The Globaloness Project

Jim put me on to this organisation and website and I’m incredibly grateful for it (you can find the link in my 'Favourite Websites' list on the right of this page). I spent a day (when I’d meant to be writing) caught up in watching one video after another. Each one a little miracle along the way towards my understanding of how the Sacred exists next to us; how we experience and express it; how simple it can be; how it connects all things.

I highly recommend listening to Max Duramunmun Harrison, Dr. Rangimarie Turuki Rose Peri and Bob Randall. The piece that struck the deepest chord in me however was one in which poet and social justice activist Drew Dillinger reads his poem Ancestors and Angels. I, too, pray to become a conduit.

Here it is.

Grateful we are here

A lot has come clear in the last few weeks. I’ve wrestled with certain questions about what I am doing. Not the least of which amongst those was ‘How do I do this so that it has meaning?’ I guess part of my hesitation comes from the fact that I have – I have been taught - no process by which I am confident that I can/will feel the presence of the ancestors in my day-to-day life; to establish an easy relationship with the sacred. I know that I have experienced certain moments in my life that seemed to exist outside of profane space and time, but still I have lacked the confidence to embrace my own perceptions and experience of the sacred. I live within a culture that (largely) distrusts the very word and have found it interesting (sometimes ironically amusing, sometimes sad) that my culture doesn’t know how to coexist easily with the word...or the concept. It says a lot about us.

So, in looking for what is sacred, I have also been looking for a way to establish an easy relationship with how the sacred has/might manifest in my own life. I want not to feel like an outsider to – not simply and observer of - my own sacred experiences.
In case this all sounds hesitant and sad, this search has been anything but that. It’s been filled with a growing sense of clarity, connection and belonging. My journey has been – as it had to be – motivated and guided entirely by intuition: I don’t even know where most of it has come from. I do know that most of it has been clarified, solidified, verified along the way. That’s pretty astounding when I think of it.

So here it is. I left Fremantle to look for the trail of my ancestors hoping that along the way, I’d find out where I belong. Lately this quest has felt akin to Dorothy’s search in The Wizard of Oz: the search for something I’ve always had, but never knew – or learned - to recognise; to honour; to appreciate or to cherish. I know now. What’s left is to create a daily context of interaction/attendance to what I have acknowledged, discovered and gathered over the last few months. I have established and re-established relationships with a number of the scattered living members of my tribe and have forged new relationships with many who have passed. I’ve followed my instincts and asked advice from the people I’ve met whose traditions recognise the power of ancestors not only in defining our place and solidifying our sense of belonging, but more as a reminder to be grateful that we are here, as ourselves – the unique and perfect amalgamation of all in our lineage who have come before us – and to be thankful.

I can do this.

Between past, present and future in Bear River

I’d decided to stay in Digby, Nova Scotia – a lovely little seaside town, known as ‘The Scallop Capital of the World’ (apparently a valid claim as it boasts the largest scallop fleet anywhere) My first few days in Nova Scotia were spent engaged in genealogy research. I combed the documents and records housed at the O’Dell House Museum in the colonial town of Annapolis Royal with the help of their historians and genealogists. The searches were not at all difficult due to the fact that my Colonial ancestors here were prominant citizens and are both well-known and well-documented. Having been Loyalists during the American Revolution, they were rewarded by the King of England after the war with substantial grants of land in Nova Scotia. Yet, the region’s English Colonial history is an uneasy one. Just below its glorified surface lies another truth involving the dis-enfranchisement of the Acadians and the slaughter of the native Mi’kmaq.

The O’Dell House historians helped me locate a number of ancestral gravesites and I headed off to the Old St Edwards cemetery in Clementsport. I still felt a bit disconnected and uncertain about my tasks in Nova Scotia and found myself standing at their gravesites and asking my ancestors what they want me to do. On the way home to Digby, I felt a strong pull to drive through Bear River – an ancestral place, but only marginally - and stopped at a local museum. This one, too, presented history that had a decidedly English bias, and I left feeling no real connection and as if a deeper story remained untold.

My last day though took a remarkable turn. I woke feeling energised and knew immediately that I wanted to go back to Bear River, but this time to visit the Bear River First Nations (Mi’kmaq) Cultural Centre.

