Fifth World Journal

He was a hero. A viking. Un cavalier. A swashbuckling, fearless braveheart who really knew how to live.
Born into a brutal world, he lived with chutzpah, elan and flair, and gave it everything he had. All he had was courage, charisma and toughness. When you’re a cat, what more do you need?
When Mog first started coming around, we weren’t sure of him. Big, rangy, ugly, his white coat matted and his face scrunched up, he was not appealing in any usual way.
Still, there was something about him, something plainspoken and honest. He was ugly, yes, but not mean-ugly, like some of the strays who came around, sniffing at our cats’ well-filled dinner bowls. Those cats taught ours how to fight.
Mog just came and sat.

Soon, we came to realise he needed help. Not that he was asking. He was far too proud for that. No, he just sat quietly, as if he was saying, “Ah, here, I can rest a while. If you don’t mind. Just a while, and I’ll be on my way.”
Watching him, my hubby and i were captivated. The tough old soldier was obviously hurt; a couple of wounds visible if you really looked – and what was with his eyes?
I left it to my partner, at first, to find out. I was pregnant, and had no wish to inadvertantly come in contact with some unknown feline plague. But neither could i send him away. I didn’t admit it, but i’d fallen for the old rascal. As had Doug.
So, he set about winning the wild one’s confidence. I helped by giving him a name. Mog.
Sure, it’s just British slang for a stray cat. But it was tough and plain, like him, and it was obvious to me he knew what he was, where he stood, so i knew he would wear it well.
Doug, for his part, spent time every feeding time, just a few minutes, putting out a little extra, talking to Mog, letting him see that, while we wouldn’t crowd him, we’d welcome him to come closer.
By and by, he did.
Once Doug had won his confidence, Mog consented to be put in a carrier, and we paraded on down to the vet’s on the corner.
Mog was calm and dignified throughout, never offering claw nor fang, even when they lanced a huge abcess on his leg. Probably, the vet agreed, a dog bite. A big one. The entire clinic staff, like us, was clearly impressed by Mog.
When we’d explained on arrival that this was not one of our cats but a stray, there was a bit of scepticism in the room, but it vanished in Mog’s presence. They treated him like the noble warrior he so evidently was. And, upon examination, the vet estimated his age at 6 years.
Which, he pointed out, was a magnificent attainment for a feral cat. And Mog was obviously still very healthy, except for the dog bites – and for his eyes.
Entropian, the vet diagnosed. A fluke of genetics had caused him to be born with eyelids that tended to turn inward, such that the eyelashes irritated their own insides and also his eyes. The good news was that a simple operation could change the set of his eyelids. The bad news? $700. He’d throw in a neutering for free.
We walked home discussing, sadly. The fact was, we were living on a single income, not a large one, and we were paying for a midwife. In those days, midwife care was not covered by our province.
It looked like one thing or the other would be possible. The best care for our unborn child. Or an operation for a feral cat who’d made it to 6 on his own steam? Of course there was no question.
But i pondered, considered. I grew up on a farm, was no stranger to do-it-yourself doctoring. I could understand what the procedure would look like… but to work on someone’s eyes…. i couldn’t.
So, we fed and cleaned him until the day he felt he was strong enough, and he took his leave of us.
Mog came back, some time later, with one ear sliced to a tatter. This time, he didn’t hesitate to let us check it out. And this time, we didn’t go to the vet. But we did set up a place for him to sleep, in the back porch, which, though drafty, was much warmer than outdoors, and was separate from out own cats’ sleeping room.
By the time the snow commenced melting, Mog was off again. And then we didn’t see him for months. I could only hope he hadn’t been emboldened by his lucky survival, and gone tangling with a big dog again.
Come August, as my due date neared, i started to need to walk. A lot. Much more than i already do. A good chance to chat with neighbours in their yards. And one day, one of those neighbours, a grandmother on the next block, left a message on our phone. I know, she said, that you guys took care of that old white tom cat last year. Yes? Well, he’s around my place now, and i wonder if you can come get him. I can see he needs help, but i’m not much good at that sort of thing.
I struggled with my conscience, but it was clear; i just couldn’t do it. Our baby was about to be born, at home; no time for a festering old cat to be there. And, with Doug working long hours to get money ahead in advance of the birth, it would be up to me to catch Mog.
So, i said no. And changed my walking route, not trusting myself to be able to resist him if i saw him.
Soon after our daughter was born, we were out strolling. And passed by Margaret’s house. She was out doing autumn yardwork, and of course came to admire the baby. And i asked about Mog, about whatever happened.
It was, she replied, the sweetest thing she’d ever seen. And she pointed out some gambolling kittens in a yard across the street. His kittens.
You see, she told us, he couldn’t see at all, you know. But there is this little grey cat around here. And she started taking care of him. You’d see them walking together everywhere, she’d be mewing softly to him.

