Home, it is a place where I am at peace and feel safe in mind, body and spirit, much the same way as I do when I stand in ceremony, in the sacredness of my forest prayer circle. The energy of my home is calm, it is inviting and welcoming to those who enter it with hearts filled with much kindness. My home has never experienced even a hint of violence in the years I have been here. When my grandchildren visit, only goodness in its purest form, comes to life within the walls of that place I call ‘home’. It is brought there by an energy created by children who only ever knew love in their lives. My future generations leave behind them in my home, echoes of ancient drum songs, floating in great layers throughout each and every room they laughed and played in.
When I cook in my home, my mind travels to the memories of past cooks of my bloodline. My mom and her mom were so appreciated by family for the abilities they had as bakers and cooks in bringing perfection to the meals they placed before us at feasting times. My dad was a good cook, too. I feel these relatives by my side, when I cook for a family get-together.
In the familiar and peaceful surroundings of my home, I often sleep a good and restful sleep only a happy heart can possibly hope to enjoy. Proper rest is so very important! I am a man who lives with chronic pain day in and day out but at home, the pain magically subsides and I find I can relax and enjoy an evening with visiting family or friends. It is the medicine of a happy home which make it possible.
Home, a sanctuary, a place where love lives strong, a place where the songs of my ancestors echo in the vibration of my drum. The drum is so spiritually special to me and has a place of honour in my home. All things of my sacred bundle are kept safe and secure in that space I call ‘home’. My home is a dwelling where the spiritual scents of sage and sweetgrass often fill a room.
I am inspired in my home to write poetry, to meditate, to pray, to recall the wonders of those people known as the Anishinabe Algonquins. The counsels and spiritual directives I offer to grandchildren and dear friends are more profound and powerful when shared in my home. It is so, because of the fact that my home sits in the heart of the never surrendered, never ceded territory of the Algonquin Nation, which in turn sits in the heart of Turtle Island. In my home I welcome energies of birds, trees, flowers and of nearby waterways.
Going to my cabin on Bitobi Lake recently (Nov. 3), I was surprised to see a snapping turtle slowly, and I mean very slowly, making his/her way across the track road. I got a nice pic of it. I was thinking, “Gee, why isn’t this guy all curled up in a nice winter bed at this time of year?”
I’ve had WW I and WW II veterans in my thoughts and meditations a lot lately.
When we think about snapping turtles and their shells, the purpose and role of our military personnel come to mind for me. Like the shell protects the turtle, our military personnel are on alert 24/7 to stand in front of us as a mighty shield, dedicated to keep us out of harm’s way. Before pain can be inflicted upon us, the shield would need to be shattered. Something not easily done. Our military is the best of the best! Our veterans who experienced the horrors of combat in those dreadful world war years, are especially deserving of our praise and honour. Those of us who fail to recognize what our military did for Canada during WW I and WW II, are not what I would describe as an honourable citizen of this country, nor would I want such a person as a neighbour.
Over the course of my life, I’m 75 years young now and in the winter of my time, I have met many people who, in one way or another, had a life-altering effect on me, some good, some bad. Such is the case for all of us, I’m sure! WW I and WW II veterans sowed, through the interactions I had with them, the seeds of the human rights activism I have embraced and have been heavily involved since April 1988. When in the springtime of my life, I saw First World War veterans walking on the street. Some of them still impacted mentally with what doctors diagnosed as ‘shell shock’. I remember them as gentle old guys who didn’t have much to say. There was one WW I veteran who returned from frontline fighting in Europe mentally intact, but lived the rest of his life with a left arm rendered useless from a war wound. The old veteran went about his business whistling a merry tune. He had great respect for my parents and always made himself and his car available to drive my dad and mom to Aylmer for shopping or the running of other errands. I hold memories of him in high regard. I also recall standing on the sidewalk as a boy, watching the veterans of WW II march by on November 11th. How solemn their faces were, how proud their stride! I was so impressed with the accuracy they followed the marching commands of their sergeant. I must say that the sight of these old warriors conjured up images of frontline fighting in the mind of a 10 year old boy. The memories of those parades are still vivid in my mind today. I shall never forget them.
