A feast for the Ancestors...my first!

With the stone in place and my confidence bolstered by our visit with Sal, I felt ready to prepare our first ancestor feast - to be held at the traditional time for ancestor remembrance, All Soul's Eve and All Hallows Day, October 31st & November 1st. Jim, Kathy and I talked about what we should serve and I did some research about traditional Ancestor Feast and Day of the Dead Foods. On Feast days, it’s traditional to serve the ancestors their favourite foods, however most of the menus I found listed foods like tamales, candied pumpkin, & sugar candy skulls. I’d love those foods, but I’m pretty sure most of our Tolstrup-Moller-Ruggles-Tanner-Adams ancestors would have loathed them...the foods I remembered from childhood were hearty and delicious, but – as good New England (Irish and Norwegian) cuisine is – very, very plain. There’s nary a spice to be seen in most cases: the most exotic food I ate during my childhood was Norwegian Christmas Bread (Yulekaker) which featured cardamon seed. So we talked it over and decided to serve Roast Chicken, roasted acorn squash and potatoes and jellied cranberry sauce. In a gourmet shop downtown, I'd found some beautiful chocolate truffles shaped and coloured like little pumpkins, and other favourite special sweets: Turkish Paste for my mother, caramels for my father, marzipan for my Nana Tolstrup. And Jim poured a small glass of Irish Whisky (for George Tanner, I think).

While the dinner cooked, I set about creating an ancestor shrine in one corner of the dining room. Jim brought out a beautiful batik tablecloth, covered with Celtic symbols and the tree of life and we draped it over a table and backing board to create the setting for a series of photos and markers for all of our ancestors – starting with both my parents and Jim’s mother – and going back 5 generations on each line. Where I didn’t have a photo of the person, I substituted a photo of their gravestone. Where I had neither, I made a name marker that listed my ancestor’s name and birth-death dates.

On the table below the photos, Kathy placed some beautiful framed photos of her parents and grandmother and Jim placed a wooden tray, scattered with autumn leaves, that held a smaller wooden bowl of stones and candles. To it I added some quartz (Irish and Viking sun-stone) I’d picked up at Odiorne Point, as well as stones I’d brought with me from from the Hedrum Jernwerks (Norway) and Maeve’s Mound (Ireland), as well as, some wrapped birch twigs I’d carried from Larvik. Then, I added the sweets I’d bought for Mum, Dad and Nana. In a burst of inspiration, Jim added the magnetic “In Search of George Tanner” sign that I’d made for our Irish adventure and, finally, a photo of Loughcrew.

I’d somehow assumed that when ancestors are honoured at a feast, they should be set a place at the same table as the living, but during my conversation with Sal, I came to realise that some degree of separation between worlds was – at the very least – prudent. He’d been quite clear - unusually adament, in fact - that when Flo prepared feasts for the ancestors, she'd set a separate table for the ancestors – somewhat removed, even, from the one set for the living. I didn't entirely know why (and still don't), but intuitively, this felt right - so we set out our ancestors' feast on a low table next to ours.

Jim carved the chicken and placed the first serving of each food – chicken, squash, potato & cranberry – on a small plate. Beside that he put a cup of tea and the glass of whiskey. Also on the table, Jim placed a photo from the Strokestown Famine Museum (Ireland) and a copy of the Griffiths Valuations 1848 (Irish census).

Then we served ourselves and sat at the table. Before we ate, we spoke to our ancestors. For me, it was the first time I had ever formally addressed them and I felt that I needed to introduce myself and apologise for having neglected them for so long. I spoke directly to each of the photos, addressing that ancestor by name and said that I’d never learned how to pay proper respect, nor how to take proper care of our relationship, but that I was learning (and would continue to learn) and promised to do better. I couldn’t help myself: several times as I spoke, I felt a flood of emotion and tears of gratitude, relief, sorrow, joy, hope, regret and love flowed freely.
Jim asked for the ancestors to help us and to help our descendants (mentioning Julia, Ella and Max, by name) He spoke about this being a pivotal in time in the history of the earth and said that we need the ancestors help to set the planet right again.

We ate our delicious dinner, then talked about our memories of particular people – Nana and Grampa Tolstrup, Nana Adams, My Mum and Dad and Jim’s Mum. Jim sang his Ballad of George Tanner and then went on to sing other traditional Irish songs.

