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?
Sep 20, 2009
The Muse of Lake Michigan
So here I am, standing on a jagged-edge shore of the icy waters of Lake Michigan, braving biting winds and freezing rain, trying to figure out how in the hell my Native ancestors could have ever been inspired to come up with a good lodge story by this sea of empty.
The calendar says it is May, but the Earth tells me it is still February up here, near the tip of the Wisconsin’s Door County Peninsula. I reluctantly agreed to tag along with my friends, Karen, who is Ho-Chunk Indian and Diane, who is a first generation Chinese American. Door County has never been on my lists of places to visit in this state. It’s a tourist trap for those who love buying blue cow and pink pig refrigerator magnets, for those who love fishing, smelling, touching fish and eating fish.
I hate fish. And I think that’s part of my problem.
Between posing for digital photos, taking turns clicking images of ourselves, I light up a smoke and stare into the redundancy of waves. The woodland Indians around here used to ride birch bark canoes into these great seas. They used to get right in the face of these waters. They had to be one with the waters. They had to learn the rhythm of the great sea’s moving, tumbling over itself if they wanted to eat.
I take another drag of my cigarette and squint as if I might see something in the waves – something I may have missed when my friends and I first stood on these shores this morning, something I may have missed all of my life.
But damn, it’s cold up here. If it takes patience to earn the gift of story from the Earth and her elements then I won’t be writing tonight. If it takes swimming into the belly of frigid seas, if it takes learning to eat fish to get inspired to write from a place outside of myself then for now, I’ll just have to continue to rely on my usual writing muse – a pack of Pall Malls.
The calendar says it is May, but the Earth tells me it is still February up here, near the tip of the Wisconsin’s Door County Peninsula. I reluctantly agreed to tag along with my friends, Karen, who is Ho-Chunk Indian and Diane, who is a first generation Chinese American. Door County has never been on my lists of places to visit in this state. It’s a tourist trap for those who love buying blue cow and pink pig refrigerator magnets, for those who love fishing, smelling, touching fish and eating fish.
I hate fish. And I think that’s part of my problem.
Between posing for digital photos, taking turns clicking images of ourselves, I light up a smoke and stare into the redundancy of waves. The woodland Indians around here used to ride birch bark canoes into these great seas. They used to get right in the face of these waters. They had to be one with the waters. They had to learn the rhythm of the great sea’s moving, tumbling over itself if they wanted to eat.
I take another drag of my cigarette and squint as if I might see something in the waves – something I may have missed when my friends and I first stood on these shores this morning, something I may have missed all of my life.
But damn, it’s cold up here. If it takes patience to earn the gift of story from the Earth and her elements then I won’t be writing tonight. If it takes swimming into the belly of frigid seas, if it takes learning to eat fish to get inspired to write from a place outside of myself then for now, I’ll just have to continue to rely on my usual writing muse – a pack of Pall Malls.
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.
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.
Apr 23, 2009
Seeing the World as Story
Boozhoo! Welcome to my new cyber writing home. This will be the place for me to reflect on the relationship between the Earth and story. We know that all land-based ceremony, ritual and tribal myth is born from the land, sky and water.
I hope to explore and trace the links between how we translate land-based knowledge into story. For instance all tribal creation stories come out of "knowing" the land . . . or is it the land knowing you?
Do these living links still exist? Does the Earth have more story to share?
Is there a physical connection between a creative consciousness and the land? Can being swallowed up in the natural world still fire our imagination?
I am not at all sure of what I am really looking for, but I know I will find it by just "being" in the natural.
I plan to post my reflective writings weekly. I want to begin creating posts based on experience with tribal lands (and then beyond because the entire planet is tribal). I plan on visiting a number of local, regional tribal reservations starting next month. I am sure that at the very least, I will come up with something quite mystical. However, given that all things ethereal refuse structure I cannot tell you how useful my musings will be.
I hope you enjoy this site. I hope you find inspiration to explore the soul of the planet as well. I do believe there is plenty of room for us all.
Miigwetch,
Mark Anthony
I hope to explore and trace the links between how we translate land-based knowledge into story. For instance all tribal creation stories come out of "knowing" the land . . . or is it the land knowing you?
Do these living links still exist? Does the Earth have more story to share?
Is there a physical connection between a creative consciousness and the land? Can being swallowed up in the natural world still fire our imagination?
I am not at all sure of what I am really looking for, but I know I will find it by just "being" in the natural.
I plan to post my reflective writings weekly. I want to begin creating posts based on experience with tribal lands (and then beyond because the entire planet is tribal). I plan on visiting a number of local, regional tribal reservations starting next month. I am sure that at the very least, I will come up with something quite mystical. However, given that all things ethereal refuse structure I cannot tell you how useful my musings will be.
I hope you enjoy this site. I hope you find inspiration to explore the soul of the planet as well. I do believe there is plenty of room for us all.
Miigwetch,
Mark Anthony
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