In the early summer of my life, I met a Second World War veteran who had been on the frontlines during the France and Germany campaigns. He had witnessed death in great numbers, those of the enemy and also those of his comrades. He showed me a dagger once, taken he said, from the lifeless body of a German officer. The veteran I speak about lived alone in a small shack, he was an alcoholic. Though the war had left him angry and bitter, he still chuckled when recalling ‘battlefield humour’. Other than that, he seldom laughed, his smiles were rare. The veteran loved the visits of young men. To sit with men in their teens or early 20’s in conversation, while drinking beer after beer, was delightful for him. My guess is that such times reminded him of the few happy memories he had of the war, taking a break from combat, getting drunk and singing songs from back home.
In the autumn of my life I met WW II navy veteran, Fred Berthelet. Fred served on auxiliary vessels, armed yachts and battleships from 1939 right up to the war’s end. Fred spent the last 6 months of the war in a hospital after his ship was torpedoed by an enemy sub. Fred always had a glint in his eye, the sharpness of his wit was beyond compare. He kept bushels of outlandish jokes on the ready that left me laughing out loud every time I saw him. Fred and his wife Thelma invited me to the Navy Officer’s Mess numerous times where we feasted on ‘fish & chips’. What an awesome couple they were!
I recall Fred telling me how it broke his heart knowing that navy warriors who died on the high seas did not have a marker, a cross, a visitor to a war cemetery can go and stand beside, to touch and reflect. Fred’s words brought out the poet in me and I wrote the poem ‘There is no Headstone or Cross for Him’. See it here:
That brave defender Whose grave is the vast ocean water There is no headstone or cross for him
But silent prayer and spoken words of remembrance Still gather to fill the winds And enter Even to where his bones yet lay
While on high a bird soars Singing a song of democracy And cirrus clouds lift up The pure heart of freedom On this solemn autumn day
And we Strong of will and noble vision Stand proud at his graveside For the ocean shore is long And with united voice we vow To guard ever vigilantly Those passions he left behind That brave defender Whose grave is the vast ocean water Though there is no headstone Or cross for him
I also wrote the poem ‘Shimaganish’. It tells of a First Nations soldier who dies on the battlefields of Europe. Shimaganish had no rights in Canada. The ‘Indian Act’ of John A. Macdonald denied him even the very basic of human rights, yet there he was fighting and then dying for the freedom of others. Keep in mind, readers, that there were many First Nation communities where all able-bodied men living there ‘volunteered’ to serve during the Great War and the Second World War. See the poem ‘Shimaganish’ here:
Shimaganish The vision conjured by authority That his concerns were yours Provoked in you a battle cry To be heard only on foreign shores But his enemy never broke your treaty Nor did he crush your season’s lore His enemy did not disease you Nor your language, did he deplore
Shimaganish Still, you marched into civilization’s madness Only to be felled on a dreary dawn And when your soul whispered, “You are dying” Your heart overfilled with song Then your thoughts travelled to the reservation On the land where you were born And you offered God a prayer of forgiveness For all who showed you scorn
Shimaganish A song awakened memories at the instant of your death And the lullaby of Kòkomis Brought you peaceful rest Through wounded winds you flew From the lifeless eyes of madness To calm your mother’s aching heart, you knew Would be filled with mournful sadness
Shimaganish Your hair never aged to gray And when your spirit watched Your young heart buried, in a land far, far away You heard God call upon your ancestors To gather and to pray So your heart might give its valour To a relative born, on a future day
Today, I am grateful for all that my Algonquin ancestors did, through the power of their ceremonies, to generate health and wellness for ‘All our Relations’, the trees, birds, animals, fish and all things present, allowing human beings to live well.
Because of the care, respect and honour the original people had for the land long ago, the winds were free of poisons, the waters were pristine, free of pollution. They had no worry of animals and birds becoming extinct. My spirit soars like a raven, knowing how the Algonquins loved the land as they loved themselves.
This blog speaks about the hatred, many Canadians have for the Indigenous Peoples of this land.
Hate! I wonder if it existed on this land before contact with Europeans occurred.
