Searching For Self

I am going to fly now ~
try to ground me if you dare.
My wings have been clipped
for much of my life
by those who didn’t care.

Though some claimed to ~
claimed they wanted the best for me,
but they really only wanted
validation or servitude
or perhaps just gratitude, you see.

I’m going to fly now.
My spirit is taking wing.
I’ve done all that you demanded and more,
I’ve heeded your needs
and done what feels like everything.

I’ve cared when no one else did ~
put out a hand to touch ~
been refused, reviled and hated,
celebrated and sometimes even loved,
and was also told I did too much.

I am going to fly now ~
take some time just for me.
Art, music, all the things denied
because there was work to do.
Time to take wing;
set myself free.

You know the feeling ~ when you’re 19 and you know just about everything. You’re all grown up and aware and filled with righteous idealism that the world needs changing and you’re the one to do it. I guess in reality, without youthful idealism, the world would just plod along lazily, slowly sinking into it’s own pointless, yet comfortable indolence. The line between youthful exuberance, and being a realistic adult can be very blurry, to say the least. Somehow so many of us start out to take on the world and wrought change, yet slip away into the lure of the comforts that corrupt us and bind us to some very ordinary status quo.

I made good use of my youth. As with most people of my era, my fondest, happiest memories are of the challenges of making a life for myself. I wanted to learn. I mean really learn... I think it was Frank Zappa who said, “if you want to party, go to college. If you want to learn, go to the library.” I went to college for awhile, but had an even better idea: I’m talking about life, people, reality. I wanted to taste the world as it really was.

As it happened, I got the chance to do that. I’ll borrow here from a post on another of my blogs: When I was a young woman, I hitchhiked much of way across Canada to see some of my country. I wanted to see how the other half lived, but I wasn’t attracted by the world’s richness, such as the Eiffel Tower, Taj Mahal or even Graceland. I travelled north on the Muskeg Express, a very old train with oil lamps on the walls between the windows, which opened, and the tracks visible when you raised the toilet seat.

I visited several Metis settlements to learn something new about life. And I did. I was right there with the residents when that crate of fruit came in on the train. Oh, it wasn’t the fruit we were anxious for... it was those little paper wrappers on it. Everyone wanted a share of those for the outhouse. Soft.

I was there taking pictures, interviewing, observing. I wanted a photo of the train coming into the station, and I wanted it straight on. So there I was on the track as it pulled in, trying to focus my camera, when I suddenly realized there was a wide angle lens on there, so the train was much closer than it appeared through the viewfinder.
Obviously I survived. There is ying and yang to all reality. Something bad happens; something good comes of it, somehow. Something good happens; the joy is tempered with an unexpected reality. It’s the way of life on this planet. I had packed some spare clothes into my guitar case, under my guitar, spare undies and toiletries in the little compartment, sleeping bag slung across one shoulder, camera case over the other, and off I went. Indeed, I met many fine, kind people whose sincerity and wisdom impressed this young woman.

I was most welcomed by the poor who had little to give but gave it so cheerfully. I remember the loaf of bannock leaning up against a wall, flies having a field day on it, and me thinking, “oh yuck.” I remember the rather diseased chickens, whose feathers were spotty at best, and the old farmer smiling widely as he told how he got them cheap because they weren’t quite right. Then "but oh, what they had wouldn’t harm a human." Then he went to choose one for dinner. After all, they had company, and this called for a chicken. I remember that the dinner of chicken, fried outdoors on the summer woodstove and that bannock, was one of the best meals I have ever enjoyed.
I had fun, I learned eye-opening lessons, I learned that you don’t know people from their background. There is no formula. There is no reasonable way to neatly categorize people, and only the particularly dull of mind even seek to do so. Everyone has their own story. Everyone is as deserving of respect as the next one, no matter they are dressed simply or in snazzy suits. No matter they live in a doorless cabin, or a penthouse. There are good people; there are people who care nothing for anything but themselves. There are people lost somewhere in between. But you can’t tell which is who from a safe distance. You have to get close enough to look them in the eye. And even then, remember that without their story, or indeed, even with it, no one else is in a position to judge them. All one can do is decide if this person is someone who has something to share, teach, impart ~ or not.
At the time I had little to give: empathy, admiration, respect, an open mind and a cheerful enthusiasm ~ something which has always annoyed or even angered some, while at the same time intriguing those of creative mind. I noticed that no one of any fortitude wanted sympathy, but only a deeper understanding of the spirit, and also a grasp of the sheer stubbornness it took to get through life was always appreciated. And when I was willing to give what I had, I was given back what they had: experience, interesting perspectives, wisdom. These, I learned, are the true wealth of being human. Anybody can get money if they’re ambitious and/or ruthless enough. I was discovering something more meaningful. At least, to me.
So, even as John Denver sang Take Me Home Country roads, back country roads led me to the lessons of my youth, and Sweet City Woman by the Stampeders carried me back to the city. Nixon was warming up to China, a young American lieutenant was made a scapegoat of the Vietnamese war, there was progress on the civil rights front, Neil Young wrote Ohio and performed it with Crosby, Stills and Nash after the shootings at Kent State University, and I was looking for a job. Just a job. Regardless of her ideals, a girl’s gotta eat. And that too, is reality.

