Just Winter Fire

Just Winter Fire

It is only just winter,

One week since the solstice fire

We had by the house,

Calling back the sun

From its journey away from us.

In the just winter, too-early dark,

We sit once again by an open fire,

This time at the water’s edge.

Bundled up, huddled together,

We lean into its warmth,

Faces glowing orange,

Shadows dance over your coat

And inside my mind.

The tongues of flame lick the air.

Trees long dead, now dry wood, crackle and pop

Releasing the energy that they soaked up while alive.

Now releasing the sun’s stored fire as heat.

Fire to fire, heat to heat, energy to energy

Until only ashes are left.

We too are products of the sun’s fire

Eating plants that transform light into food

And animals that eat plants,

We children of the sun carry that light within us.

What will we do with it?

Will we release that energy as warmth?

Will we share that light before we too are ashes?

The wind roars in the tops of trees still standing.

It blows lake water in from Severn Sound

Making the channel rise.

You measure it against the dock, flashlight scanning.

We hear it in the dark,

Lapping at the bank,

Shore ice thinly tinkling

As the waves share

the wind’s energy with the land.

Darkness all around,

Fire licking the sky,

Waves washing the earth.

We are burning the dead,

Releasing the heat, soaking it in,

Releasing what had passed,

Grateful for the light, the warmth shared

Making space for what is ahead,

Making peace with what has passed.

The wind brings snow for a moment or two

Sky water falling, lake water lapping, hearts pumping blood,

Icy air, roaring trees, dancing fire, waving water

Wood smoking, scent of pine and cedar fleeting.

We huddle again, returning from our silences, reconnecting.

And talk about technology and how far behind we have slipped.

As long as you stay on the receding edge, you’ll be okay.

If the dust settles, you know you’ve slipped too far behind.

It is the world we have lived long enough, to live in.

At least some of the time.

But it is here in the dark, by the fire

With the just winter wind and the not-yet-ice water

Grateful for the warmth of our friendship

And the light we are for one another in the dark

That we feel most human,

That we know ourselves.

Shared World Stories

   If you clicked on the link in the Nov. 21, 2015 post, This is the World I Want to Live In you would have read about a young woman who helped an Arabic speaking older woman when her flight was delayed.  As she reached out and became friends with this woman, spoke with the woman’s sons, and got her own dad to speak to the woman, they became friends.  When the airline started to hand out juice, the old woman pulled out mamool cookies that she was taking to her son and shared them with the people sitting nearby.  Soon they all had icing sugar on their fingers and chins and were all laughing.  “This is the world I want to live in.  The shared world,” the young woman writes. I emailed this link to a few friends and one of them delighted with the story, emailed me back a whole page of recipes for these cookies. 

   My partner and I were having friends over to celebrate the winter solstice and I had asked people to bring a story to tell since that’s what people have done in the dark days of winter for a long time.  When my kids were growing up we celebrated every winter festival we could – Solstice, Christmas, Hanukkah, Diwali, Kwanza, and Chinese New Year by eating traditional foods for those celebrations.  I have started to do this with my grandson as well.  Making potato latkes for Hanukkah is now a tradition.  So in light of the Syrian refugees arriving in Canada I decided to make these Middle Eastern cookies.  I learned from the newspaper that they are called Ka’ak in Syria. 

   I checked out the recipes my friend had sent and found that I would have to search out rose water, orange blossom water and semolina flour.  Three stores in Midland left me empty handed but a Food Basics in Barrie had a Middle Eastern section that supplied me with the necessary ingredients.  It was actually really interesting to carefully go through all the international aisles and see what amazing things you can buy.

   I don’t really enjoy baking the way some people do but I was motivated by the idea of making mamool cookies.  The dough contains semolina flour, butter, rose water and boiling water.  The stuffing for the inside is ground walnuts, orange blossom water, cinnamon, sugar and dates.  I bent the finished cookies into crescent shapes and marked them with fork marks.  I sprinkled icing sugar on them while still hot just as the recipe called for.

   I had no idea if they were authentic tasting.  I kind of had to wing it.  I wished I had an older experienced person to teach me how to make them.  Perhaps I will meet someone from this area of the world and ask them how they make them.  I recently discussed potato latke recipes with a Jewish woman who later brought me a traditional jelly doughnut because it was Hanukkah.  Food crosses all borders.  And so does music. 