I know with full certainty that I have never ‘hated’ anyone in my life. To me, hate makes no sense. It is destructive. It is ugly and against the teachings of the human heart. There is no spiritual payoff to hate (yeah, only a negative one). I can say this, for those who believe in a place known as ‘Hell’, where bad people go: “Carrying hate in your heart for the less fortunate than yourself, will get you a one way ticket to a hot place by Lucifer’s side.” If you don’t believe me, check out your ‘holy book’. If it doesn’t tell you that hate is wrong and to oppress other human beings is truly sinful, then there is nothing ‘holy’ or useful about the scriptures in the book you believe is empowered to save your soul.
Hate mongers! Since the beginning of this country’s birth, there have been people who prefer to fill their hearts with ‘hate’ instead of bringing in the warmth kind deeds can carry into it. It seems to me that it fills the hate mongers’ poisoned little hearts with joy and gladness, when the human rights of impoverished minorities are crushed under the thumb of hate. What a spiritually pitiful lot, hate mongers are!
Lowell Green, Maxine Bernier, Ezra Levant are fine examples of what a hate monger is. Even on Orange Shirt Day, some of them rail against the Indigenous people of this resource-rich country as if it was Europeans who brought the tremendous wealth of this country with them when they immigrated here long ago or perhaps, not all that long ago. The truth! The early settlers were poor as the proverbial ‘church mouse’ when they landed on our shores. The newcomers didn’t bring any respect for the Indigenous Peoples of this land when they arrived here nor did they bring wealth with them. They came to this country to acquire wealth. And they did so, in spades!
In timber alone, trillions upon trillions of dollars were made by the lumber companies of today and by the ‘lumber barons’ of long ago times. Oak, basswood, black walnut, were shipped from here to the four corners of the world. If the Algonquins had received even a 25% cut (pardon the pun) of the monies made, we (Algonquins) would all be living in the finest mansions standing in Rockcliffe Park. In Algonquin territory we have gold mines, copper mines, silver mines, mica mines, iron ore, mighty rivers (hydro), real estate and awesome pasture and farmland. If the Algonquins had received their rightful share of the dollars made from these resources, we would be driving the most expensive cars and have butlers and maids tending to the chores in our mansions. Mean-spirited oppressors created the Indian Act and with it forced us onto reserves to get us out of the way, so the raping and pillaging of the resources on our land could begin in earnest.
Green and the others never mention the fact that Canada’s Parliament Buildings stand on stolen land. To this day, the land claim has yet to be settled. Algonquin lands have never been surrendered or sold, not to settlers, not to the AOO (Algonquins of Ontario), nor to any other First Nations! When will these narrow-minded, cold-hearted, spiritless hate mongers like Bernier, finally start showing some respect for the Indigenous Peoples, instead of promoting hatred against them?
As much as I dislike Donald Trump and Benjamin Netanyahu, I could never promote hatred against them (they’re pretty good at doing that themselves) or anyone else for that matter. I’m just not capable of it. There’s no doubt in my mind that this country has within its perimeters, the best of the best of all things of this planet. Goodness me, you would think that people who came here from all corners of this planet, would have at least a little bit of appreciation for the original people. It’s just the right thing and honourable thing to do, isn’t it?
Something hate mongers never think about is if the shoe had been on the other foot, in regards to Canada’s history and it was the Algonquins who were out-of-control aggressors who violated the human rights of ‘white’ people by creating and passing into law an ‘Act’, which took away your right to vote, your right to assemble, seized your children to force the Algonquin language on them in far away locations, outlawed your Christian spiritual beliefs and YOU were forced by law, to get my (Algonquin) permission before you could leave your home to work (the Indian Act Pass System) at a site away from the ‘reserve’ where Algonquins placed you. There is no doubt in my mind that you wouldn’t put up with it for very long before the guns would come out. A bloody uprising would occur in the hopes that an end to the oppressive misery you were living under, might occur. And if you were able to free yourself of oppression through violence and bloodshed, YOU would not be called ‘terrorist’ for your rebellion but praised and celebrated as ‘freedom fighter’. Not so if the Algonquins had fought with guns for their freedom. They would have been called ‘terrorists’.
