One Story, One Song

Richard Wagamese

• Publisher: Douglas & McIntyre
• Year: 2011
• Print ISBN:
  9781771620802
  9781553655060
• eBook ISBN:
  9781553656432
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Native American Studies
• Index: Social Sciences

A new collection of warm, wise and inspiring stories from the author of the bestselling One Native Life.Since its publication in 2008, readers and reviewers have embraced Richard Wagamese ’s One Native Life. "In quiet tones and luminous language, ” wrote the Winnipeg Free Press, " Wagamese shares his hurts and joys, inviting readers to find the ways in which they are joined to him and to consider how they might be joined to others.”In this new book, Richard Wagamese again invites readers to accompany him on his travels. This time his focus is on stories: how they shape us, how they empower us, how they change our lives. Ancient and contemporary, cultural and spiritual, funny and sad, the tales are grouped according to the four essential principles Ojibway traditional teachers sought to impart: humility, trust, introspection and wisdom.

EAST
HUMILITY

Living with Bears

THE BEARS START coming down from the high ground in late summer, when the mountain-ash berries, rosehips, saskatoon berries, blackberries and wild raspberries are ripe and fat. We see them on the roadside or lumbering along the hillocks, and as the days pass they become a fixture in our yard. We don’t find it troubling. When you reside in bear country, you make a soul compact to coexist with them. You learn to be watchful on your morning walks and to make sure your property isn’t bear-attractive. You learn bear time. After all, this is their land. They were here first. If anyone respects that statement, it’s an Indian.

When you’re out in the wild—or what’s left of the wild in the Western world—there is a palpable sense of the unseen. You get the feeling you’re being watched from the trees. That can be eerie at first, but once you’re used to it, it’s rather comforting. This is the original condition of things. Long before our world became the technologically driven, noisy, overpopulated place it is now, many beings found respite in wild places, and people felt a natural connection to the land.

We can opt for the convenience of machinery today, using quads and ATVs and dirt bikes to get us deep into the back country, but nothing connects you to the land as easily as walking. Hiking in the acute silence up here in the mountains, you always sense the possibility of bears. For me, that’s magical. Walking on the land also keeps you alert to things you would ordinarily miss. You hear things you are usually too busy to register, experience yourself as a true part of nature. Alone in the wild, you become keenly aware of who and what you are.

So I’m not troubled by the presence of bears. What does trouble me, though, is news of bears losing their lives after run-ins with those who occupy their territory. Some people think of bears as garbage-raiding pests or as vile predators intent on snatching the cat, the dog or the children. I’m not afraid of bears, but I am respectful of them. At our place, we keep our garbage out of harm’s way until it’s dump day and we can dispose of it. We’re careful with our barbecue. Bears are prowlers and foragers, and we need to understand that.

My people say that the bears are protectors. In our Ojib-way clan system, the Bear Clan is responsible for security and law. As totems, bears symbolize strength, fortitude, justice and wisdom. When my people see a bear in the bush, they always stop and look at it before moving away. In the Ojibway world, a bear is a spirit being, a special teacher. I’ve learned over the years to hold them in the same regard.

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 ...

Table of contents

• COVER PAGE
• TITLE PAGE
• COPYRIGHT PAGE
• DEDICATION
• CONTENTS
• ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
• INTRODUCTION
• 1. EAST—HUMILITY
• 2. SOUTH—TRUST
• 3. WEST—INTROSPECTION
• 4. NORTH—WISDOM