To a world that was and to the one that could be

By now, somewhere along the Mississippi, flowing down the middle of the nation are the seeds of a silent prayer – sprinkles of tobacco that began a journey in a small stream on the Potawatomi Indian reservation in northern Wisconsin, making its way to the Wolf River, to the Wisconsin River and onward.

I say “somewhere” because I cannot recall the exact spot where my friend, Kim and I dipped our tobacco prayers into the currents. I know this stream was at the end of a twisting, narrow gravel road, somewhere tucked in the thick of pines, revealed only by sparkling shards of sunlight.

I say “somewhere” because Kim never told me where she was driving us. She was too busy hearing me passionately rant about issues I have with how we create story in this slipping-way world. Kim lives at Potawatomi. She is a poet. And like a lot of Native people she does not believe in art of talking too much. She prefers to listen to me, to see if I have anything to say that might be worth consideration.

My specific concern this June morning focused on the modern novel. How is it that Greek gods, who should be spirit bones to ashes by now, can still navigate us through our imagination with their myths – their stories of creation, their heroes, and their creatures that guard treasures of gold and silver in caves and in the deep of the sea? Why do we still construct the novel based on these Greek themes and archetypes?

The literary prophets say “myth” is the door to our imagination, which is the door that opens to the Other side. We tell story to find our place, purpose, and peace in the universe. Story, wrapped in myth, teaches us how to live with ourselves and our fellow sojourners. Myth is about order. And we must heed the morals of myth-telling if we are to avoid the seduction of evil.

Myth reaches to the very marrow of our being, to the deepest chambers of our souls, places where even the gods of our religions cannot touch.

The human hunger for myth spreads throughout all cultures. But there are distinctions. The Greek’s tale of a hero’s journey is for the one. Tribal myth teaches that journeys, visions quests are always on behalf of the collective, the community.

Ancient Native peoples spoke stories to nurture and protect community. Traditional tribal communities were built on rituals and ceremony derived from story. Sadly, the disruption of Native community by colonization has reduced the power of tribal myth to the level of fairy tales – told for amusement not guidance.

My rant to Kim finally boils down to a basic question or two: Why are the works of Native authors (especially myself) more informed by Greek mythology and not our own tribal myths? Are we that irreversibly so assimilated into western culture that we cannot access our own myth memory?

Finally, Kim responds as we park her pickup along the mossy banks of the stream in the forest. She pulls out her pouch of American Spirits tobacco and begins to roll one. “So are you saying Indians shouldn’t write at all because we’re so assimilated?”

I smirk and shrug. “Does it really matter? I mean, just think of the uselessness of the western novel today? If story, Greek myth is supposed to teach us how to “be” in this world, then why is the planet in danger of dying from all of our wars, pollution, domestic violence, and serial killers? The modern American novel has been reduced to a fairy tale. Even worse, the publishing industry is on the verge of economic collapse because most people are not even curious enough to read a fairy tale?”

Unfortunately, I get on a new rant. “The only novel worth reading is “Catcher in the Rye”. You know why? Because any novel that can cause someone (Mark David Chapman and others) to break out of this social prison we live in, any novel that can dare a person to be free of this crushing world must have the seeds of myth. Oh, of course, it’s a fucked up acting on impulse kind of thingy – murder and all. But murder is not the point. And if you want more evidence that “Catcher in the Rye” might just be the only modern novel that is rooted in true myth then consider this much: Salinger has never written anything in over forty years. Think about it.”

Kim nods and steps out of the truck with her pouch of tobacco. I watch as she sits down by the stream, closing her eyes then sprinkling some of the tobacco into the waters. And as she sits there hearing only the wind speak to the trees, feeling the flow of gentle ripples on her fingertips I think of another teaching of tribal myths. Tribal myth always begins with understanding, learning, embracing relationship with the Earth. Long before we practice right relationship with ourselves, our family and neighbors, even before we look to the stars for our place in the eternal we begin with the teachings of respecting, receiving and giving back to the Earth. Story begins with the Earth. Though never paradise, ancient tribal peoples created the kind of intimate community that we here, today, can barely find in our dreamworld. Tribal myth begins with feeling the aliveness of the planet.

The sun shifts and the shadows thicken. Kim offers me some tobacco, and I kneel by the waters. I let the language of the stream, the body of the pines and the spirit of the rocks offer up a prayer in my stead. To a world that was, and to the one that could be.