What I describe is the Indian Act. It is what Ernest Dumont (my dad) and his father before him endured. They never entertained the thought (that I know of) of taking up arms in protest against the Indian Act.
It would not have been so with me. I would not have tolerated it as it was till the early 1950’s for my parents and theirs before them. Let us all condemn oppression and demand that hate mongers be silenced. The world would be a better place because of it.
Still it must be said that I have no hatred in my heart for the hate mongers like Green, Levant and Bernier. They will answer spiritually, for the attempt they make to bring oppression and ill feelings down on the Algonquin people, and I am at peace with that. Though the iron ball of oppression and the chain of hate, has weighted us down for close to 200 years, the strong will and proud spirit of the Algonquins has remained pure and unblemished.
I have no doubt in my mind that if not for the severe oppression experienced by the Indigenous Peoples because of the cruelty of the ‘Indian Act’, we (Algonquins) would have had access to the best schools, the best universities and colleges. We would have become the most fair, the most compassionate, the most wise of prime ministers, premiers, mayors and other political leaders. We would have become surgeons, airline pilots, authors, poets and so on. The Indian Act didn’t allow it to happen, yet we, Algonquins do not ‘hate’ Canadians for what Canada did to us in the way of oppression. And that’s because to us, ‘hate’ makes no sense!
I protest all genocides! I stand against the oppression of innocent people wherever they are on this planet. The poem ‘Humanity’ declares how I feel about what is happening now to the people of Palestine.
Humanity
Humanity, what remains of it Climbs a rugged hill The trail, in need of repair Leading to a distant light Flickering in a violent wind
A flame, Creator knows When extinguished Will tell us the human heart No longer has purpose As an organ capable Of producing what defines unconditional ‘love’ For all oppressed peoples of the world Becoming only a muscle, serving to keep A soul-less, hateful creature, alive On sacred Mother Earth
The human heart, sinks To see that the darkest hours Of the night Have descended onto the broken pathway And humanity, wails To see the blood Of the innocent Palestinians Continuing to spill Hour after hour, day after day
Oh, I believe If I could take my heart And send it on eagle wings Into war-torn Gaza To be held there By wounded people They would know Through its warmth and energy How much I care And the flame In the fire of humanity Would burn at least A small bit brighter Even against increasingly violent storms And give hope To the forgotten people of Palestine
Our hearts sink When we look around us And see our neighbours, acquaintances Turning away from the sight Of the starving babies of Palestine I see in the Palestinians What is the best of me Not just in their children But in their journalists, doctors And everyday people The ones who died Because of the savagery of the IDF The ones still living Oh, I shelter them into The safety of my human heart
Proper remembrance of our ancestors is very important to me. So important to me that in fact, I acknowledge them each and every day upon awakening. It is something I have been dedicated to doing each dawn, for many years now.
As I have done before, I went to Baskatong northeast of Kitigan Zibi, to sit for a while in the shade of an old pine tree in the cemetery where Algonquins are interred. The graves are old, going back to the 1800’s. I go there to show my respect and to offer tobacco, water, berries and prayers to them. “Kiságiyán” (I love you) I say, while sitting on a carpet of pine needles. All Algonquins buried there were honourable people, of this I have no doubt. I honour them with words describing how I feel about the Algonquin blood flowing strong in the vessels of my heart. Though their last heartbeat was received into the spirit land many generations ago, their healing energies linger still, in this place where today, their bones decay.
I often ask our young people this question: Do I want my future generations to forget about me just because I’ve been dead for a hundred years? No, I don’t! To me, honouring our ancestors is something natural, expected and spiritually enriching to do. It is something which makes me feel good deep inside my soul. In this territory, there is the best of all things. The best fish, birds, animals, trees, flowers, lakes, rivers and yes, the best of the best of all human beings were born and lived out their lives here. I am not being boastful, I am stating what is to me, an indisputable fact!
Today while sitting in the cemetery, I heard the gentle rattle of the poplar trees, standing aplenty outside the fence which marks the perimeter of the graveyard. The spirit rejoices when the poplars sing. I marvelled at the magnificence of the red pine trees, spread here and there in the burial ground. A sole white pine stands tall in the graveyard and I delighted in taking shelter from the heat in the shadow of its branches. On the floor of the cemetery, I saw in abundance, wintergreen leaves. What a great addition they are to forest medicine tea. To me their presence there is telling me I should consume more of them than I already do. My health will benefit from doing so.
