough, to let the grandfather fall through its branches, slowing its fall and letting it settle to the ground peacefully, gracefully. In this way it would honour the old tree for everything it had given it as it grew. That seedling grew to be tall and strong because of what the old tree had given it.
“But then I saw something else. When that old tree had settled on the forest floor and gradually given itself back to the Earth, a new little tree sprang up from its body and began to grow in the protection and shelter of the big tree again.
“That’s what I saw happening in that meadow. So you’re right, John, there is a whole lot going on out there.”
John just looked at me, nodded his head and put an arm around my shoulder. He never told me whether I was right or wrong, never questioned what I’d seen, but I could tell he was happy with my answer. We walked slowly down the hill after that. He told a few jokes, we laughed, and I felt stronger somehow, cleaner. I thought about the Vision Quest and how it had always sounded so much more dramatic than it had been for me. All the Hollywood images went through my head and I laughed.
“What’s so funny?” John asked.
“Me,”
I said.
“Well, that’s true enough, but what’s funny right now?”
“I was thinking about how I always used to think about this Vision Quest thing. About how magical and mysterious it was supposed to be. It’s the way I thought about all Indian things, I suppose. All thunder and lightning, shape-shifting, spells, magic, mystery. And it’s not like that at all,” I said.
“No,” John replied slowly, “it’s not. It’s pretty simple, really. It’s just that we human beings wanna be rewarded with a Technicolor dream instead of a black-and-white reality.
“Like the Vision Quest. For most of us, the reward is clarity—being able to see clearly. Our quest, our search, for vision is a search for clarity, and the ceremony is intended especially for that. When you remove all the things of the world that we human beings hide behind, you’re left with only yourself, and when you put yourself, unarmed and unadorned, in the pure, unrelenting face of the world you can’t help but see yourself as you really are. That’s vision,” he said.
I understood. With the understanding came the knowledge of what I was to do with the tobacco pouches. While John waited I walked out alone into the forest and found that grand old tree. Kneeling at its base I offered a prayer of gratitude for the clarity I’d been graced with and then I hung that string of tobacco pouches from the highest branch I could reach. Giving those prayers back to the land felt right. I believed that all of the elements of my vision had come from the land itself and that it was only right to return them.
When I told him what I’d done John just smiled and tousled my hair. We got into the car to start our journey back to our regular lives.
“Can you tell me three things that you learned up there?” John asked.
I thought about it as he drove. Now that we were headed for a meal, a good shower, and a warm bed it hardly felt like I’d been gone at all. The tiny bit of bread and water I’d taken had filled me for now and lessened the ordeal in my mind. Still, it had been a powerful four days. I thought a long time and when we finally crested the last hill before the land fell away into the linear morass of the city I found the words.
“Most of all, I guess, being out there with nothing but a blanket and a canteen taught me to always be grateful for what I have and not resentful, angry, or hurt over what I don’t have.”
“That’s good,” John said. “That’s a strong teaching.”
“Yeah. I guess I saw that when I’m grateful for the things in my life I can learn to live with simplicity—a humble way of being. I can learn to live as if I were on a hilltop with a blanket, grateful for its warmth.”
He nodded.
“Then, I guess, I learned that I need to learn how to choose peace over everything.”
“Wow,” John said. “That’s big. Can you tell me more?”
“Well, when the ants came I wanted to swat at them and kill them at first, before I just let them have their way. All of us surviving taught me to respect life and that I only really have two choices in life: to live in peace or to live in conflict, in harmony or out of balance. The kind of peace I knew on the hill always results in growth, in more knowledge. Conflict, like the way I lived my life, always results in hurt or harm to ourselves and others.”
He reached over and tousled my hair with one hand. When he looked at me there was a glisten of tears in his eyes.
“What else?” he asked.
“To give away what I most want to get,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if I want love, security, trust, friendship, and all those good things in life, then I need to give away those things to the people around me. All people, all the time. Not just Native people, but all people.”
John nodded and heaved a huge sigh. Then he looked at me and smiled. He didn’t need to say anything; I knew what he was feeling. By the time we pulled up to the front door of my apartment building I was glad to be back in the civilized world.
“You did well. I’m proud of you,” he said, giving me a big hug.
“I’m proud of me, too,” I said.
“It shows,” he said and got into his car.
Watching him drive away I offered a small, unselfconscious prayer to Creation in thanks for the Vision Quest, for the teachings, and for John. I walked back into my life renewed and filled with a greater hope than I’d ever carried before.
for JOSHUA
Ochiichagwe’Babigo’Ining Ojibway Nation
April 2002
This land I walk upon is our land. When this reserve was created there was a Wagamese on the first band list. I can count back five generations, back to my great-grandmother, your great-great grandmother’s time, and hear stories of her life and the lives of our relations from those who can still remember. This has always been our land and coming back here, walking here, feeling that history in the soles of my feet is a return for which there is no word in either Ojibway or English. “Profound” comes close, as does “spiritual.” “Empowering” even flirts with the definition, but there’s really no word to capture this essence. It’s a feeling. It’s home.
