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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781982208844 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Balboa Press |
| Publication date: | 12/17/2018 |
| Pages: | 240 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.55(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Everyone Has a Path ...
It begins with sounds of distant drumming. A summoning. I walk across a meadow towards the large rocky outcrop. I remember running my palms over the tall grass, wondering if I was in the Scottish highlands. The outcrop has a small opening hidden by ferns and bromeliads, but I see it at once. I step through, disappearing into a small cave, dripping with humidity. I squat inside this underground chamber and take my time to soak it all in. There's a trickling sound, like a leaky faucet, but I see no water. The walls are covered in green moss. I run my fingers over the spongy surface, feeling the protrusions of crystallised prisms hiding beneath.
To my left, there is a small wooden door, no more than three feet tall. It's very old looking, with wrought-iron hinges and bolts holding it together. For some reason, I think it's an Arthurian door. I sense that the drumming is coming from the other side, and so I reach out for the handle and pull at it. The portal is heavy, like a vault door, and I have to use both hands to pry it open. It squeaks and yawns on its rusty hinges. I cover my eyes, squinting at the beams of sunlight dashing in. The feeling beyond this door is warm and inviting. I have to squeeze through. My large frame is tight against the sides, and I panic for a second, afraid that I'll get stuck.
Outside there's another meadow, but I know it's not the same place. There's a tweak to it. The drumming hasn't gotten any louder, but it's still there, like a heartbeat, drawing me in. To my left, I see an abandoned path overrun by grass and weeds. As soon as I take my first step towards it, a tiny field mouse jumps out of the thicket and stops at my feet, its small beady eyes shining up at me over a fuzzy snout. "Welcome back! It's been a while! Need a dragoman?" The little voice is squeaky but assertive.
I do a double take and blink incredulously at the critter. I somehow know dragoman means guide. "What? Did you just speak?"
"You will need a dragoman ..." The field mouse turns towards the path. "It's not always safe out here. The last time you got into some trouble, remember? Of course not. Well, I can help you find the truth."
"The truth? What truth?" The whole thing is so weird, but I see no reason why I shouldn't follow the talking critter. It feels right. When I step on the path, the overgrown grasses and weeds recede invitingly to reveal a beautiful, winding trail paved with bluestone. There are wildflowers on the sides, and on my left is a white picket fence. I know the path is heading south, where the drumming is, but now I'm not sure if it isn't thunder I'm hearing. The horizon looks dark.
I've been here before. I can feel it, although I don't remember the talking mouse! What's that about? Maybe I never needed a guide before in this place ...
My dragoman leads me, but I must wait while he sniffs his way down the path, inspecting every single plant and rock. He disappears round a bend, and when I reach him, he's jumping frantically and yelling at me to stop. To the right, I see a funny-looking man wearing a sandwich board with a big red arrow pointing right, away from the path. He smiles at me invitingly, but he's missing a front tooth.
"Not that way," says the mouse urgently. "Stay on your true path!" As I walk past the guy, I get a better look at him. His face is painted like a burlesque character from a vaudeville review. His bare, skinny white arms hang out of the sandwich boards like strips of feta cheese.
I hurry to keep up with the mouse.
A little farther down, the bluestone path comes to an end. My guide is waiting for me there. "This is where I leave you. The rest is on your own, I'm afraid."
"And the path?" I ask. "Where's the path?"
"When you walk, you'll see the possibilities. Pay attention! No distractions." It somehow manages to pull off a serious tone with that minute voice. And then, just like that, my bossy dragoman disappears into the scrub.
I don't remember feeling afraid. I was never afraid, except at the end. The steady sound of drumming in the distance is comforting, not ominous at all. Even when it shifts to thunder, I don't feel threatened. Deep, growling cracks and rolls of thunder. I'm adrenalised by the thrill and anticipation of being in a powerful storm, and I'm eased because I know that it can't get me. Or can it?