It is good to sit in an old burial ground such as this and ponder the greatness of your Nation. The poet in me imagines their last wish of these ancestors for them, the seventh generation. How true and sincere their prayer for their wellness must have been! In the lullaby of the nearby poplars I hear our ancestors speaking from their deathbeds, “Be good, be kind, be true to your bloodline. Never back down. Never give up.” Yes, this I’m sure was the final request they made of us before departing their never surrendered lands.
Not many of the grave markers are still standing. The snow of past winters, the heavy rain of spring seasons have taken a toll. Soon, only the stone and metal markers will remain, declaring that a body who was dearly loved while living the life of a human being lies below the sod. I will recommend that the grade 11 students at our school go to the burial ground, to sit and meditate and then write a poem about how they feel about them, our ancestors.
Before leaving the site a bird appeared, a blue jay! She went from branch to branch of a red pine tree. Then another bird, a robin alighted on the branch of the white pine tree over my head. Both were welcome visitors. Both birds are to me, messengers! I have no doubt that these birds were spirits. They came to say “Migwech for your visit today.”
Of all creatures moving about on the land, I see that none are closer to the earth than snakes! They do not stomp, walk or shuffle when going from one location to another. Snakes gently caress the land. They slither silently when travelling in and around gardens, searching for prey.
Snakes in Algonquin territory are harmless to human beings. Snakes – lots of Indigenous folks respect them as great messengers! I don’t fear them now but years ago they terrified me. At the sight of a snake on a forest trail or seeing one or two … ugh, crawling along a wall of a shed, my entire chest would tighten up. I felt panic, my heart pounded and I moved quickly away from where the snake lay. I didn’t want anything to do with them. Then one day, only months after my sobriety began, I was in Gatineau Park (Algonquin territory) at a site I had adopted as a healing place I could go to, assisting in keeping me strong in my vow to never allow alcohol to pass my lips again.
It was 5 o’clock in the morning. I had marked out my circle with sacred tobacco and was about to begin my prayers. Somehow, I felt that ‘eyes’ were watching me. “An early morning hiker,” I thought. I searched the landscape, hoping to see who it was. I saw no one and continued with my ceremony. Still, I felt certain that eyes were watching. I looked again to find who was there, this time searching closer to where I stood. I saw her then, a large garter snake. She was in my circle, resting on the root of a cedar tree. And because of it, for the first time in my life, I was not afraid.
“You have never hurt me,” I said to the snake. “You have never bitten me nor wrapped yourself around my neck to choke me. I have no reason to fear you. Today you have entered my circle and I welcome you here. From this day forward, I shall never fear you again.” My ceremony went well and after completed, the snake slowly left the circle.
All this brings me to what is going on in my life today in regards to snakes. I live in a small log house, located in Kitigan Zibi. In the few years I have lived here, snakes have come into my home seven times. I found one in my cupboard last summer, where I keep sacred objects. He was sitting on my rattles. “Oh,” I said upon discovering him there, “a wannabe rattlesnake.” I caught hold of him and gently evicted him from my home. Turned out he was a ‘milk snake’. I had never seen one before (see photo). I have caught three more snakes so far this summer, all in my bedroom. I have nothing against snakes and am not at all ‘rattled’ at them being close to me but just to be clear, I do not want them as bunk mates. Someone asked, “How do they get in?” I told my friend, “Maybe they are like explorers of old and future times (Star Trek LOL). They want to boldly go where no snake has gone before.” To the snakes I say, “Please do so, just don’t show up in my bathtub, especially when I’m in it. There has to be a limit!”
I remember a priest telling children when I was 6 years old, “Snakes are good for a garden, don’t chase them from it.” Yes, I agree! But what about the ‘Garden of Eden’, where according to the Catholic Church a great ‘sin’ was committed? Though I am unafraid of snakes now, I think I might retreat from one the size I saw in a painting depicting a snake wrapped around a big branch of an apple tree where two naked human beings stood. It was a monster! The fear I had of snakes most of my life likely began way back then when, as a kid, I saw that painting. I was traumatized! Adam and Eve didn’t fare very well after their encounter with the snake, did they? Hmmm, I wonder!