We are all searching for our dreams, young and old,
future never seen.

We only want what everyone does - acceptance, encouragement,
understanding, empathy ~ concern sincerely meant.

The journey is different; yet the journey is the same.
Some of us take the easy road, some stumble over the rocky lane.

Some of us sing the chorus, some of us the whole song.
Some are looking for truth, others for right and wrong.

We are all of us searching for our elusive dreams.
Or are they searching for us? Is anything what it seems?

The Fourth Circle

Also during this fantastic year of schooling, aside from an active interest in current events, I cultivated what had become a consuming interest in native culture. No, I wasn’t a Wannabe. This term only confirms that Caucasians don’t have the corner on bigotry. I was and am very proud of my Celtic heritage. My ancestors were hunters and gatherers who made lanterns out of turnips late in Fall to pay homage to the dead, an occasion we now know as Hallowe’en. They gradually settled into agricultural villages because they domesticated both crops and animals. They gathered eggs at the Spring Equinox, and gathered up some of the old hens for the stew pot... you know, the ones that were no longer laying... and a few rabbits, etc., for a big feast to celebrate Spring or the time of Fertility (or Eostre, the Goddess of Fertility). This is now known as Easter. They brought branches into their humble homes to keep the wood nymphs warm throughout winter, so they wouldn’t play havoc with their crops come summer. They also burned a piece of wood from the previous year at the winter solstice, called a Yule log, to pay homage to turning seasons. Sacred circles were part of my ancestors’ lives. They created henges all over the British Isles to mark the passing of seasons. You’ve heard of Stonehenge? That was my people. You've heard of St. Patrick? He’d been sent to Rome to be educated by the Catholic priests, from his home in what is now Scotland. He returned to the shores of the Irish Celts ~ my ancestors, to teach them about Jesus. Ancient pagans like my ancestors were invited into Christian churches, because the church adopted their feasts and celebrations and turned them into holy days that were about Jesus. Hence, the winter solstice, Saturnalia in Rome, became Christ Mass (Christmas); the Spring Equinox, or the fertility festival of the Goddess Eostre, became Easter, all about the crucifixion of Jesus.

Unfortunately, what seems to be an oft-told story, while my ancestors were learning to pray in Christian churches, the Bretons came along and took their lands, and the Irish Celts wound up becoming poor serfs on what had been their own farms. This happened many times in Africa too.

“When the missionaries came to Africa they had the Bible and we had the land. They said, 'Let us pray.'..." "We closed our eyes. When we opened them we had the Bible and they had the land.”

~ Bishop Desmond Tutu

 And it happened here, in North America. Colonial imperialists managed to take over much of the world whilst the trusting natives of this place or that were learning about Jesus. Heh. Now don't get me wrong ~ Jesus, he was a great teacher ~ a man who preached compassion and love. Someone to admire and emulate, no doubt about it. But what some people did in his name..... Well, ‘nuff said. What with the Crusades, cultural genocide and more, I could go on and on, but what’s the point? Suffice it to say that I grew up here, not in the land of my ancestors. And the closest cultural expression of my history was in the ways of the natives of this land. And so I learned all I could about them, their history, the genocide that was perpetrated against them, the injustices ~ from Wounded Knee, to the arduous journey of Chief Joseph and his people, to Little Big Horn, and on into Canada, and to residential schools. I was outraged. But even more, I was impressed with the fortitude of these people, and I wanted to know more.

The ferry landing to Walpole Island 

But there comes a time when learning about a people isn’t enough. I wanted to learn from them. And so, with a friend, I embarked on another school project for sociology. We visited a native reserve called Walpole Island. This visit and resulting project was innocuous enough, but it was something that lasted in my mind and set the tone for future adventures. My project grade was clinched when I not only set out a display of black and white photos taken on the island, and talked a little about our visit, but I had also invited the Chief of the Walpole reserve to visit my school and speak. Though there was no honorarium for his trouble, his son brought him for the occasion. I was impressed. Clearly my teacher was as well.