When we were finished, we took the ancestors’ foods outside and placed them in front of the petroglyph, where we also burned some sage and lit a candle. Then we went to bed.

But I couldn’t sleep. I felt moved to say more, so I sat up in my bed and addressed my ancestors one by one – starting with my mother and father and working backwards to my great-great grandfathers George Tanner, Thomas Edward Ruggles and Mathias Tolstrup. To those, I'd known in this life, I spoke about our living relationship, about letting go whatever unresolved issues there might be, telling each that I was now ready to let them be spirit. To each of my ancestors, I said what I thought they'd given me, said “your blood is in my blood” and told them that I loved them.

I told my Mother that she gave me my capacity for joy; My Dad that he’d given me my sense of integrity and honour and that he’d taught me how to love with quiet constancy.

I told Nana Tolstrup that she’d given me a sense of being loved absolutely for who I am; and thanked Grampa Tolstrup for championing any of my childhood displays of bravery or courage. I spoke at length to Grampa, telling him that I was sorry to have misjudged him in my misinterpretation of the past. But I also said that by letting me hold him to blame for my hurt, his spirit had allowed me to give reason and shape to a deep depression and had helped me through a very hard time.I spoke also to Nana Adams and told her that I’d always admired her quiet strength. I said I wished I had known her better and had had the opportunity to show her the depth of my love, gratitude. I thanked her for raising such a loving son – so that he could be such a perfect father for me. I spoke to Grampa Adams and told him that he is the first of my ancestors that I did not know, but that I now felt driven to find out more about him. I said that his blood runs in my veins and he is a part of me.

I then spoke to Magnus and Louise (Moller) Tolstrup– I told Magnus that I felt deeply connected to him – that I’d walked where he'd walked, sat where he’d sat – had walked down the street where he’d lived and seen the mailbox that bore his name. I said that I felt I knew something about his spirit and how his spirit had formed me: the sense of adventure – being drawn so strongly by the unknown and by the potential of something ‘other’ that you almost don’t have time to be scared. There’s something of the starry-eyed in him, I think that is also in me. I spoke to Louise saying that I was only coming to know her and want to know her better.

Next, I spoke to great-grandfather (Thomas M) Ruggles and told him that I got the sense he was a bit misunderstood. He was, perhaps, an adventurer in the midst of homebodies and had been judged somewhat harshly for it. I told him he was a handsome devil and that I thought that had caused him some trouble, but that I thought I could understand his need for adventure and for exploring the unknown.

Then I spoke to great-grandmother Harriet (Tanner) Ruggles: I told her that I could see that not only do I have her blood, but that I might look a bit like her, too I thanked her, in fact thanked both Harriet and Thomas, for raising such an extraordinary daughter – my grandmother whose love was central to my sense of worth.

Next I spoke with Mathias Tolstrup – telling him that I’d stood on the ground of his family farm, walked on the ground where he’d grown up. I told him that his sea-faring blood coursing in my veins had helped form my sense of adventure.

My heart lightened as I spoke to my great-great grandfather Thomas (Edward) Ruggles . I never knew him, but from the stories Uncle David told, I know that I would have liked him (and he, me) I told him that I feel that his blood in my veins is what gives me my inclination towards optimism and well-being: I told him I appreciated his vision of his experience of life as ‘salubrious’, that I loved his humour and playfulness.

I spoke last to George Tanner and said that I felt a great empathy, not only for the hardships his family had endured, but as well their experience of a new land: I said that his story resembles Max's story. Both were 11 years old when they were brought by their parents to a new life and a new home in a brand new country. I told him that I wanted to know more about his life in Ireland and wouldn't give up the search until I could stand on the same Irish ground where they'd stood.

I cried again. I’m not sure why – but I think that it’s, in part at least, that I wish I could really know these people; that we could speak together and that they could tell me who they were, what they dreamed, what mattered to them. Perhaps they will somehow. Flo told me to listen for them in my dreams – that they’d tell me what to say/sing to them, what I need to know, what they have to tell me. I hope she’s right.

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.