Travelling “up the Gatineau” oftentimes brings thoughts of spiritual wonderment to my mind, my heart and to my dear soul.
An example: Heading south December 22 at the time when the sun begins its skyward journey, I saw in the eastern sky, sundogs! It was only the second time in my life I have been blessed to see this spectacular phenomenon! I noticed the sundogs between Kaz and Low and kept them in sight till I was close to Wakefield. The teaching I received on sundogs is that they are looked at by some as predictors of fast approaching freezing temperatures. Others, such as I, believe that seeing three suns on the horizon signals the arrival of a time when deep spiritual meditation should take place to assure sacred enrichment for the human spirit. “Time to light your pipe,” was suggested to me by Maria Campbell, a celebrated author and an elder in Saskatoon whom I have great respect for.
Many years ago, I was instructed by a Cree elder (Raymond Ballantyne) to place my first pipe, made of red pipestone, onto the branch of a tree in the woods for four days and four nights before its first use in ceremony. I chose the balsam fir up the Gatineau, to keep the pipe safe till I returned to bring it with me to a ceremonial site. It was 1995, I still have the pipe and smoke it by and by when spirit calls on me to do so! The pipestone was carved as a gift for me by legendary elder Lame Buffalo (Bobby Woods).
The trees up the Gatineau mean a lot to me, both emotionally and spiritually. I embrace them, both for their physical beauty and how I hold them up as the most wise of all life Creator placed on this earth, helping human beings to live well. I write poetry in honour of trees, I press my face on their bark on extremely cold days to feel their warmth. What wonders they are! I once stood barefooted on a decaying old maple tree in the woods near the 105. My legs sank past my ankles into the tree. I felt the caress of the tree’s energy, still very much alive in the old maple. It was so soothing and spiritually refreshing! Trees are so perfect!
Worthy
I will turn my face Towards the sun and say Grandfather In your fire I find my strength
I will allow the winds To gently stroke my thoughts And I will say Father O how you make me wise
I will gaze upon The full circle of the moon And say Grandmother Through you I see The love of God
I will lay down On soft meadow grasses And say Mother Heal me and teach me To respect all the things On this earth
And only after I have done All of these things Will I be worthy To walk among the trees
I have a memory from the early 1960s of my uncle Maurice going out in a rowboat and catching a 36 pound catfish in the Tenàgàdino Zìbì (Gatineau River). I wonder today if such ancient fish of that size still roam the river, up the Gatineau. I hope so!
The Algonquins have a legend telling us that the first “treaty” or “promise” ever made was between a sturgeon and a muskie. The sturgeon proposed that if the muskie promised to never attack him, he (sturgeon) would forevermore keep the muskie’s hunting grounds clean. The muskie agreed. A treaty was made between them all that time ago and holds strong to this very day! In my view, a treaty is the word of the Nation! If your “word” means nothing to you nor to anyone else who knows you, then I ask, “What is left in your heart you can point to that declares, ‘I am a human being’?”
Up the Gatineau! Long live this wondrous place on the unceded lands of the Anishinabe Algonquin.
I went again today, as I often do, to my forest prayer circle. I go to my place of meditation to express gratitude for the blessings of life I encounter by and by, as I go here and there, sharing from my storytelling bundle or to recite poetry. At other times, I go to the circle to ponder my many shortcomings and also to reflect on the emotional and spiritual dysfunction weighing down society in general, at this time in our world. It is so worrisome! Today though, I had friendship on my mind, its meaning and purpose.
What is a friend? I can tell you that there was a time in my past where I felt I had not even one person whose face I could look upon and see in it, a friend. Such a feeling brings depression, it initiates rebellion, it puts a gigantic chip on the shoulder of a young person! Times have changed. In the last 15 years, I have been so very fortunate to have friends in my circle who trust in me to the same degree I trust in them. I can confide any and all things of my life with them. I am there for them as a shield and I have no doubt that they would act as such for me too, should I call on them to do so. I celebrate my friends, I honour them, I feast them! My life would not be as joyful or meaningful if not for these special people in it who I hold up as ‘friends’.