   A children’s choir in Ottawa chose in January of this year to sing a traditional Arabic song that welcomes Mohammed back from Mecca to Medina in their December concert.  Every year the French school choir chooses a culture to honor and this year they chose this Arabic welcoming song which coincidentally was sung just as the first Syrian refugees started to arrive in Canada under the new government’s open door initiatives.  Looking at all those young singing faces that reflect the immigration and diversity which is Canada cut through the nonsense of hate talk and fear.  

(Check it out on youtube and see how you feel:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=STgmIT23XBw)

   But back to the cookies.  At our Winter Solstice celebration we had a roaring fire outside and the first story told was about fire and how the wood ashes from this fire would be placed around the apple tree to keep it healthy.  Another story was told about a miracle baby joining a young family.  And then the high winds and icy air drove us inside.

   I recently learned that people in Denmark are among the happiest people in the world.  They have long dark winters and have the concept of hygge (pronounced hoo-ga) which means cozy.  They love to gather with good friends, food and candlelight during the winter.  So, learning from the Danes, this is what we did and listened to each other tell stories while watching the candles flicker. 

   Canadian author Thomas King in the 2003 Massey Lectures entitled The Truth About Stories says that “stories are all that we are.”  We choose which stories to tell and which ones not to tell, he says.  So I was fascinated to hear what people had chosen to tell.

   That evening we heard stories of babysitting in the bush of Northern Ontario when the oil stove died, of going into the woods to get moss and plants for Christmas decoration, of riding in a horse drawn sleigh through the streets of Montreal as a kid, a fairy tale about a girl who travels to touch the stars, Thomas King’s Coyote Solstice in which the forest animals go to the mall, funny stories about roosters and pigs who all had names, the sensitive description of water and sky written by a spouse now gone but much loved, stories about the past when food was brought to the house by vendors, stories about past solstice lantern lit walks to the woods to leave edible treats for the forest birds and stories that were remembered after hearing someone else’s story. 

   How luxurious it felt, to sit and listen to each one speak without fear of interruption.  And we also ate warm stew from the wonder pot and bannock.  And when it was time for dessert, I told the story of the mamool cookies and then passed them around the circle for each person to take, just like in the story – we entered the shared world. 

   

   And one last poem by Kathryn Edgecombe was read aloud:

“Paint me a picture with your words/ Make the world a better place/ For small children and old women…”

(https://www.facebook.com/L.KathrynEdgecombe/ ) 

   Food and music cross all borders and so can stories.  Thomas King says, “If you want to change society, change the stories we tell.”

   We went back outside into the dark night, fire roaring like the wind and lit sparklers and a Chinese lantern that flew madly – lights in the darkness.  Huddled together around the fire, warmed by our time together, our hygge, we said our goodbyes and went back to our lives knowing we were part of the shared world.  Well, that’s the story I choose to tell.

more information about Thomas King: http://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/thomas-king/ http://www.cbc.ca/radio/ideas/the-2003-cbc-massey-lectures-the-truth-about-stories-a-native-narrative-1.2946870

Imagining Nets and Webs

   One fall day when we were hiking, my partner and I suddenly entered a cedar grove.  For me a cedar grove is like walking into a cathedral.  A hush comes over me as I marvel at the ancient trunks and twisted branches of the Eastern white cedars.  The ground is reddish brown from the fallen needles and little else grows there except for baby cedars.  I love how the trees grow in groups that seem to be interconnected family members within a community of trees.  

They always feel friendly to me somehow and I feel welcomed in and protected.  I admit that some of my best friends are trees but there is something about cedar groves that you can’t miss.  I imagine that their roots are intertwined and that they communicate by touching their branches and sending messages along their roots.  I grew up with stories about fairies at the bottom of the garden and sentient trees and I become childlike in the woods, my imagination flows freely and my senses are wide open.  I feel connected by the trees to the earth and the sky.

   So imagine my surprise to find out from David Suzuki in one of the information emails from his foundation that there is actually an underground network of communication (The Many Marvels of the Mysterious Mushroom).  Apparently fungi have masses of underground threads called mycelia which form networks similar to the neurons in our brain.  

These networks connect plants and trees with each other. They help plants to absorb water and minerals and produce chemicals to resist disease.  Mycologist Paul Starnets calls mycelial networks “Earth’s natural internet” because they help plants communicate.  He finds them to be similar to brains with the use of chemical messengers and a cellular web.

   Recently we returned to the cedar grove and as my partner and I wandered through the trees I tried to imagine this mycelial network beneath my feet. I tried to picture the chemical messengers moving along the web spreading information.  This got me thinking about neurophysiology and how the mind is not just in the brain but is throughout the body.  Neurotransmitters connect physical information with emotions and thoughts between every cell.