Casey

The Fourth Circle

There came to me a beautiful song on a violently stormy night. The voices seemed to be everywhere; yet the singers were out of sight. Their bittersweet voices mingled, passions carried on the breeze; the rhythmic pounding of stormy drums almost lost in the groaning trees. Then the singers’ voices grew louder, as if chanting to loose their bonds. Spirits crying out for freedom! Then suddenly they were gone. But through the pounding rain I heard feet dancing on naked earth. A rhythm that made the night ache, laying claim to its ghostly turf. Is this song only distant shadows of something that’s been lost? Or is it a spiritual reminder of what our choices cost? I await another stormy night, chance to hear this song again. The drums, the voices, the dancers, the fourth circle pounding their pain.

There were more adventures to come.

Flowers In Our Hair

If you come to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.

Well, it may have been the Eve of Destruction, but here was a world all about peace, love and brotherhood. Written by Papa John Phillips (Mamas and Papas), Scott McKenzie recorded it, and it became a hit.

All across the nation such a strange vibration

People in motion

There's a whole generation with a new explanation

People in motion people in motion

For those who come to San Francisco

Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair

If you come to San Francisco

Summertime will be a love-in there

Well, I wasn’t going to San Francisco, but I was finishing high school, and there was a new school in town. Now, this new school promised all kinds of classes and benefits that the school I was in didn’t have. Unfortunately, I wasn’t living within the street boundaries for the new school. Solution? Fake an address. Yep. Using the address of a friend of the family, I switched schools for my final year.

I was ENTHUSED for the first time since moving. I already had almost enough credits to graduate from my 4-year business program,despite my lack of commitment to school. So I loaded up with all the electives I’d been missing. I signed on for Art, Journalism, Theatre Arts.... I mean, I was in heaven. Even subjects such as Sociology were more up-to-date than the repetitious topics of the old school. I wrote a treatise on Canada’s penal system and was awarded an A, something I certainly wasn’t used to.

History class was same old, same old, so a friend and I approached the teacher and asked if we could take something more contemporary. We suggested Castro’s Cuba. The teacher, a dear soul of a man who was very frustrated because NO ONE in ANY of his classes gave a damn about the Renaissance (which we’d all already taken a couple of times) seemed taken aback at first, but he approached his department and requested permission to change the curriculum. This was granted. We all chipped in for our own books (paperbacks about Castro’s Cuba, indeed) and he decided to also change the format of his classes to the more college level approach of the seminar. Because he wasn’t studied up on the topic, we all took turns submitting lessons for discussions. It was a blast!

I also started letting my real self show in English composition, because this teacher was receptive to something different from the strict letter of the requested essay. I submitted poems, stories and other works that were received with appreciation, instead of narrow-minded chagrin.

We took the Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. I submitted a poem as part of the requested book review and got an A.

The Heart of Darkness

It is a penetrating blanket,
which pushes its way into mans’ senses ~
deeper and deeper
into his very core.

The lurking death and evil
comes baited with an appeal.
Its mystery dares and haunts man,
until his nerves twitch with anticipation.

He sways toward it with pending freedom,
a captive snake which must uncoil,
and it becomes a heart
that beats to the rhythm of drums.

Wildness, lust and desire become forces
so strong, that they drive men,
drag men, farther and farther ~
into the unknown ~ into the heart of darkness.

I also “submitted” a song performance in one class to express a sense of social connection to our world. It was Home From the Forest by Gordon Lightfoot. This song is about one of the last Victoria Cross winners still alive, found homeless on the dirty streets of New York.

Oh the neon lights were flashin'
And the icy wind did blow
The water seeped into his shoes
And the drizzle turned to snow
His eyes were red, his hopes were dead
And the wine was runnin' low
And the old man came home
From the forest

His tears fell on the sidewalk
As he stumbled in the street
A dozen faces stopped to stare
But no one stopped to speak
For his castle was a hallway
And the bottle was his friend
And the old man stumbled in
From the forest

~Gordon Lightfoot

Guitar in hand, stool in front of classmates, I sang. Another A, and an invitation to sing at a local coffee house. This year of high school was my only happy, enthusiastic year of schooling and I think this speaks to the impact of the arts on some students. Take away music, art and other expression, and just shovel in the academics, and you have created a recipe for failure ~ for the student, for the education system.

In fact, it seems to me that our approach to education and indeed our culture, routinely under-estimates our children and creates an atmosphere in our schools intended to dumb them down, rather than lift them up. This belief would impact on my child’s own educational experience later in my life.

I’m writing these autobiographical sketches for me, and for my daughter, and I know it’s unlikely anyone else will be interested in the experiences of a nobody. But just in case, I’m here to tell you, you should never under-estimate your kids. And never under-estimate the impact that our cultural approach to education can have on someone, because it lasts a lifetime.

For myself, I graduated from my high school program with honours and with more than the required credits. Just shows what a little creativity can do.