In the heart of a true friend, you find the music, the beat, floating in perfect harmony with the spiritual beliefs you lean on to take you to places of grandness never imagined before.
When I think of friends and how they so greatly enrich me in my emotional domain, my thoughts take me to the lives of my daughters, my grandchildren, my brothers and sisters, my nieces and nephews, my cousins and other relatives and I wish for them, true friends in their lives. I want the new life (born only a couple of weeks ago), my great-granddaughter Isla, to grow up surrounded with ‘good’ friends who will emotionally support her and stand by her (elbows up) in troubling times as I know she will do for them.
I picked up a feather after my sobriety began. It spoke to me, it said “Accept me as a symbol of strength, of purity and of truth and like a real friend, I will never let you down.” The eagle feather has been true to its promise!
I look to the trees around my house and see living beings I regard as friends. The pines, the balsam, the white birch, the maples, all of them, they are real friends as are all things I regard as ‘All my Relations’. I share with them things from my heart, my sorrows and joys. I touch them lovingly. I present them with offerings of sacred tobacco.
If real friendship was a tree in the forest, it would be an oak. For the oak is strong, eloquent and generous in its provisions for all things living in its domain. This is how I see my dearest friend.
I hope all the people I care about have a friend, a special one, who stands by them through good times and bad times. A friend who will listen carefully to you and will emotionally support you when your energy is at its lowest. A friend whose voice brings energy and smiles into your world.
I can’t end how I feel about friendship without mentioning our family dog (1956-1965).
Laddie was my first friend. I learned so much from him, like what it means to be protective of those you care about. What things of respect I have acquired in my life that came to me because of actions people described as ‘deeds of courage’, have their seeds in the teachings given me by Laddie. What a fighter he was! He went into instant attack mode when he sensed a threat was close by, ready to harm the Dumont kids. His presence near me when I experienced any kind of trauma was a tonic which brought instant relief. His heart was a place I could enter and curl up in and be at peace. I’ll never forget Laddie and know I will see him again in the Great Spirit Land.
Isla, my second great-grandchild was born on April 21. She is little sister to big brother Carter, born May 29, 2023, deceased July 9, 2023. Isla is as perfect as perfect can get! Oh how I love her! When granddaughter Kyrstin announced that a baby was being created in Kyrstin’s birth waters, I told the baby “I love you”.
That is the way it is with our people, we love our future generations even before their first breath of life is taken.
I wrote the following poem for Isla:
For Isla
When I first held you close On the morning of your birth I told you, in whispers About the magnificent trees Surrounding my home in Kitigan Zibi I introduced you to the robin The partridge, the turtle and the hawk Spirit helpers of mine Now yours to spiritually embrace
I took you to Bitobi Lake And shared with you The origins of the canoe Together, you and I Floated over white water In a birchbark craft How I smiled To hear your joys of glee
And as you fell Into peaceful slumber I whispered “Listen to my heart Hear in its vibration The heartbeat of my father And that of my grandfather Hear in it, the drumming Of the heart of my mother And that of my grandmother Hear in my heart, the songs Of your ancestors” Remember the heartbeat, sweet Isla
March 27 marks the day my beautiful Mima (mother) passed away twenty-three years ago. Though a long time has gone by, to me all my memories of her earthly travel, flash brightly in the domains of my mind, my heart and my spirit. I dedicate this blog to her.
I recall vividly that when my brother Maurice died, age 47, how it placed the heavy stone of sorrow into her heart. I remember my Mother sitting in the funeral home weeping, her head bowed. Her sobbing called out to me and I went to her side. She told me that Maurice went to her home once a week to take her to a restaurant for breakfast and then to the grocery store to help her with her grocery shopping. “I will miss that so very much,” she said through tear-filled eyes. I assured my Mother that she could count on me to take over what Maurice had done for her. Hence, every Wednesday I was at her door at 8:30 a.m. We went together to the restaurant to eat and chat, then went on to the ‘Metro’ in Aylmer. She pushed our grocery cart up and down the aisles of the store, selecting food items and what not in the way of supplies for her weekly needs. My sister Pauline joined us most of the time. We always had a good visit.