  It also got me thinking about the internet and how people are using social media to create change in the world.  Just in the last month I have signed a petition for Mulala to take to world leaders about the rights of children to education (change.org), have joined with the Yinka Dene nations (Yinkadenealliance.ca, Holdthewall.ca) in protecting land in BC, have sent a letter to Justin Trudeau on climate change with the David Suzuki Foundation (www.DavidSuzuki.org) and the list goes on and on.  I just read a story in the Toronto Metro newspaper about a woman posting on Facebook the need for winter clothes for the refugee family from Syria that her group is sponsoring.  She hoped to get enough clothes for 5 families.  Instead she got enough for 120 families and volunteers to help organize it.  Global (globalcitizen.org) asks people to be a global citizen not a bystander.  I am connected by the internet to thousands, maybe millions of people who are working to make the world into a global family that takes care of its members.  It boggles my mind.

 Try as I might I can’t really picture the mycelian network or the neural pathways in my own brain or the internet.  However, I can see the tree trunks and people who look like they are physically separate so maybe that seems more true on the surface.  But it is only part of the story.  If I look deeper it is amazing how we are all connected.  Standing in the cedar grove I could feel how amazing that is.  And just like the trees and fungi I can choose to connect with like-minded people even though we are physically separate to learn from each other and to bring support and resources wherever they are needed.  It takes some imagination.  We have lots of that.  We can use it to imagine horror or we can use it to imagine health.  The systems are all designed for health.  Imagine that!

The Meeting

   The band playing at the summer Blues Festival in Orillia, ON wasn’t really working for me, so I wandered off to find out who the statued man at the top of a huge monument was.  He stood astride, cape flowing, looking out over Lake Couchiching.  

Climbing up the cement stairs that led to the base of the statue I read the bronze plaque.  “1615 – 1915  Erected to commemorate the advent into Ontario of the white race under the leadership of Samuel de Champlain the intrepid French explorer and colonizer…”   I have never seen the phrase “white race” in print on a plaque before and I was shocked.  But it got worse.  At the base of the statue on two sides were groups of men.  The Canada Parks sign explained that they represented “Commerce and Christianity.”  On one side was a European fur trader standing above two Indigenous men who sat at his feet.

  On the other side was a priest, cross held high with another two Indigenous men crouching below. 

   Horrified, I found my partner and showed him.  We learned that the statue was created in 1915 by English sculptor Vernon March to celebrate the 300^th anniversary of Champlain’s arrival in the area and to be a “symbol of goodwill between the English and French speaking people of Canada.”  The colonial and racist attitudes of the time and the paradigm of hierarchy were plain to see.  I remembered seeing the statues of Saddam Hussein being toppled over in Iraq and pictured the same thing happening here.

   Later that summer (2014), at the Mariposa Folk Festival, I listened to Sherry Lawson from nearby Chippewas of Rama First Nation (www.mnjikaning.ca) tell engaging, informative and funny stories about her life which she has included in her books (www.sherrylawson.ca).   She also talked about the statue of Champlain.  She felt the same way about it as I did and she pointed out that the cannons at the base are actually pointing at the Rama First Nation just to make things worse.

  

   This summer (2015) heralded the 400^th anniversary of Champlain’s arrival and the area was abuzz with preparations.  I was reluctant to attend in case it was anything like the statue in Orillia.  That was until my friend, Ojibway artist Paul Shilling (www.paulshilling.ca), told us that he was attending the celebration with his beautiful paintings and prints.  He showed us the statement he had prepared for the event.  It read, 

“Samuel de Champlain: 400 year celebration of his introduction to the first nations, first people of this continent.  Champlain had a mission.  The rest is his story.  History. Personally, I don’t celebrate his arrival but I do celebrate the gathering of all people of Champlain’s descendants and all the beautiful, colourful people that make up this world. Underneath the brokenness of most people there is an extraordinary spirit. This is what I celebrate. Dazaunggee”

   With this attitude, I felt I could also go and celebrate the people that had gathered.  My partner and I visited with First Nations artists, saw old canoes and boats, people dressed up in old fashioned French outfits and Metis groups.  When we walked down to Penetanguishene Harbour (part of Georgian Bay) we came across a new statue to commemorate the meeting of Bear Tribe Chief Aenon of the Wendat people and Samuel de Champlain. 

This bronze statue created by Canadian sculptor Timothy Schmalz is called “The Meeting”.  In contrast to the statue in Orillia, in this statue the two men are meeting face to face as equals.  According to Raymond J. de Souza writing for the National Post on August 3, 2015, for Schmalz, this is an apology for the earlier depictions of Indigenous people (ews.nationalpost.com/full-comment/father-raymond-j-de-souza-a-tribute-to-two-cultures-and-their-twin-spiritualities).