Messages come from the most unexpected places

I spent the several days in Ft Collins, stuck in a sense of aimlessness – perhaps because so much had happened and I desperately needed the rest (not to mention some time to synthesise something of what I’d gathered, learned and experienced on the journey thus far), but from the outset my plan had been to carve a 2nd petroglyph here – for Jim – knowing that of all my family he is the one most likely to get what I'm trying to do and to take my efforts - and the task of attending to the ancestors - seriously. I’d gained some valuable knowledge and skills from my work on the 1st petroglyph and knew that I needed to give careful consideration to the design and layout of the images I would carve into the stone. I wanted to rework the design – not only for clarity’s sake but also to add to the depth of its meaning. In working the first petroglyph, I’d realised that overlapping the different graphic images (the crows and sun symbol overlapping the boat) made them difficult to read. I also realised that I wanted to add representations of both my living family and our ancestors to the glyph.

I spent a few days playing with some new designs and also practiced carving them on some red sandstone Jim and Kathy had left over from a patio they’d built. Though the sandstone carved easily and beautifully, none of the pieces were big enough to have real impact when set into the landscape of the yard (not that there are rules about the dimensions of such things) and it seemed clear that Jim wanted a stone with a bit more heft and presence. We searched through a number of landscaping stone yards until we found the perfect stone. It had a beautifully flat and even surface on one side (perfect for carving) and was craggy, beautifully mottled & covered with lichen on the other. I spent the evening plotting the scale and layout of the glyphs and began carving it the next day. I’d mistakenly thought the stone to be some sort of reddish sandstone, but it turned out to be something much harder – ironstone, I think. The hardness of the stone meant that the progress of the work was very slow, but this allowed for the ‘occupied monkey-mind’ reflection time that seems to be the key factor in all the artwork I choose to do. The hardness (and texture) of the stone also meant that though the lines took a fair amount of effort to inscribe, they held a very clean, crisp and clear edge.

My efforts were a bit tentative at first, but I quickly developed a feel for the stone. I settled in to the work with a sense of confidence and a steady rhythm that allowed space for me to think deeply about my reasons for doing this work and to imagine ancient others - perhaps even my own ancestors - who had engaged in this very activity: somehow, I’d assumed that the images the ancients had chosen to inscribe in stone must have reflected the ‘big’ concepts of their cultures, but as I worked, I had time to reflect and felt like I was coming closer to understanding what it might have been like for the ancients to do this sort of work – the whys and hows suddenly seemed much less mysterious/much more accessible. Perhaps they, like me, carved their glyphs as simple messages, simple prayers – for connection, belonging, in gratitude and in hope. As I worked, I felt like I was (almost) one of them..

For the next two days, I carved from morning until evening. Jim had been away at a conference and when he came home he was surprised at the progress. He sat with me as I worked and asked me about the meaning of the symbols I’d carved: On the upper right were two human figures – one right-side-up and the other upside-down (representing the living and the dead, us and the ancestors). On the ancestor figure there were 5 lines inscribed for our five preceding generations. In the upper left, I’d carved a sun/circle symbol – with 3 incised lines creating (as Jim pointed out) 5 sections. Though we're no longer clear on its precise meaning, the sun symbol seemed to represent renewal & regeneration and had held significance for both our ancient Norse and Irish ancestors while, for me, the circle held the significance I'd learned (and felt moved by) at the Kearsarge Indian Museum. It is what binds and connects all things: once we know our place in the circle, we know where we belong. Lastly, I’d also begun carving the first of 2 boats: one to represent the physical journey of our ancestors from their homelands to America, as well as our own journey to to search for and reclaim them. The other to represent the metaphysical journey of their souls to the afterworld; to return to us; and to return to their homelands. As I was finishing up the day’s work, Jim and I also talked about a number of specific ancestors, including my mother, and we both agreed that it felt like she was with us as we talked. It occurred to me that a significant piece of this work might occur in it's potential to shift my relationships with the ancestors - specifically, those ancestors with whom I had a living relationship and who have passed away during my lifetime - from operating on a predominantly practical/profane plane to one that is something more spiritual/sacred. It occurred to me that this was an avenue well worth exploration in terms of how this same idea might be addressed and manifested in other cultures.

I would liked to have continued to work at a similar pace, but by the end of the second day, I could barely lift my arms or close my fingers around the chisel. I didn't really mind, I felt a glorious kind of tired.