The history of the English settlement of Nova Scotia is a shameful one. Whereas the French lived in relative harmony with the native population, the English wanted nothing more than to rid the place of its native inhabitants and set about instituting a series of eradication policies: It began during colonisation with Cornwallis, 1st Governor of Nova Scotia (and considered some kind of hero), when he enacted a law that set prices for the wholesale killing of Mi’kmaq natives: 50 pounds was to be paid for each adult male scalp, 40 pounds for each adult female, and 60 pounds for every child’s scalp (wipe out the next generation and you wipe out the problem). Unbelievably, this law was still on the books until it was recently removed due to pressure from the Mi’kmaq community. only recently (within the last couple of years) formally removed from as was the renaming of the district – the area that used to be called Cornwallis, has now reverted to its native name – as one Mi’kmaq man said to me, referring to the area as Cornwallis was akin to having a Hitler Blvd run through a Jewish neighbourhood. When Cornwallis’s policy failed to solve the pesky native problem, they were denied access to their ancestral hunting, planting and fishing grounds (places teeming with life) and forced instead to live on reservation lands – the poorest land in the area – set on hard rocky ground (which was absolutely untillable) and without access to water. Still the Mi’kmaq managed to survive starvation, so they were give blankets infested with smallpox which dropped their numbers almost – but not quite - to extinction. When policy after policy meant to wipe out a people failed, policies were instituted to wipe out their culture. Children were sent to Indian Schools where they were not allowed to dress in native clothes, speak their native language, follow any sort of traditional ways, nor associate with their siblings or other family members. Scores of children died, those who didn’t struggled with issues of identity – neither white enough to be white, nor Indian enough to be Indian. Those are issues still being unravelled today.

I went to the Bear River First Nations Cultural Centre where it was my great good fortune to meet a Mi’kmaq woman named Wanda whose life has been dedicated to relearning the old ways, reclaiming the dignity and pride of her heritage and passing both on to the younger generation. I am extraordinarily grateful for the generosity she showed to me in sharing her stories and her culture. She first told me – in more general, but unequivocal terms - about Mi’kmaq history, but as our conversation deepened, she shared her own experiences. She is 53, so the same generation as I am. She told me that she and her sister were the only native kids at her school and they had been given a pretty hard time. She said that early on she became a warrior – both as a means to protect her sister and to stand up for herself. She also told how – as a 15 yr old – she once wrote a history assignment about Kejimkujik park – a local National park that was ancestral ground for the Mi’kmaq and a place filled with the petroglyphic evidence of their habitation. Rather than gather facts about Keji from books in the school library, Wanda wrote an essay based on information she gathered from her grandmother. When her teacher returned her paper to her every page was marked with a X drawn through it and the grade assigned was a big, fat, red 'zero'. Despite Wanda’s mother’s attempts to intervene on her daughter’s behalf, the school refused to change her grade and Wanda (then 15) decided to drop out. 30 years later, not knowing who she was or her history with the place, the new principal asked her to come to the school and teach the kids about native drumming and song. He also asked if she knew anyone who could teach the students about basket-making. Wanda asked her sister to come. Her presentation was such a success that the principal asked her if there was anything he could do for her. She asked if she could walk through the halls playing a healing song. He agreed and she said it was one of the most powerful moments of her life. When she finished her story, she had tears in her eyes. So did I.

Everything Wanda said, she said from the heart and our conversation felt more like the affirmation of an old bond than the forging of a new friendship – maybe it was a bit of both. I told Wanda about my travels and my quest and shared some of my ideas and inclinations regarding what I need to do for/with my ancestors. She immediately understood it’s significance and importance. I asked her if there are things the Mi’kmaq do to honour ancestors that I might incorporate. She talked about preparing yourself for any sacred work by smudging – cleansing your mind body and spirit with the smoke of sweetgrass and sage – so that your eyes see the good, your heart feels the good, your ears hear the good, your mind thinks the good and your mouth speaks the good.

She went on to talk about language and said that she feels not only is it her particular duty to preserve and perpetuate the beautiful Mi’kmaq language, but to speak it properly so that her ancestors will understand her. That resonated for me with my sense that when I sing to my ancestors it needs to be in their first language. In a sense it has felt like to proper way to honour them and to show my respect. After walking around the centre’s displays and talking after we’d spent a couple of hours sharing stories, ideas, tears and laughs, she told me the real meaning of the word Kejimkujik...but I can’t say, because I promised I wouldn’t tell!