   The artist also included elements of the two cultures such as the Three Sisters (corn, squash and beans), Christian symbols, Sky Woman and Turtle Island and French explorers with Jesuits.  Aenon and Champlain hold a wampum belt between them which is the agreement or contract for how they would deal with each other. The wampum belt is about the relationship between groups of people.  We know that most of these agreements and treaties were not kept by the Canadian governments and were used instead for cultural genocide.  The attitudes that formed the Orillia statue are still alive and well to this day.  So what to make of this new statue?

   Schmalz has created a physically balanced visual representation that tells some of the stories of the people that now live in Huronia.  He seems to be bringing the past to the present while giving us hope for the future.  If the Orillia statue is in the paradigm of hierarchy and competition, this new statue is in the paradigm of cooperation and communication.  Despite my reluctance, I think The Meeting could be a vision of what we can co-create together.  My eyes were drawn to the hands and the wampum belt.  They speak to me about the healing of damaged relationships. Damaged relationships are bad for all of us.

  There is a lot of work to be done. There is listening and learning for people who never knew any of this history. There is governmental change that is drastically needed. And so much more.  It seems huge.  Paul Shilling always says that he wants to be part of the solution not part of the problem.  So do I.  We may not always know exactly what that looks like but I do believe that it is possible for all of us to be part of the solution in our own ways.  This is work for all of us and the ways will emerge once we begin to look.

 

Wonderpot Wonderment

   My friend has a wonderpot.  It is a cast iron Dutch oven with a wire handle that can be put on an open fire.  He loves to invite friends over for a wonderpot meal.  He starts by sautéing onions and perhaps adding some sausage for flavour.  I like to go to a farmer’s market before one of these meals and buy vegetables in season if possible.  Carrots, orange, yellow and purple, peppers, red and orange, tomatoes, green beans, kale, squash of all kinds, fresh from the earth are beautiful.  Once I found a parsley root as big as a parsnip to put in. The vendor taught me how to prepare it.

  The rest of the meal is potluck and the guests bring something for the pot.  You never know what might appear – a handful of Swiss chard from the garden, carrots, more sausage, even apples.  The pot gets fuller and fuller and it bubbles away creating what we have come to call “wonderment”.  One friend brought bannock as well.  We cooked the dough wrapped around sticks over the coals as we waited for the wonderpot to do its magic.  The smells of cooking vegetables and bread in the cool fall air were wonderful.

   I love to grow vegetables and I lived on a farm for over twenty years.  Now that I have moved to town, I comfort myself by buying food directly from people who grow or raise it whenever possible.  Some women love to buy shoes.  I love to buy fruit and vegetables – it makes me happy.

   I found a store near my new home on a local farm where you can also pick your own strawberries, raspberries and blueberries.  They have figured out how to make buying local very easy.  I can get local milk, eggs and whatever food is in season on the farm.  It makes me feel connected to the earth and farms and that also makes me happy.  I love the enthusiasm the vendors have for their products, be they bread, sausage, fruit, vegetables or cheese.  I have found that I appreciate the food more as well.  I don’t let it go to waste and I enjoy eating it more.  I don’t know if it is more healthy or not, but it helps me to feel connected.  And did I mention, it makes me happy?

   A few weeks ago in November, we were at a farmer’s market in Midland, ON.  I bought some potatoes which actually tasted like potatoes, the end of the season’s kale, some garlic and some feta made from sheep’s milk.  I used to have sheep and I used to milk them and make cheese, so it was really exciting to find a man who makes cheese from local sheep’s milk. We had a long chat about the virtues of sheep milk. I took my treasures home and like one of those cooking shows, figured out what to make.  I sautéed the kale with the garlic, steamed the cut up potatoes and when they were cooked, combined them with sheep’s feta that made a lovely creamy cheese sauce.  I don’t know if it actually tasted wonderful or if I felt nourished by all the different farmers that I had chatted with as I shopped and that made me pay attention to the flavours.  It doesn’t really matter.  The important thing is that I felt nourished physically and emotionally and I felt connected to the wider world and the earth.  That’s got to be good for me!