Your Uncle Charles showed me a trail through the bush. It meanders along the Winnipeg River a while then splits in two, with one path continuing along the river and the other curling back through the trees and rock to the head of the gravel road. There are otters here. Wolves have been seen, and eagles are frequent visitors at this time of year. Standing out on a point of land upstream from the near rapids, knee deep in snow, sunlight exploding like a flare off the ice, and Keewatin, the North Wind, freezing my face, I can see them. They are everywhere out here. Our family.
I see them scraping hides, smoking fish, setting traps and snares, fishing, picking berries, harvesting rice, and stalking moose and deer against the spattered canvas of autumn. I see them in their tents, a pot-bellied wood-stove pipe angled out the top, spruce boughs piled three feet deep on the floor to keep out the frost, and a huge teapot burbling away on the top of the stove. They’re laughing, telling stories, mending nets, making snowshoes, or just sitting comfortably while that same North Wind blows icily across the landscape.
They’re not really there, of course. It’s just a stubborn particular of love, even hope, that allows me a glimpse at the life that resulted in us—you and me, my son. We are the sum of all of that and we are blessed to have sprung from it. In our blood flows the fortitude that saw them through harsh winters, the humility that allowed them to share all that the land provided, the grace that saw them through drought, flood, and famine, and the staunch iron will that held up against the unimaginable onslaught of settlement, development, disease, poverty, and alcohol. Our hearts, minds, and spirits are a measure of all that they endured. They are in us, just as surely as my booted feet are planted on this point of land, seeing them as they were, as they are today, and as they always will be. A people, strong and purposeful.
Coming here, to the sheltering arms of family, is the closing of a circle, a journey ending where it began. Home.
I want to be able to tell you that I came off that hill outside of Calgary and my life changed completely. I want to be able to tell you that seeing myself as I was in the years before that Vision Quest allowed me to travel beyond the fear, guilt, and shame that had bound me all my life. I want to be able to tell you that I healed, grew, and evolved into a strong, proud man—a warrior. I want to be able to tell you that I never drank again.
But I can’t.
Fear is a hard foe to conquer. It’s insidious. Fear is cunning and it eats away at you from the inside where you can’t see it, where it can hide and work its sly damage to your spirit. I didn’t conquer it on that hill. I only found out that I had it, that I had carried it forever. And that realization wasn’t enough to heal me.
Sure, my life changed after that Vision Quest. It changed dramatically. Under John’s direction I found more teachers, went to more ceremonies, learned more about the things in this world that we’ve come to call culture. And I became more and more Indi
an. Or at least I thought I did. But I still only learned these things in my head. I still only really committed them to memory and not to action. I didn’t change. I looked the part—in fact, I took great pains to surround myself with the stuff of native life. I had rattles, hand drums, medicine shields, eagle feathers, artwork, carvings, and the sacred medicines around me all the time. But that was to dress up the outside, so that other people who looked at me and how I was living could think, “He’s a real Indian.” But like the person I was before the Vision Quest, I still lived in other peoples’ heads and still made my choices based on what I thought they were thinking. I was still afraid to be me. I still didn’t know what that meant.
I became a writer. The Creator blessed me with the ability to put words on paper, or cast them into the air with a microphone, and I was successful. Thousands of people across the country read my words. Thousands more heard me on the radio or saw the television programs I hosted and helped produce. Then, in 1991, I was given the honour of winning a National Newspaper Award for the Native issues columns I wrote for the Calgary Herald each week. The plaque had a line on it that read “Whose work is judged the best in the country.” The best in the country. Me, a Grade 9-educated ex-convict, who made “runs” for winos, slept under bridges, stole, defrauded and bilked people, had never held the same job for a year, couldn’t maintain a relationship with a woman or a friend, was suddenly judged “the best in the country” by a panel of experts.
I should have been honoured. But all I felt after I received that award was fear. I was afraid someone was going to find out about me. That I now had one more standard I could fail to live up to. That I wasn’t a journalist. I wasn’t a writer. I wasn’t a success. I was just a fluke, a fraud, a liar. And at the root of those fears was the one overwhelming fear I’d carried all my life: that they’d find out there was something wrong with me, that I was unlovable and unworthy and they’d reject and abandon me.
And so I drank.
I drank because it felt better to pull the rug from under my own feet than run the risk of having someone else do it for me. I drank because I didn’t believe I deserved the success I was having. I drank because I was afraid I couldn’t maintain that success. I drank because rebuilding my life, starting over, was easier than keeping it going. I drank because alcohol always did for me what it had done the very first time, and that was to help me not to feel the feelings I carried.
For Joshua Page 14