I rested few days then worked again. The third day’s work consisted of finishing the boats and plotting where I might carve a few crow figures. I scratched the faint outlines of two crows into the rock surface, but felt a degree of hesitation about proceeding any further – I wasn’t sure if it was because I lacked confidence that I could carve them well (the crows I carved in the Malden granite had not come out as well as I’d hoped) or felt somehow that there was something unresolved about their inclusion, but suspected (knowing my process) that it was the latter. I knew I had to think it through before proceeding, to determine not only what the crows represent, but how many there should be: 3 might represent past, present, future; 5 might relate to 5 generations; 2 (as there were presently scratched into the surface) might represent the living and the dead, or the physical/metaphysical. One day, Jim told me about a young Native American man he’d met at the conference who'd told a story about a time when he was unclear about what he was meant to do and whether he was following the right path. He went to the mountains to ask his ancestors for a sign – and said to them that if he was on the right path he wanted them to show him a green arrow (!). He said he'd been praying hard for an hour or so when suddenly the clouds parted and the (green) northern lights appeared over a mountain across the water, gathered themselves into an arrow shape and flew across the water towards him. (Nice to get clear signs!) As I listened to the story, it occurred to me that I not only have no idea how to pray, but absolutely no idea who to pray to. I also felt astonished to realise that in asking (or praying) for a sign, it would never have occurred to me to specify what I wanted the sign to look like (which, on reflection seems entirely practical. If you ask for a green arrrow and a green arrow shows up, you don't have to wonder if you've imgined anything). There seemed a lovely kind of familiarity and trust inherent in the story and it left a kind of Aesop's fables impression on me: something along the lines of "clear signs come from knowing who to pray to (and how to do it)". I realised that I’ve never felt any clarity about how or why I might pray, but felt somehow that in my current frame of mind (and heart) any prayer I might engage in would quite naturally be directed towards my ancestors (who else would care to listen?). I felt inspired to explore the hows, whys and to whoms of prayer with the people I know who already seem to have a clear sense of their ancestors and a habit of attending to them: Sal, Flo, Sam and Wanda. This train of thought felt good, it felt like a breakthrough – I finally knew another piece I needed to learn and had a fair idea where to begin. I felt happy.

I carved the first crow and the second, then a couple of cold, wet & windy autumn days passed giving me plenty of time (and the perfect excuse) to consider the ‘crow question’. One evening, I mentioned to Jim that I was wrestling with whether I should carve a third crow into the stone. A little while later, he called me outside, pointed to the sky and said ‘look’. I looked up in the tree above us, saw two crows and said aloud, “Okay, I get it. Two.”Jim asked, “Why two?” and I answered, “Because there are two crows.” To which he said, “No, look, there are three.” When I looked again, the third crow rose up, and flapped his wings and I said, “Okay, Three”at which point they all started cawing loudly and flapping their wings at me. I laughed and said, "Okay. Okay. I get it now. I’ll get back to it as soon as the weather clears!” They scolded me some more and then all three flew away. I spent a final day carving the third crow and every now and then would look up to see whether my crows were sitting in the tree, watching. I even called to them, inviting them to come and take a look. But no one came (at least not while I was working.) I could here them though – not far away – calling to each other. They did come back, however...one more time and in the most impressive display yet. Jim and I had planned an ancestor feast for Halloween night and while Kathy and I were out buying what we needed to make the dinner, Jim erected the finished petroglyph in their front yard. Just before dusk, Jim said, “Come outside and see this.” I walked outside and a half dozen or more crows were swooping low over the house and yard while dozens more cawed from the nearby trees. I was transfixed and realised that I’d come to see the crows as ancestors.- or at least as their messengers. I asked one after the other, “Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?”and even listed several names, “Are you Ed? Are you Marge? Are you Harriet? Are you Magnus?” It didn’t matter whether there was an answer. I’m overwhelmed by the thought that it’s ancestors come to tell me that this is right and that they’re here.

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.

3 Amazing Days with Suzi

It's been 13 years since I last saw my sister Suzi and I’m so glad I decided to visit her as part of this journey: we both needed it.

From the moment she met me at Fayetteville Airport on Friday evening until she dropped me back there again on Monday, we didn't stop talking. We had a lifetime worth of stories to remember and years worth of news, thoughts and feelings to catch up on.