   Earlier in the fall we went to buy cranberries near Bala, ON where there are two major bogs.  We decided to go to the Iroquois Cranberry Growers on the Wahta Mohawk Territory (iroquoiscranberries.com).  They have 68 acres under cultivation and can produce up to one and a half million pounds of cranberries annually.  There is a store near the bog where they sell all manner of cranberry products such as fresh, frozen and dried cranberries, tea, soap, candy, preserves and juice.  I decided to get Christmas presents while I was there and I chose a cranberry cookbook.  The friendly woman at the cash told me proudly that it was a community cookbook from Wahta and that her recipe was in there as well.  I asked her to show me which one it was and she happily found the pumpkin cranberry muffin recipe.  I was looking for a pumpkin recipe to make with my grandson after we carved the Hallowe’en pumpkin so I was thrilled to now have one.  The following week he and I made the muffins and I told him the story of the recipe.  He declared the finished muffins a success.  They did taste really good and I felt great about the pumpkins I had bought at a farm gate stand and the cranberries from the Iroquois Growers and the connection I felt with the woman in the store.

   Buying locally grown food and eating seasonally is good for lots of big picture reasons such as a smaller carbon footprint and better quality.  It’s not possible to get everything this way and I still shop at the local supermarket as well.  But I find it is much harder to feel connected with that food and much easier to take it for granted.  Even if we only buy some of our food locally and eat seasonally some of the time, we are supporting people who are passionate about the food they grow and raise. The producers can only produce what we will buy.  We may not get the cheapest price but then again I waste less, eat it more mindfully and don’t buy junk food there so perhaps it is cheaper.

   Like the last story of the open door, when I purchase food from these hard working, enthusiastic people they are happy and by now you know that I am happy and maybe you are remembering a similar experience in your life that made you happy.  We are nurturing our bodies, our minds and our communities and remembering how we are connected in this big wonderpot we call life.

This is the World I Want to Live in

My daughter shared with me this story of connection.  It takes place when a flight is delayed and is beautiful in its simplicity and hope.  She concludes, "this is the world I want to live in, a shared world."
Check it out!

https://www.facebook.com/berlinartparasites/photos/a.241035489279718.52064.199504240099510/903762776340316/?type=3

Opening Doors

   Ahead of me I could see the silhouette of a tall woman holding the door opened by leaning her back into it.  Through the open door I could see a very tiny old woman walking gingerly with a cane towards us along the glass walkway that joins the Toronto subway with Yorkdale shopping mall.  As I got to the open door I looked at the woman holding it open.  She was beaming.  She reminded me of Queen Latifa with a broad smile on her beautiful face.  I immediately beamed back a smile that naturally emerged from my face like a mirror of her own.

“You have a good day!” she exclaimed to the older woman who had finally made it through the open door and had replied in a tiny voice that I could barely hear.  “Well, we have to help each other,” the young woman declared.  Then she turned to her friend who had been waiting for her patiently. 

“You’re so sweet,” the friend said encouragingly.

“Well, I just love old people,” stated the young woman.  “They make me happy!”  The two women continued a conversation in this vein but I was walking faster and their voices receded into the distance.

   I remembered reading in a positive psychology text that when we help someone, the recipient of our help feels good, and we feel good and anyone watching the event also feels good.  We all make endorphins which are good for our mood and our health.

   I take that walk two or three times a week on my way to work just before 7 am. The walkway joins the bus station to the subway station.  In November most people on their way to work wear black and walk purposefully and somberly.  Occasionally someone will hold the door for the person behind them which lifts the heart for a moment.  Others appear oblivious to those around them, heads down and some nearly mow you down.

   But being witness to this outgoing young woman’s experience of love kept the smile on my face.  I am smiling again as I write this just picturing her face.  We get so used to being part of the crush, of being invisible and anonymous.  We forget what that does to our sense of well being.  There is much written about how this generation has forgotten how to relate to one another because of social media.  But I imagine this young woman makes a positive impression wherever she goes.  She has inspired me to be kinder today, to notice who is around me.  Perhaps I will inspire others as well.  That one act has created ripples that have gone out, I imagine, like sound waves or ripples from a stone dropped in a still pond.

   I shared this story with some of my clients that day to share the endorphins.  We got to talking about the Syrian refugees that will finally be allowed to come to Canada.  I remember my family helping Vietnamese boat people to come to Canada decades ago and how the family in Brampton that my family helped remained lifelong friends.  I suspect that welcoming this new group of displaced people will be good for all of us just as the simple act that I had witnessed that morning.  One of my clients remarked, “And what a beautiful metaphor – holding open the door to let someone come in!”  Wow!  I hadn’t thought of that connection at all but in sharing the story, it continued to expand.  That’s really what this blog is all about – sharing our new story.

