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.