I think we both came away with revised perspectives of each other. I’d guess that she is more aware of my vulnerabilities and fears than before. I see her as stronger and more willful than ever before (In fact she told me that her strategy has always been to seem to agree with what she was told, but then to go ahead and do what she wants anyway). She's also more joyful than I've ever seen her: she told me she's always loved to play and (particularly) now that she’s passed the age where she has to be responsible for others, she’s free to indulge in her own childlike joy. She plays with her grandchildren (and always has) and they love her for it. They all have rich stories to tell of spending time with her.

On Sunday Suzi had planned a lovely family reunion-supper and I had a wonderful afternoon getting re-acquainted with 3 of her 4 children: Amy, Eric and Wendy (Sarah and her family live in Texas and couldn't come), as well as Eric's (lovely) fiancé, Melissa, his bright and fabulous daughter, Sammy and Wendy's extraordinary husband Tony and their fantastic daughters Brittney and Brooke. I particularly enjoyed getting to know 9-yr-old Brooke who is bright, curious and intrigued by her (exotic) Australian relatives. We promised to write. It's a promise I intend to keep.

It was wonderful to flesh out the family stories from their perspective: Amy told me that she and Dad used to debate about things: he’d challenge her and she’d go study up on whatever the subject and come back with fresh and informed arguments. They once debated the Communist Manifesto (sounds remarkably similar to my own debates with him over nuclear proliferation). I told her that when I'd made a particularly well-constructed argument that Dad couldn't find holes in (but still didn't agree with) He'd say (smiling mischievously), "That's just dumb-ass, Sandy!" Suzi's kids also told stories about how Mum used to roller skate with them in the driveway.

Suzi and I got quite deep into it on Saturday night and talked late into the night about our childhood memories. We were both quite open about our experiences and feelings growing up. She seemed to feel a little discomfort with the depth of our discussion the next day and I understood that the concern might be based on her uncertainty about how I might use the information I gather on this journey (perhaps because of this blog or how all of this will figure into my thesis). I tried to reassure her that I realise that my perceptions are just that - my perceptions and that I know that my truths are not necessarily everyone's or THE truth. Suzi told me that just as we were falling off to sleep, angels (or something similar) came to her and though their energy seemed a bit confused (or confusing), she felt they were saying that we need to be careful about the stories we pass on: that it’s okay for the two of us to share our mutual stories, but that we need to take care that we don’t colour what others might think of our ancestors by perpetrating our own perceptions. I told Suzi that I was quite sure something did come to her to tell her that: it was very much the message that I got from Nana my last night in Malden. I told Suzi about my own similar experience and what I had taken from it. And we both realised that the only real difference was that what she perceived as angels, I perceived as ancestors. But, I also told her that I thought there may have been more to their message than just a warning: I think they had also come to say that the fact that we were together– with NO barriers between us – honouring, enjoying and deeply connecting with each other again - is a blessed thing, a sacred thing.

And finally, here's a really tasty piece of genealogical intrigue: As we looked through old photos, Suzi talked to me about a family reunion we'd attended as children (mainly, I think, of the Ruggles side of the family) to celebrate Aunt Gus (Ruggles) and Uncle Walter's 75th wedding anniversary. Sometime during the event, Nana Tolstrup pointed out some particular relatives to Sue and said that they'd come all the way from Australia. So...I want to know...who were they, where are they and can I find them? Only time will tell, but wouldn't it be a kick if they lived nearby?