   Humans helping one another is not new.  It has allowed us to populate the world, keep children alive and create social structures that protect us.  But in a stressed society that values independence and competition, such acts stand out as life giving, healthy and truly human.

   This week, I was speaking with my son who follows current events closely.  He explained one theory he had heard about the motivation behind the attacks which just occurred in Paris.  Some feel that the rationale for this is that these attacks motivate people to fear and hate Muslims which can lead to a backlash towards innocent Muslims.  This can lead to disenfranchisement in some youth which makes it easier to radicalize them.  In other words, the attacks create the social conditions that create new recruits for their cause.  “So,” my son reflected, “responding with hope and love is actually the most effective strategy to combat this strategy of hopelessness and hate.”

   Earlier that day while swimming before work I was reminded of the shooting that occurred in an African American church in the US earlier this year.  I remember hearing the voice of one of the church members speaking about this on the radio.  “We have no room in our hearts for hate,” she said.  “We forgive you.”

   I see French flags flying from cars and flag poles, a sight I never expected to see in Ontario.  I see some Canadian politicians realizing that the Syrian refugees are fleeing from the same kind of violence, and are not the perpetrators of it.  I see journalists going back to Beirut where a similar event happened which didn’t get onto our radar.  I see citizens of Peterborough helping to fund the repair of a mosque that was damaged by those who bought into the message of hate.  I hear about a Syrian film festival at the Art Gallery of Ontario to help people understand and appreciate that culture. I read an email about an imam being invited to speak at the Midland Cultural Centre to explain Islam to people and to decry violence in its name.  Those who listened then donated money to bring a Syrian family to that town.  I read about the hacker group Anonymous disabling the Twitter accounts that are used to recruit young people to ISIS.  I see the picture of a young couple who have donated their wedding money to bring a Syrian family to Toronto in an effort to counteract the act of hate towards the young Muslim woman who was attacked in the same city.  And I hear my son’s voice telling me that the most effective strategy is love.  “There is no us and them,” he concludes.  

   There are so many more of us who want to get along, who want to cooperate, who want to hold open doors for each other. Viktor Frankl in Man's Search for Meaning defined evil as good people doing nothing.  At this time it seems vital to me that all the "good people" need to express our care for the global family in whatever way emerges for us.  The door of the new paradigm is wide open.  We just need to step through.

New Navigation

   A birch bark basket caught my friend’s eye as we wandered around the Canada Day displays in Midland, Ontario last July.  As we got closer we could see that it was part of a display for Sainte Marie Among the Hurons, a local historical recreation of the fortified mission built by French Jesuits  brought by Samuel de Champlain in the early seventeen century.

(www.saintemarieamongthehurons.on.ca). The display table was covered with the furs of various animals and two bear skulls which I began to photograph. I could hear my friend telling the historical interpreter that we had been learning the Ojibwe words for some of these animals.  I had just finished reading Armand Garnet Ruffo’s book Norval Morrisseau: Man Changing into Thunderbird where I learned some of the original words for animals that we see from our canoe.

   It was at this point that I turned to look at the young man who was wearing some of the pelts as well.  He pointed to one on his belt and said “this is otter, nigig.  I wear it because it’s my totem.”  I asked him the name for wolf. “Ma’iingan.”  We knew that beaver is “amik”.  Bear he said, pointing to the skull,“mukwa.” 

“What is deer?”  I asked. 

“I don’t know.  I need to learn more of my language.”

He had a pelt on a strap across his chest which I thought was a weasel.  “No,” he said, “red squirrel.”  He explained that one of the first chiefs that Champlain met gave him the gift of a coat made of red squirrel which is very soft and would have had great value.

   After our conversation he went to the inside of the booth to get something for us.  He handed us both a souvenir astrolabe key chain to celebrate the 400^th anniversary of Champlain’s arrival in Canada.  I thanked him for the gift and mumbled something about Champlain’s arrival being a mixed blessing, smiled and said goodbye.

   The tiny astrolabe weighed heavily in my pocket.  We had read Joseph Boyden’s The Orenda the previous winter about the Wendat (Huron) people who once lived on this land but had been virtually wiped out after the Europeans came.  We had visited Ste. Marie to learn more and found references to other missions which we hunted out and found.  Some were marked by National monuments, some cairns, and some signs painted by the side of the road.  We sadly imagined the events that had happened on this land that was once Wendake.  This year brought the Truth and Reconciliation Commission report on the horrors of the residential schools which took seven generations of indigenous children away.  It also brought stories of more than 1200 missing and murdered aboriginal women.  