My first step off the path is weird. I immediately know I'm on a mountain trail; it feels stony and gravelly under my feet. It turns out I am on a hillside, with the valley not far down, on my right. There are no trees, just tufts of tall grass. Dark rain clouds are looming ahead, but there's no wind. They're hanging there, waiting for me to reach them. Then I come to my first crossroads. The path forks, leading up or down the slope. I go up. I've always favoured the mountaintop. I don't know why; I guess I prefer the bigger picture. It's less constraining.
When I reach the ridge, the trail heads south towards a large, snow-capped mountain. I know my destination is that way. I think of the mouse's warnings about distractions, but they feel silly. I'm so certain of where I'm headed.
The valley beneath me has now turned into a rocky ravine. At one point, my attention is turned to the far side of the ravine, where there seems to be a large ledge. I look carefully and see the cave. It's a large opening in the rock face, and something is inside. Whatever it is, I sense it's hurt. The rainclouds shift over this ledge, pouring into the ravine. They're dark and heavy, and I am drawn to them. As I scramble down the ridge, I feel the urgency of getting to that ledge. The drumming is loud now, and I can hear the thunder crashing towards me, but I keep going. There is no path anymore, just the need to get to the ledge.
As I scramble up the other side of the ravine, my head is thumping. The drums are now pounding in my head and chest. When I reach the ledge, the clouds are so low that I can stretch out and touch them. But my attention is drawn to the gaping mouth on the rock face. Something large is in there, and it's hurt. I call for it to come out. It does. A huge grizzly bear ambles slowly out of the cave. It doesn't acknowledge me; instead, it begins pacing back and forth, bawling and moaning in a deep, resonant voice.
"Against all logic, I slowly approach the animal extending my arms with open palms. I'm whispering, "I am here. It's OK, I'm here." That's when the bear sees me. As I get closer, he stands up letting out a threatening bellow. I keep moving in, ever so slowly, my head bowed to avoid eye contact. Now he's towering three feet above my head. I embrace the bear. I wrap my arms around its body, and the pounding in my head stops. The drumming has stopped too. I gently put my ear to the bear's chest and listen to its heartbeat. Pu-pum, pu-pum, pu-pum. It's strong and steady. The bear stands there while I hug him.
"After a few seconds, the bear lets out another bellow and wraps its arms around me. I can feel his tremendous strength envelop my body. His embrace gets tighter and tighter, and his heartbeat pounds into my head now. A loud clap of thunder releases the downpour of rain, and the bears' grip on me keeps stiffening, suffocating me. We are both crying. No, it's more like a heart-wrenching, uncontrollable sob.
And that is when I wake up.
* * *
Bruce takes a swig of his coffee and swallows loudly. "My friend, you've had a vision." His expression is a mixture of bewilderment and disbelief.
"A vision? No, I dreamt this last night!"
"No, I know the difference between a dream and a vision. You've had a vision, I tell you. We must get council. Tonight, you'll come with me to the powwow in Ashland and meet John."
"I'm not Native American," I argue.
"Your vision was! That's what's strange. Tonight, you'll come with me."
My friend Bruce is a little older than me, maybe twenty-five. He is a full blood Native American, the descendant of multiple tribes but mostly Ojibwe, Potawatomi, and Menominee. I'm a small-town white boy from Ontario, Canada, with no strong sense of ancestral lineage. I learn a lot from him and especially enjoy his sense of tradition and belonging, and I think he values my being from a different background. It makes me alien to his hardships, which I know are many. But I don't ask, and I think he appreciates that.
Bruce makes no attempt to interpret my vision. He simply wants to help me find the meaning. He picks me up at three, and we drive about an hour east on Highway 2 to Ashland. Bruce is a little nervous and keeps mumbling something to himself. It worries me a little. Maybe he's nervous because of me. I try to lighten up the atmosphere and ask him for a crash course in basic Ojibwe, but that doesn't work. I confess I'm a slow learner, but in my defence, he's a horrible teacher. He says I'm tone deaf! We're only able to get through three phrases amidst the arguing: hello is boozhoo, thank youis miigwech, and bear is makwa. I must remember that one. We get to the site and are both relieved the car ride is over.