You CAN go home again. Part 4

Somewhat reluctantly, I left the Atlantic coast and drove west to Mystery Hill (otherwise known as America’s Stonehenge). It’s an interesting place of overlapping cultures and features a variety of ancient and not-so-ancient stone cairns, circles, and standing stones – some of which (apparently) date back thousands of years. I visited years ago, when the site was a hodgepodge of stones, but in the last few years, the site has undergone some serious development. No one quite knows who did what here, but the current administrators of the place are trying (too) hard to make a case for its being the result of Viking, even Phoenician or some other Old World influence. What is known is that the site had some significance for ancient Indigenous American culture(s) and I suspect that significance had sacred aspects, but whatever ‘sacredness’ exists there now seems buried under supposition and interpretation. Still, it’s interesting and the current curator is charming in his obsessive fervour. I can’t help but love a good obsessive...it’s in my blood. I spent the evening listening to Don Severence (an old friend) play a music gig at a local restaurant. Don’s a true original: he’s always managed to make a living from his music, mainly because he carefully constructs his lifestyle around how much he was willing to work and how much he was willing to do without. He was the first adult I’d ever met who lived well, but wasn’t yoked to a mortgage, tied to a job, overworked, or the blissfully unaware recipient of a trust fund. He makes his own living and seems to know better than anyone just how little he really needs in order to have - happily -enough. It also bears saying here that Don is an excellent musician (guitarist, singer-songwriter) and in the 15 or so years since I last heard him play, he’s only gotten better. I’d say, his is the sweetest guitar since Mark Knopfler (and I luuuurv, Mark Knopfler). We had a great rapid-fire chat between sets. I hadn’t told him I was coming, but he didn’t seem all that surprised to see me: It’s always sort of been my place in Don’s life to occasionally drop out of the sky and then disappear again. Seems I’ve done it again.

The next morning I headed back up to Concord to go to Sunnycrest, my all-time favourite orchard for some crisp, juicy sweet-tart Mackintosh apples. I haven't had a Mac since leaving New Hampshire and there's no apple that comes close to matching them for apple-perfection. Ed, Max and I used to go to Sunnycrest nearly every Saturday during the Fall - to buy our week's supply of apples and cider. Saturday afternoon was often spent making (Ed's favourite) apple crisp...and once a year, a big batch or apple butter (yummy yummy). On the way I looked for the the funky little house on Lakeview Drive where Ed and I first lived when we came east from Arizona. The house had been built in the 1930s by a man who had been a fan on Frank Loyd Wright and featured tall walls of windows, a beautiful fieldstone fireplace and an open plan layout. I loved it even though it was falling apart. Much to my dismay, the house was no longer there, but had been replaced by a nondescript boxlike thing. I held my breath and drove on towards Sunnycrest - hoping it was still there.

Happily, it was - now renamed Gould Hill Orchards - and the current manager told me that it was almost sold off to developers about 10 years ago and replaced by a housing development. I shudder to think of what would have happened to those beautiful rows and rows of trees. I bought my cider and apples and took pictures of the rope swing Max used to love.I went on to the Mt Kearsage Indian Museum which features (amongst other pieces) the extensive personal collection of artifacts acquired over a lifetime by Charles 'Bud' and Nancy Thompson. The museum displays are particularly well laid out: the overall floorplan forms a circular path through the displays which are organised into groups - northeast woodland, plains, south-west and pacific north-west. Each display has a lovely and quiet layout – without an overabundance of labels and legends telling you what to think and what to pay attention to. There were only a few, very quietly informative videos at key points as introductions to various cultures: Navajo, Plains; etc. I was impressed.

Before entering the exhibition space, visitors are invited to view a film....which began with the words of Chief Sachem Silver Star of the Connecticut Pequot tribe describing what the circle means in Pequot spirituality. He`said that the circle is the most sacred symbol: it connects each of us to everything else. If you find your place within the circle, you find where you belong (my emphasis). The circle defines your place, purpose and position. With those words, the circle/sun symbol in my glyph designs began to make sense and took on deeper meaning. Sachem Silver Star also said that everyone is given a talent and it is our duty to use it in order to leave the world a better place than it would have been without us.