Mima endured much heartache and trauma too in her life (she lived in a sanatorium in Montreal, battling tuberculosis for 2 years). She gave birth to 13 children, she lost her first two sons, Paul Emile (17 months) and Raymond (7 months). She lost Anne (age 21) and Russell (age 25) too, early in their lives. Mima suffered greatly and sadly, the wildness and nonsense of my life before my sobriety began, also brought worry and despair into her life. I am truly ashamed now for being such an idiot during those wasted years.
I promised myself that day in the funeral home, I would be as perfect a son for her as I could possibly be for a mother who deserved the best of the best life can offer. I felt being there for her in her older years was the least I could do for her in appreciation for the wonderful Mother she was to all her children. I was a ‘good’ son for the last nine years of her life!
My Mother was not the type of person who wanted to be wined and dined by my dad. She didn’t want expensive jewelry nor fine clothing. All she wanted was to be happy and what made her heart sing was looking into the eyes of her children and seeing love, peace and joy looking back at her.
Mima took sick with congestive heart failure when she was 82 years of age. There came a couple of weeks near the end where she was in so much pain from blood clots in her legs that she cried, begging for death to relieve her of it. I spent a lot of time with her then. My feeling was that she was there when I took my first breath of life and I wanted to be present when she drew her last.
One day, in those last hours of her consciousness, she told me of a memory she had when she was 12 years old and working in a lumber camp as the cook’s helper (my grandma was the cook). Grandpa was also at the camp working as a lumberjack. She shared that at the camp, a worker had taken very sick. It was believed that the poor man’s death was imminent. While this was happening travellers arrived at the camp, an old man and two old women, all Indigenous. They asked permission from the camp foreman to set up their lodge for one night within the perimeters of the lumber camp. Permission to do so was granted.
Mima told me that after nightfall came, the travellers saw that there was a lot of activity at one of the shanties. The old man among them inquired as to what was going on in the cabin. “A man lays dying there,” he was told. For whatever reason the old traveller asked if he might go to the dying man’s bedside. He was told “yes” he could do so.
My Mother related that the old man went into the shanty for a short while. He then returned to his lodge and prepared to smoke a pipe. My Mom described the pipe as big, very long. She measured a distance of at least 18 inches in length by spreading her arms.
“He sat on the ground and smoked it,” she said, telling me that while the pipe was smoked, the two old women travelling with the man danced on either side of him. I asked my Mother how they danced. She replied that the women were wearing long skirts and only how the cloth of their dresses moved, made it clear that the feet of the women were moving in a gentle manner on the earth. My Mother stated that after the pipe was completely empty of tobacco, the old man raised up from the ground and returned to the sick man’s bedside. “This man will not die,” he told the people holding the death vigil. “He will recover and regain his strength and return to his worksite, strong as ever before.” At dawn the sick man’s fever broke, he regained his health and worked again as he had before taking ill.
I knew that my Mother told this memory of hers to me because it was her way of telling me the spiritual beliefs I have embraced are good to keep strong by my side. They are powerful and can be there to assist in bringing about wonderful things.
My beautiful granddaughter Kyrstin gave birth to my first great-grandchild on May 29, 2023. ‘Carter’ didn’t live long, only 7 weeks! How we all loved him! My heart knows that there is no greater love than that which lives in the heart of a mother for her children.
Kyrstin I know, holds her son spiritually, each and every day since he left us. So it will be till she, after living a long life, will bring Carter once again to her bosom. A mother’s love is a fire impossible to extinguish.
Many of my dearest friends are mothers. There is no sacrifice too great that would deter them in any way from going to the side of that child and fight with the ferocity of a mother bear to protect her offspring. To all of you reading this, all the sons, all the daughters, I say, “Never take the love your mother has for you for granted. It is a love you should cherish, honour and feast, you will never again know it from any other human being on this planet.” To me, the word ‘perfect’ was created to describe the unconditional love dedicated moms have for their children. The word ‘perfect’ is not a ‘fit’ to describe anything else around us save for the trees, the waters of the rivers and lakes and all else we look to when we say “All our Relations”.