I spent about 3 hours looking through the displays and talking with Wanda (more talk than anything else) and Wanda said she wanted to sing me a song before I left. Her song was beautiful. Her drumming, rhythmic and concentrated, her voice crystal clear and strong. Her song was a prayer to the ancestors asking them to help us, to help our children and to help us heal the world. she told me that there was a Gathering being held nearby at Stone Bear a camp run by the former Chief Frank Meuse and said I should go. She said that Frank is the most deep, clear, kind, centered and quiet person she‘s ever known. Frank is no longer the chief: that post is now held by his sister Theresa.

Just as I was leaving, I found a book about Mi’kmaq glyphic-symbols...they are very beautiful – almost like Sanskrit - and as I was paying for it, she gave me a Mi’kmaq 1st nations pin and a little DIY Inuit inuksuk paper sculpture kit. I asked her if she’d inscribe a message in the book for me, which she did. We hugged, exchanged contact info and found it hard to part.
I went to Stone Bear and Frank came outside to meet me. He told me about the camp, said that everything is informal and open-ended, but that sometime later he’d be leading a walk through the woods if I’d like to come along. He also said that there was a sacred fire up the path and that if I wanted to I could go there an introduce myself to the fire keeper. That sounded immediately appealing, so I walked up the path and there was a man and 2 women sitting near the fire. I asked who was the fire keeper and one of the women said, “I guess I am”. She came over and introduced herself as Theresa and asked me if I knew about sacred fires. I said, “not much”and she said that the first thing she’d do is smudge me and then she’d explain the hows and whys of Mi’kmaq prayer: what the directions and colours mean (yellow for east and the rising sun, red for west and the setting sun, black for south and the ancestors, white for north and the community/world) how to walk the sacred circle around the fire (clockwise) and that there is no right prayer – but hers always begin with a thanks to the creator. She also said that each prayer is offered by sprinkling the fire with sacred herbs – sage & sweetgrass – the smoke carrying the prayers up to the creator. This is something I’ve always known and always done. She explained smudging – like Aboriginal smoking ceremony it cleanses your heart, mind and body of negativity, She smoked me and I picked up a handful of sacred herbs from a bowl by the entrance, then walked the circle: first, standing at the east point, thanking the creator for the gift of being on this journey, and in this place with these people and sprinkled herbs on the flames. I moved clockwise to the south point to pray for my ancestors and was engulfed in smoke momentarily stopping my breath and making it impossible to see. I made my prayer asking for their forgiveness and promising not to forget them again then threw more herbs on the fire. moving to the west point, I prayed for Max’s safety, and for health, happiness and a good future for Max and Ebbie; Julia Chris and Ella and all the generations to come after me – then sprinkled more herbs into the fire. They crackled and sparked and flames shot up. Moving to the north point, I prayed for the world – that it become a kinder place, that it shift it’s focus from the profane to the the sacred. I sprinkled the last of my herbs.

Frank told me that the Mi’kmaq consider stones as our grandmothers and grandfathers – and Theresa added that all stones are sacred because you never know which stones your ancestors may have walked on and which were used for the sacred fire. It’s also believed that the heat of sacred fire releases the spirits of the ancestors from the stones that circle it so that they can more easily speak to us. I told them both about my travels, my sense of needing to shift stones around in an effort to reconnect my ancestors with their native lands and we laughed about the fact that I am consequently dragging around a suitcase full of rocks. Theresa said ”Here’s another one and handed me a beautifully round piece of granite covered with (painted) sacred symbols. I was incredibly touched and walked around for the next hour or so, with that stone cupped between my hands.

A bit later, Frank led us on a walk through the woods. Following happily and aimlessly like children – with no particular schedule or place I had to be -I learned how to stop and listen, to be careful where I stepped. Frank is a man of few words, but he listens intently. I told him that the work I’m doing now makes me feel like a pivot point between the past and the future (my ancestors and my descendants). Like it’s my job to forge the links, build the bridge. A sign tacked to a Birch tree says that Birch is a pioneer. In the Ogham alphabet, birch is my symbol. I feel like a pioneer here. At the end of the trail I stop to read a sign that is tacked to a tree. It's about crows and says that crows connect past present and future. I told Frank that all over Ireland, I kept seeing crows and kept picking up crow feathers. He replied – that’s what you just told me...you’re connecting the past, present and future.
I walked back to the fire and sit with Theresa. I wanted to share more stories with her, but changed my mind...it felt better to listen. Theresa invited me to stay the night – she said she’d find blankets for me, a corner to sleep in, extra clothes if I needed and that I was welcome to supper. I was sorely tempted. I told her I'd come back and next time I'd stay with them.