As luck would have it, there was a special collection on exhibit titled Made of Thunder, Made of Glass, which featured the beadwork collection and paintings of Vermont artist, Gerry Biron. Gerry's paintings are highly detailed portraits based on actual 19th & 20th century photographs of natives, dressed in their native clothing. The original images were used - mostly - to create 'exotic' souvenir postcards and depict a standard 'noble savage' sensibility. I was particularly draw to one painting, then realised that behind the female subject there was a crow. I was further startled when I read the legend and found that it was a portrait of the artist's great-grandmother: a woman named Clarissa who was Mi’kmaq from Nova Scotia! Even though I'd seen everything there was to be seen, I wasn’t ready to leave the museum – so I went outside to take a walk along their native plants/forest trails. It was a lovely place – a typical northern New England woodland filled with birch, pine, oak, beech and maple. I was thrilled, as well to come upon some sweet fern! At last. Halfway around the trail, I was greeted by an older man who turned out to be the museum’s founder Charles Bud Thompson. He asked me if I had time to sit and chat for a while (of course! Some of the best experiences of this journey have come about because I took time to sit and chat!) We talked about his collection and I told him how impressed I was with the museum. He asked me where I was from and why I had come to visit and I told him a bit about my research. Then he asked me if I’d come home with him to meet his wife Nancy. It turns out that she was responsible for the wonderful design of the museum's exhibition space and Bud thought she'd enjoy hearing from me how highly I regarded it. We went together to his house and the three of us sat and talked and shared ideas about life and the world. At one point, I was raving to them both about Max - about how wise, thoughtful, clear, creative, strong, kind-hearted, intelligent and loving he is - and Bud smiled at me and said, “Sounds like the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree.” He then said that he wanted to give me something and handed me a box full of arrowheads. He told me to choose one to take with me, so I chose a lovely stone pierced with a hole (not an arrowhead). Bud said that I should keep that one, but also to choose another, an arrowhead this time – so I did. When it was time to go, Bud took me back to the museum and along the way, told me that several years ago he had been given four 800-1000 yr-old blue corn seeds that had been found inside a pot shard in NM. He was advised to plant the seeds and 3 of the 4 kernels germinated! He has since replanted the corn crop every year and given 4 corn kernels to a number of people. It has been successfully planted all over the world. He said that he wanted me to have some – to plant in Australia - along with a little book that tells the story of the discovery of the shard, the 4 original kernels and what has happened since. He then told me a final story: He said that he’d once met an older man - a famous psychologist - who’d said to him that we are each the sum total of our experiences plus the influence of the people we choose as our heroes. I think he's right.

I left the museum and drove back towards Pembroke. I suddenly knew I needed to do something about our old house and the gentrified field. I could imagine that if it was unrecognisable to me (in its physical manifestation) it might also be unrecognisable to Ed (in its metaphysical one). And somehow I think that as soon as I saw our field replaced by a lawn, I knew that Ed's spirit was stuck there, confused that the place wasn't right and we weren't there. I didn't know if his spirit needed to find its way to me, but it certainly felt likely that it would need to find Max. So I decided to build him a trail of stones...from Pembroke to Fremantle. I selected a large piece of quartz and threw it on to the edge of the field, while saying out loud, "This stone is for you, Ed. Come back to us. Come back to us. Come back to us." As I drove away, I realised that we would also need to place a stone there from home - from Fremantle - to make the trail complete. In a temporary measure, until Max or I or both of us can get back here, I decided to ask George and Janet if they'd be willing to place a stone at the Pembroke house for us.

I went back to George and Janet’s for the night. I asked them to help build our trail of stones. They readily agreed. (George, Janet & I have a long history of doing rituals together and Mickey-Michael-Mike is the result...but that's another story...involving a birth goddess...that some of you may remember) It felt good to be ‘home’.

You CAN go home again. Part 3

Awoke feeling uncertain, kind of aimless and (for the first time in this journey) unmotivated to charge onward in search of ancestors. The thought of searching through Portland for evidence of the Tanners seemed unappealing, so I decided, instead, to head to my favourite beach: Parsons Beach in Kennebunk. I just wanted to walk a beautiful stretch of beach and let my mind wander. On the way, I stopped for breakfast at the Maine Diner – poached eggs on corned beef hash with hash browns and endless (weak) coffee. I reached Parsons jut as the sky was beginning to darken with storm clouds., but it felt wonderful to be there . Along the way, I picked up a beautiful pair of smooth granite stones that seem to fit perfectly together. Though the beach was every bit as beautiful as I’d remembered and walking it did me good, I still felt uncertain about my direction. I decided to head south – to Wheaton College in Norton on the Massachusetts/Rhode Island border where I hoped to have the chance to meet up with Patrick Dougherty and participate in the installation of one of his artworks.

I drove all day in heavy rain through heavier traffic in a kind of suspended state. Still unclear about where to go next in my ancestral search, catching up with Patrick Dougherty seemed the best thing to do.

