Story Garden

There are always hidden spots of story growing somewhere in the city. But the quest to find these story gardens begins with the map of imagination. You must have the right kind of compass, the kind only found in the dreamworld.

But if even your dreaming is suffering from the effects of the recession these days, I can be your guide.

On the north side of Chicago, in a familiar neighborhood of brick, asphalt and glass I can point you to a garden that is just blooming with story. The story garden grows next to the American Indian Center. This is the heart of the Indian scene in this city. Since 1953, when the federal government began luring Native people off reservations with a free bus or train ride and a promise of a “better” life in the city, the Indian center of Chicago has fed, clothed and provided cultural support for numerous families.

The relocation, an attempt to assimilate thousands of Indian people into cities like Chicago, Los Angeles, Cleveland and Denver, was quite effective in cutting off spiritual ties to tribal homelands. Children of urban Indians feel it the most – growing up in racial isolation, knowing nothing of their tribal traditions, never having the chance to learn their original language, and some never even having the chance to visit the physical place where their ancient souls were born.

The wonderful folks who run the American Indian Center of Chicago are aggressive in bringing culture to the city. An annual pow wow, summer and afterschool programs (where kids learn traditional beading, drumming and songs), and community feasts are intended to remind people that they are in fact, uniquely Native American.

During my recent visit to the center I let my imagination roam around the center’s art gallery of indigenous works, letting it stare through glass museum cases that hold drums, feathers and other items, and letting it listen for the lingering voices, whispers of those who have passed on.

Suddenly, my dreaming is drawn to the small garden in the front of the building.

One of the youth workers, Mike, who is Navajo, Laguna, Washo and Mexican, proudly tells me that the garden is made up of indigenous plants. The garden was created in order teach children about how their ancestors used these plants for food and medicine.

I follow as Mike strolls through the garden. He pauses to point out each plant. But my imagination is not interested in human names and labels for plants. I want these plants to speak to me in their own tongue, revealing their real names if so inclined.

The brilliant greens and the soft touch of these plants are full of ancient life. Their roots reach back into the creation of the Earth. With each season they reproduce the existence of their ancestors – original cloning.

I wonder, if by touching these plants in the same way as ancient Native peoples did, if I can feel and see the Earth as they did. Instead of learning from passed down oral stories of our creation, can I actually feel this creation? Does the Earth still tell new stories of how we began? Can a physical touch of the planet teach me how to receive story?