Powwows, I learn, generally take place outdoors, but March in Wisconsin can get pretty cold, even for me. I'm relieved to see that this gathering is at the community gym. There are maybe two or three hundred people inside with lots of kids chasing each other around the basketball court. This is a family event. Most people are in full traditional dress. Intricate beadwork on vibrant fabrics. Decorated deerskin shirts, leggings, and dresses. Beautiful quillwork on sashes wrapped around the waist. Braided hair decorated with ornate ribbons and lots of feathers everywhere. I love the small dreamcatchers worn as earrings, and I definitely want to get myself a pair of deerskin moccasins! In the midst of such a spectacle, I feel like a silly pale face with my old jeans and lumberjack shirt.
In the centre of the court, there are six huge, deer hide drums, some up to three feet in diameter. Many chairs are arranged around them, but the drummers are nowhere to be seen. I walk to the end of the basketball court to check out some tables filled with crafts and artwork. There's one stand displaying some elaborate silverwork. There are brooches, bracelets, headbands, combs, and rings, all beautifully cut and stamped with intricate designs. There are oil paintings and watercolours depicting ceremonies, medicine wheels, and totemic animals. I see ornate ceremonial clothing with refined designs in colourful beadwork. All this treasure displayed in a small-town gym. I stop at the food stand to check it out. There's a little kid peering over the edge of the table, waiting to be served.
"So, what's good here?" I ask him playfully.
The boy points immediately at the large pitcher filled with a whitish beverage. "Orchata," he says shyly, and then he points at a platter full of small loaves of some sort of bread. "Bannock." I can tell he likes it. The lady gives the little boy his drink and a slice of bannock, and he runs off, spilling some on his way.
"I'll have the same as him," I say, pointing my thumb over my shoulder. Orchata turns out to be a sweet drink made of ground rice. I take a tentative sip. When in Rome ... I shrug and set out to find my friend.
I spot Bruce in the bleachers and join him. "We'll wait until the grand entry and the opening songs, and then I'll introduce you to John," he says, as if I'd asked him about it. In the thrill of being here, I'd totally forgotten about John and my vision.
"This is a traditional powwow. There's no competition or ceremony, just the community coming together to celebrate. Look!" The doors of the gym open, and a procession of elders walk in followed by a group of younger men.
"Who are those guys?" I ask.
"There's the head drummer and the head dancer." Bruce points at two young men fully dressed in ceremonial clothing. They are carrying the American flag and the tribal flag. "This is the grand entry. The old man with the eagle staff is John, the elder I want you to meet. He's a very respected medicine man."
The old man leading the procession looks quite unimpressive. He is dressed in a deer hide shirt and jeans and is wearing a yellow truckers hat. He's quite discrete, compared to the rest of the crowd. When he reaches the drums, everyone stands in silence. I hear John say some words in Ojibwe. "He's blessing the drums," Bruce whispers. Then the old man begins chanting, and the drummers take their positions around the huge drums. There are twelve of them, and it looks like they're going to kick up quite a fuss. When John has completed his prayer, he walks off the court, and the music begins. The head drummer takes the lead, and everyone follows.
"It's the friendship song," explains Bruce, who is now relaxing a little and enjoying himself.
The drumming is like nothing I've witnessed before, except in my dream. Most people have this idea that the rhythmic beat of the "Indian" drum represents the savage calling for war. But here, it's easy to realize that it's not the case at all. The dancers begin circling the drummers as if falling into a trance. I don't need Bruce to explain that these people are connecting with a primordial rhythm. They stamp their feet and move up and down, as if trying to wake their bodies. Pum pum, pum pum, pum pum, pum pum ... The drums get louder. The beat reverberates in my chest. I too am connecting.