   And now, here was this astrolabe.  I learned that astrolabes are instruments used to measure the altitude of stars and the sun to calculate latitude.  They were used from classical times to later in the seventeenth century to navigate.  A little card in the souvenir package declared, “guided by his dream and his Astrolabe, Champlain laid the foundation of the New World… The Astrolabe… thus became a symbol of the New World and possible dreams.” 

   And look where that dream and astrolabe have taken us; cultural genocide, the end of the Wendat people in Ontario, missing and murdered  women, and children who died or were forever scarred in residential schools.  Champlain’s dream whatever that was became a nightmare for the people for whom this world was not new.

   I did some more research and it seems from what I found that the astrolabe in the museum is probably not even Champlain’s.  It was found in a farmer’s field in the later 1800’s when Champlain was becoming famous and was assumed to be his.  Closer examination of the facts, including that it was found with silver cups, bronze plates and an insignia suggest that it probably belonged to a Jesuit instead.  But Ottawa’s Museum of Civilization paid a lot of money for it even though the evidence of its owner was thin, and it is now lending it to Ste. Marie Among the Hurons for the big Rendezvous Champlain celebration. The keychain replica is meant to advertise this.  They say that history is written by the conquerors.  This little astrolabe is a new spin on a bad story.  What are we celebrating?  What are we re-enacting?  Why spin Champlain into a hero?  If we need heroes, let’s look in the direction of people who have not been assimilated even after all this time, who survive and find ways to heal and forgive.

   It is clear that our old ways of navigating are not working for many of us.  We need new dreams.  We need to dream them together.  We need to dream reconciliation, healing, harmony.  An astrolabe won’t get us there.  A GPS won’t help us to find our way.  But together we can create new dreams and new navigational tools. 

   We have newer tools like social media that help in spreading the word and creating movements.  We have old tools like respect and wisdom.  Healing is up to all of us.  We all have a part to play.  It starts with intent – to be part of the solution not part of the problem.  Then opportunities will appear and we can just step into them, not knowing our way – how could we?  We’ve never been there before

   I took the tiny astrolabe and wove a crow feather I had found into the chain.  I hung it from my rear view mirror in my car -- a symbol of the past, the rear view.  Later I found a trumpeter swan feather and as I added it, it would only stick out sideways, a change of direction.  As I drive it spins in the wind, a constant reminder of our new navigation helping us to find our way forward together.

Turtle Woman Listens to Village Voices

   I heard the subway train rattle into the station as I was still walking up the escalator.  The people in front of me sped up and I followed running along the platform to the last car.  I knew I could make it as I had many times before.  Suddenly I was flat on my back lying beside the open train door.  Confused, I recalled feeling my left foot wipe out as my smooth flip flop hit some water.  I had landed on the huge green back pack that I carry, full of linens for my work, so my back and head were fine but my right elbow was really hurting.  I lay there like some kind of turtle woman who had flipped onto her soft shell and couldn’t get righted.

    In the strange extended time of an accident when our brain actually speeds up so we can take in more information, I looked around me, marvelling at this strange perspective.  The open subway train doors formed a large white rectangle.  There were yellow stripes on a diagonal and something fluorescent green.  Through the distorted view of my progressive lens I saw shapes moving towards me, kind of blurred streams of light which I translated as people running to help me.  Suddenly I was on my feet and walking onto the subway car saying that I was fine.  I have no memory of who helped me but I assume someone did because I wouldn’t have been able to get up with that heavy back pack and a hurt elbow without assistance.

I walked quickly to the nearest seat, not wanting to hold the train up any longer.  I sat down to assess the damage.  My elbow really hurt now but I didn’t think it was broken.  At any rate, there were no bones protruding through the skin.  Across the aisle from me was a man lounging sideways on two seats.  “You’re rushing!” he declared in a slow Jamaican accent.  “Everybody’s ruuushing,” he drawled.  “Too much in a hurry.”  I smiled back.  “It was the flip flops,” I explained.  “No,” he said.  “You were rushing.  You shouldn’t rush.” 

“So much for sympathy,” I thought.

   By now the subway operator had closed the doors and the train was in motion.  He walked down the subway car towards me.  He leaned over and in a clipped South Asian accent asked, “Are you alright?  Are you in need of assistance madam?”

“No, I’m fine,” I said, not wanting to cause any further problems.

“You don’t need any help?”

“No, I’m fine,” I lied.

“She was rushing.  Too much rushing,” came the voice from across the aisle. 

I chuckled at the cross cultural triangle the three of us formed which is one of the few things I do like about being in Toronto. Three different worldviews, two genders, one city.