As I said goodbye to Theresa, she handed me a bundle of sacred herbs, tied in a red cloth.

During the night I woke twice feeling confirmed somehow: I remembered Wanda telling me that speaking Mi’kmaq language was important to her because she wanted to be sure that her grandmother understood her properly and it confirmed my feeling that I must sing to my ancestors in their language. I had also told her that my inclination was to sing to my ancestors – and asked her what she sang about when she sang to hers. She told me she thanks them and she asks them for help – for the sick, for guidance, for the young and the needy and sometimes to heal the world. I told her I felt that I needed to start with an apology, because mine have been so long neglected and she smiled and nodded ‘yes’.

I thought, too about Frank and how he moved us through the woods: how quietly attending to his surroundings, stopping, looking and listening every few yards allows him to tune in to all of what’s there. He said that walking through the woods in that way always makes him wonder how his ancestors experienced the places they walked though and whether they had passed through this same piece of ground. He seemed to be saying that ALL of the land you move through is sacred...not only because of the possible presence of human ancestors, but because nature itself is our ancestor.

In talking to me about stones, Theresa seemed to confirm my feeling for how stones relate to my pilgrimage and the work I feel drawn to do for my ancestors. In handing me a marked stone, she also confirmed my inclination to carve glyphic messages.

All of these lessons were subtle and indirect: no one ever said, ‘you’re right. That is how it should be done’ They simply told me how and why they do it. Often, without me even asking. Our conversation simply seemed to move in directions that went suddenly bone deep and have worked their way under my consciousness as confirmations of intuitions I’ve had about how I might attend to my ancestors and to the sacred in my own life. Best of all, it seemed to confirm that it doesn’t matter so much where or how, but that I do it. and that I do it with my whole heart.
Driving to Halifax Airport, I kept seeing crows and thinking of them as reminders of my task. My clothes still smelled smokey from the sacred fire. The scent reminds me of my ancestors and the feeling of welcome I felt on the Mi’kmaq reservation. Along the way, I listened to Dar Williams sing ‘Road Buddy’and recalled scenes from ‘Smoke Signals’ I was thinking about the scene where Victor is transformed through his experience of running all night for help and realised that yesterday’s experience with Wanda, Frank and Theresa – like so many others on this journey – is transforming me. I am meeting people with an open heart and have been welcomed wholly and with joy. My eyes filled with tears and my heart was was suddenly flooded with a sense of connection and deep, deep gratitude. I said aloud, “I’m so grateful. I’m so grateful. I’m so grateful. I’m so grateful. I’m so grateful” and I am.

Moss Men Are Goats

In Roscommon we stopped at a local history museum/tourist ffice and spoke at length with avid local historian named John. We chatted about our search for ancestors and our intention to visit local ancient sites, but when we told him that we’d stopped at St Patrick’s well, he beamed. As it turns out, the site is a particular favourite of his: a sort of pet project. It lead to a deeper and more interesting conversation about ancestry, local sites of myth, power and magic and coincidence. He told me about an Irish priest who’d become interested in the workings of coincidence and had managed to get permission from his superiors to take a year off from his regular duties to research the phenomena. As we we’re talking, I noticed a large stone nearby, up on a high window ledge and asked what it was. He told me to take a look and I stepped up on a stool placed nearby to have a look.
It was a 16th century Sheela-na-gig that had only recently been unearthed in a local churchyard. He said that the stone had been found face down and it was not clear if it had been placed that way to protect it or to condemn it. John also told us about a place called the Cruchán Ái Heritage Centre in Tulsk - an archæology/history/mythology centre dedicated to piecing together the multi-layered and multi-faceted story of Cruchán Ái, the one time seat of ancient Kings of Connacht and a place of great power and myth. We decided to head there next. The centre is adjacent to an archeological dig still in progress – so far they've discovered a deposit of bronze age artifacts, which has been layered over by the ruins of an ancient castle, which, itself, has been layered over by a medieval village.