The singing begins. I don't think there are words. They aren't simple chants either. I guess it's a prayer, but not in the Christian form I know. This feels less rational, as if words would limit the nature of the intent. I understand why the trinkets, necklaces, brooches, dreamcatchers, and feathers are important. Each and every one of them has a meaning, an intent, a story. In this environment, they come alive and reveal their magic, their power. I am aware that I have no talismans of my own, and I feel empty. The drumming is so loud it engulfs us all. No one is standing still.
When the first song ends, I feel Bruce elbowing me. "What d'ya think?" He looks lighter and is finally smiling. I have no words. "Come on. Let's go meet John." We climb down out of the stands and make our way to the food area, where the old man is chatting and laughing with a group of older men. Bruce stands a little ways off, waiting perhaps for John to acknowledge him.
After a little while, the medicine man approaches us. "Boozhoo, young Aandeg. How've you been keeping? You getting on your feet, I hope." John's tone is fatherly but jovial.
Bruce has tensed up again. "Yes, Grandfather. I've been well, thank you." Bruce breaks into Ojibwe, I guess to explain why I'm here. The old man looks at me for the first time. He's smiling, but his eyes are not. They are checking me out, scrutinizing me. I stand there quite stiff, feeling awkward and not knowing what to look at. After quite a bit, he finally speaks.
"You like to dance?" he asks me.
I was expecting a little more of a formal presentation, and so I stumble a little — actually, a lot — with my response. I sound like an eight-year-old for sure. "Er, yes, I guess."
"Well, you go out there and dance for a while. Then you tell me if you need my advice." He shakes a crooked finger at me. "And pay attention. Don't get distracted!" Then he pats my shoulder and turns back to rejoin his friends.
I turn to Bruce, dumbfounded. "That's what the mouse said to me! Why does everyone think I have ADD.?"
"Don't worry." Bruce is trying not to laugh. "Only an old man and an imaginary talking mouse think that."
"What did he call you? Young and what?" I'm trying to get back at my friend.
The next song has started up. The drums begin pounding again. As Bruce joins the dancing crowd, he turns back and yells, "Aandeg. It means crow! He calls me Young Crow!"
"I thought he said young and stupid!" But he can't hear me. He's moving away with the dancers, clockwise around the drummers.
I stand on the side feeling like I'm only wearing underpants, like even the children here have a deeper spiritual life than me. But then I let the music carry me away. The pounding beat of the drums reverberates in my chest and races through my body. It pulls me in to join the flow of the dancing crowd. As my body gets in sync with the rhythm, I become a part of the collective movement, this communal heartbeat, gravitating towards the drummers in the centre. They are the heart, the magnetic pole. The physics of the dance are manifesting countless expressions of the natural world. Each dancer is a unique manifestation of this beat, embodying the elements and the different totemic animals. I'm blown away.
After a couple of hours of stomping and turning, twisting and shaking, I am clear. I know I am the bear. I am reliving the dream. I die coming out of the first cave. That is when I'm born into this world. I travel, find my path, and get lost endless times, bruising my soul in the process. My life's path must take me to the second cave, the cave of the bear, to heal. I know this because I am ready. But who is the mouse, and why? I guess life has a sense of humour.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Our Nature"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Peter Noel Dunn.
Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements, vii,
Prologue, xv,
1 Everyone Has a Path ..., 1,
2 It All Begins with Beauty ..., 19,
3 The Family Tree, 35,
4 Communion, 51,
5 Being Six, 63,
6 In Search of Balance, 79,
7 Finding One Grasshopper, 99,
8 It's All Too Easy, 113,
9 Old Questions, New Answers, 125,
10 Seven Falls to Manhood, 133,
11 The Explorer Within, 149,
12 Ordinary Moments in the Forest, 175,
13 Coming Home, 187,
14 One Beat, 205,
Epilogue, 215,
About the Author, 221,