The next day I woke to a computer with what seemed to be a fatal illness: It struggled to open and when it finally did, all my files seemed to be missing. I immediately called Max (my computer guru) and he helped me find my files which now (for some unknown reason) were tucked neatly away in the recesses of my C drive. Regardless, I was elated that they were still there at all and decided to stay with my plan. I went to meet Patrick. First thing he did was to put me to work, which in my unusually inarticulate and muddled state, was the perfect thing to do. I worked for a couple of hours and then we went to lunch and talked a bit about his work and mine. I told him that I was trying to understand the relationship between the landscapes of our ancestors and our own sense of belonging He said that he thought that the landscapes we are born to imprint on us in much he same way that a mother duck is imprinted on her offspring and told me about his father, who came originally from the prairie and never quite felt at home in the mountains of North Carolina where they’d moved. I went back to work for a few more hours along with several other volunteers: some students and some, like me, just fans of the work. I enjoyed the sensation of working collaboratively on a piece that felt to me like a shelter, a tribal longhouse. I asked Patrick if anyone had ever taken up residence in one of his pieces. He told me that it had happened only once: he was installing a work in Chicago and a homeless woman decided it would be a good place to sleep. That would have been fine, except she urinated there, too. Patrick finally asked her to (please) not pee on the work, so she peed in bottles instead and left them lined up for him inside. Back in the hotel, I called Kathy and told her about my computer woes. She told me she’d had a similar problem and had discovered XP’s sytem repair tool. I tried it and Halleluja! it worked. My computer was back to normal!
Next day, I went to say goodbye to Patrick and arranged to meet up again in Colorado in November. I hope to be able to interview him while he’s installing a work at Colorado College. I headed next to the National Archives in Waltham, Mass. where I found the original naturalisation records for George Tanner. I’d hoped also to find the passenger list listing their arrival in Boston, but had no luck.

I got back in the car and drove through towns I’ve known all my life: up route 60 through Arlington, Medford and Malden and then up route 1 and 128 to Beverly and the first home I remember – my family moved to Beverly when I was 9 months old and it’s where I knew what it felt like to be part of a tribe: my grandparents were always around, so were my aunts, great-aunts, uncles great-uncles & cousins. When I was 9, we moved away in the first of many moves that would take us further and further away. Part of the mobile corporate generation, my family moved often as we followed my father’s job promotions. It was an adventure I enjoyed, but one that left a legacy of disconnection: When we left Beverly, we also left tribe behind. I’m not sure quite how, but I found the house. It didn’t feel familiar, nor did the community: it felt small, provincial, conservative and very,very white. I felt grateful for vibrant diversity of Fremantle.

I continued north and found myself driving along the New Hampshire coastline from rye beach to Portsmouth at sunset. The ocean was bathed in a kind of beautiful, golden light I’ve only ever seen in New England and along the way, I passed some favourite stretches of beach - Odiorne Point and Wallis Sands.

I found a hotel and was greeted by an Indian desk clerk who, when he learned I was from W Australia, immediately started to talk enthusiastically about Ricky Ponting, Andrew Simonds and Aussie Cricket. I mustered all the sports talk I could think of because he was clearly desperate for it and for the first time in my life wished that I knew more about cricket!

The next day began with a walk along the rocky coastline at Odiorne Point, but I was kind of wondering what I was doing there. It has no real relationship to my ancestry, but I love the place and felt connected and at home. I was scrambling around some large rocks and rockpools, when I found a giant vein of quartz running through a granite ledge. I began to gather some pieces when it suddenly dawned on me that the quartz was my reason for being here and that Odiorne might provide the quartz I need for my work with the ancestors – just as the quartz found at Newgrange and Knowth had come from far away mountains. Excited and energised, I picked up several chunks.

I went next to Wallis Sands – a great stretch of fine sandy beach, where I thought I might draw another practice glyph in the sand. This one felt surer that the first and I felt like I was finally back on track. It occurred to me that I should record the sound of the surf, so I drove to Rye Beach. I got out of the car and was walking down the beach towards the water, thinking about the ideas that had been flying through my head all day (about the quartz, the glyph, the sounds and what it all means; about what I was doing in relationship to the ancestors) and wondering if I was on the right track with any of it when I looked up and saw 4 crows in the midst of a flock of gulls. And thought ‘”Okay, I get it. I’m on track”. Thank you, crows.