   At the end of the day I took the subway back to the bus station.  I did not rush as I felt tired and hurt.  As I walked from the subway over the covered walkway to the bus terminal I could hear the strains of a jazz sax being played by a busker.  As I got to the top of the stairs I saw the man sitting on a stool playing.  He took the sax from his lips and sang, “The sky may be grey but it’s a beautiful day.”  It was true.  The November sky was grey and overcast and my mood was grey.  Maybe it was a beautiful day.  I wasn’t feeling it though.  I thought I detected a Caribbean accent in his singing voice and got the feeling that there something to be learned in all of this.

   The next morning, I was back at the subway.  This time in boots.  This time being careful.  I walked up the escalator and carefully made my way down the platform that was strangely crowded for that time of day.  An announcement came over the system that the train was turning back at St. Clair West and shuttle buses were being ordered due to serious signal problems.  A woman beside me asked, “What exactly does that mean?”  “I think it means we will have to get on a bus at St. Clair West,” I answered.  “I’m experimenting with different ways to get to work,” she replied.  “This is probably my fault!”  “Well, thank you for apologizing in advance,” I laughed.  The train pulled up and I carefully walked to it and got on.  The train crept ahead slowly, then stopped and started and sat, inching it’s way south to where I wanted to go. “Well,” I thought, “I certainly couldn’t be accused of rushing today.”  I read the paper and sat, closed my eyes, thought and waited.  How ironic to be held up in the tunnel the day after the warning not to rush.  Eventually a voice came over the train’s intercom with yet another Caribbean voice saying, “For those of you stuck here in this train, St. Clair West Station is blocked.”  No.  I was not rushing.  I was not even moving. In my head I figured out how to walk from St. Clair to my office on Dupont St.  Would I turn right or left from the station?  Was it still dark in the above ground world? Would it be safe to walk in the dark?  Would I have time to still get a coffee before my first client of the day?  I was sitting still, but my mind was racing.  I took some deep breaths and tried to be calm.

   I heard a train going past us in the tunnel in the opposite direction and then our train lurched into action.  We pulled into the St. Clair West station and I expected to hear instructions to get off the train because it was turning back.  But no such words came.  People were standing on the platform and when the doors opened they got on.  I asked one man just getting on if the train was turning back and he said not in this direction.  Another man and I exchanged looks.  Should we get off or stay on.  We both shrugged and then sat down.  I noticed the woman across from me was crossing her fingers and smiling.  The train moved out of the station in our desired direction.  The man and I started talking about what time we were to start work, how long it took to commute, getting coffee and then we came to my station.  It is always funny how people in the city will not even acknowledge each other until there is a problem and then we talk like neighbours.  I bid my subway neighbour a good day and got off the train.  I still had time for coffee.  The sky was still grey but it seemed like a good day.  I could hear the busker’s voice in my head. After all, I hadn’t fallen and my elbow was feeling a lot better.  I chuckled at all the voices that I had heard in the past two days.

   Two days later I was once again working in the city.  As I walked up the escalator to the subway platform I heard the train rumble in to the station.  I took a deep breath and decided not to run, even though I had sensible foot wear on.  I walked calmly and got to the train.  The subway operator had his head out of the window.  I looked to see if it was the man who I had met earlier in the week.  It was not.  This one looked Korean.  He had his whole upper body out the window and was taking in a deep breath of the crisp fall air as this station is above ground.  The woman ahead of me bid him good morning.  I calmly (and without incident) stepped onto the train and began walking down the centre aisle as the train moved out of the station.  Since I wasn’t hypoxic and was so intentionally calm, I looked around me and saw face after face “pop out” at me, with some kind of superclarity.  That had never happened to me before.  The faces of people from around the world popped into focus as I walked through the train.  The whole world lives in Toronto and it was a real feast for the eyes.  Each one seemed very beautiful somehow, even at this early hour.  Usually on the train, we learn to soft focus, to not make eye contact, to protect our “personal space”.  This week I had been helped by strangers, had been given good advice, had broken into conversation around the train stoppage and now I was seeing people in a kind of hyperlucid fashion. 

   At the end of the day I was once again crossing the walkway to the bus terminal when I heard a familiar jazz saxophone.  I don’t carry money in my pocket and I never stop to fish around in my wallet for coins for the buskers.  This time I stepped to the side of the sea of people and did just that.  As I passed the “beautiful day” busker I dropped a loonie into his sax case as thanks for all the experiences of the week that had taught me to slow down in a city that revs you up and to really see the faces and hear the voices of the world.  The impersonal city became a village once I paid attention.