No one was presently working the site, but we were invited to climb (carefully) around to look at the layers of discovery. However, the centre’s real find was a man who worked there named Croghan, who looked and talked like an everyday bloke, but who Jim and I later agreed had a deeply engrained sense of mystery and magic about him. It simmered just below the surface of his conversation - which felt half like an invitation and half like a challenge. Jim asked about Rath Croghan (Rath Cruchán or Cruchán Ái) – said to be the site of Queen Maeve’s Castle and Shebeag (the fairy mound featured in the legendary battle between Shebeag and Shemor) - which lead Croghan to mention a place called the cave of the cats - an ancient and little known site said to be the home of Morrigan and the entrance to the underworld. We talked about ancient ancestors and I told him about Norway and finding the Tolstrups/ He said, “My name is Croghan and we’ve been here forever.”

As we crossed a small stream on our way back to our car, Jim said something about the marsh mallows he saw growing along the banks. I heard him say, “Marsh men are goats.” which I took to be some sort of mystical shorthand - rife with meaning. I looked around to see what he was talking about and saw Croghan standing nearby with 2 other men. I stood there, perplexed, for a couple of minutes before realising that I’d misunderstood what Jim said.

We were about to head off to find the sites, when we realised we didn’t really know how to go, so Jim went back to ask Croghan for more specific directions. He said later that one of the other guys (the moss men) was really having him on – saying that in order to get to the sites, you had to climb through a fence, but watch out for the farmer with a gun, dodge the bull and wait for the ferryman to take you across to the fairy hill. Croghan said it was just past the last house on the road – the one with a front yard full of junk. With our Irish directions clear in our minds (take the first right and go beyond the solstice tree up to the place where Queen Maeve’s bull was stung by a wasp and then take the 2nd left after the fairy stone), and it wasn’t long before Jim excitedly pointed out Rath Cruchán as it came into view: a distinct mound. As we turned up the road, Jim spotted a sign for - Rath Beag (SheBeag) – the fairy mound of legend. we scrambled up to look around, inspiring Jim to play the fairies an Irish tune on his flute.

We followed our directions up a long, rough single-track road to the end, found the junk-stewn house, then looked around for what might be the cave of the cats. Nothing was immediately apparent - we headed in one direction after the other, across fields of cows and into thickets, when suddenly I got the distinct message that I was not meant to go there. I turned around and headed back for the car, when Jim suddenly spotted the grove surrounding the cave of the cats – it was exactly where Croghan had said it would be – through a gate across from the house with the junk in the yard, but we hadn’t seen it before. Jim went in while I waited. He said it was a deep, powerful and amazing place, but if you want to know more, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to ask him because I wasn’t meant to (and didn’t) see it.. I didn’t even take pictures...neither did Jim.

Satisfied, we headed off to find Maeve’s mound – whish was a (relatively) easy task. We climbed to the top through fields of grazing sheep and looked out over the beautiful countryside.
Our next discovery was Ogulla Well – an ancient site, but now heavily overlain with St Patrick mythology and Christian symbolism. The story goes that the two daughters of Tara’s High King, Laoghaire (the original King Lear), were bathing one morning in the well and St. Patrick happened on them and stopped to chat with them about Christianity. They asked how they could see God. and St. Patrick answered that you can only see God after you die. Story has it that they decided - then and there - to become Baptized and abandon their Pagan ways so St. Patrick then baptized them after which they both died. (there's an oddly intangible moral, here)Anyway, there remains at the site, powerful elements of Irish mysticism and folklore which is most evident in the way the site is used: Votive offerings and prayers are draped around the statue of St Patrick and tied to nearby trees (very similar in feel and, I think, purpose to the way Milagro votive offerings are made in Mexico).

We left our offerings - lovely cedar incense sent by Kathy - along with the others. I left mine on a huge and mossy stone at the waters edge.

We decided to head back to Ballycreggan House and weariness suddenly hit me. It dawned on me that I hadn’t a clue as to how to find our way back home and realised we couldn’t even retrace yesterdays journey, becuase we’d been lost for most of that, too. Getting lost had been great fun. All day we had been getting ourselves lost and found again – all in high humour and good spirits, while stumbling upon magic and mystery all over Roscommon. But now all I wanted was a clear and easy road leading to my bed. After what seemed like an interminable drive and a number of stops for directions, we finally found ourselves home again at Ballycreggan. Time for a glass of wine and a long, deep & dreamless sleep.