That cat was his eyes. And his wife. As we visited, she crossed the street, Mog’s wife; a tiny creature with a cloud of long grey fur.

We walked home that day full of wonder at the many faces of Love. And i walked around that way throughout the autumn, hoping to see Mog and his wife out walking. Never did.

It was the bitter depths of winter when Mog came to us for the last time. Our daughter was a year old, thriving well, our home full of new rhythms.
At first, we were excited to see him. But as he hobbled closer, we grew dismayed. He’d lost weight; his coat, permanently scruffy at the best of times, was harsh and spiky, and he dragged one leg. Worse, one side of his jaw was a festering mess. It was hard to be sure until we cleaned it, but it looked very much like it was broken. He sat down, unable to do more than climb the step to us. So, while i made a bed in the back, Doug gathered him up and brought the old warrior in.
It was a weekend. We decided we’d warm and clean him, let him rest, get a better look at the damage before deciding whether this was time to take him in to the vet (we who’d not found money for his eye operation, we who’d not even paid to have him neutered).
He laid himself down on the blankets we gave him, with a sound that was almost a moan, and we knew it was bad, for him to complain.
So, i thought, as night gathered in, take away the pain. And i called my sister, then actively farming.
All i’ve got is the baby’s fever medicine; you ever give it to a cat? I asked. Nope, she said, but hey, why not? Can’t hurt, might help.
So, at my urging, Doug filled the dropper with pink goo, and eased it into the good side of his jaw. He swallowed it weakly, and we left him to sleep. It was the second and third doses that killed him. We did not know, til a friend told us, that acetaminophen is deadly to cats.

Is it ridiculous to cry about how our ignorance killed him? Well, i am ridiculous.
But we looked at his jaw once he was beyond pain; and wondered whether he’d have survived anyway. The broken leg, he’d have laughed off, but there wasn’t a lot of jawbone left to patch where he’d been wounded.
So, it looked like he’d come home to die. And we inadvertantly helped speed him on his way. There was nothing left to do but dispose of his earthly remains.
I suggested we freeze the remains til the spring, and bury him in some ravine. Doug looked at the battered body of the old warrior, the viking, the mighty Mog. And it was his suggestion that carried the day. And that very night, in a location we keep private, he built a bonfire, a big one, a hot-burning one, a fire with style.

All My Relations
ams

How do we decide what we do? What makes us notice a particular person, place, moment…. or a song?
Several years ago, i borrowed a cassette tape from my late sister, a recording by an a capella group called Malaika.
Malaika is Swahili (via Arabic, i think) for Angel. They named themselves after the first song they shared together. And that was the song i fell in love with. So, one day, faced with a 6-hour road trip, i put that cassette in the tape deck and i drove. Through the spruce woods, the river lands, the open prairie, through the sandhills and the pines, i drove absorbed in the melody, harmony and sounds of this song whose meaning i could only guess. It was obviously a love song.
Over and over, i strained my ear to catch the pronounciation of each syllable, sang along intent on embodying the cadence, the rhythm of a foreign tongue.
It was a fabulous trip, and at the end, i could confidently sing that song on my own.

Some time later, i sang it for a friend who grew up in Africa. She doesn’t speak Swahili, but said my cadences sounded correct to her ear, familiar with African languages. But, other than her, i mostly kept that song to myself. It was something i played and sang just for myself, a way to swing into pure lyricism, imagining the meaning, making up my own story.
Then one day, i had a haircut from an African student hairdresser. I mentioned this song. She said, why yes, everybody knows that song. And she told me the gist in English… “Angel, I love you, but I don’t have the money to marry you.”
There was a part of my mind that said it was unlucky to sing such a sad song too much. But that part was sooner or later over-ridden by the larger part of me, that thrilled to the sounds, that delighted in being able to sing in another language, and have some idea what i was singing.
(At this point i could digress, and tell you a story of one of my brothers teasing my elder sister about a song she sang, in a language she didn’t speak… and we were all at the airport, and … oh, never mind)
Anyhow, i couldn’t resist that song. But i sang it just for me. (Except for one memorable occasion last fall, which digression i’ll likewise not indulge here and now….;) )
And then, this spring, i found a little job, as an assistant in an English class for immigrant ladies. And on the first day, met a grand old grandmother, Clothilde. The classroom volunteer spoke with Clothilde in Swahili, for the lady has barely any English, and precious little formal schooling in her own language(s).
As she looked me over with her calm old eyes, i found myself intrigued and captivated. What would she say to me, if she could speak and i could understand?
Going home from the first class, i got a thrilling idea. And i came in early the next day, stopped at the public library downstairs from our classroom, and googled Malaika.
And there! The lyrics, written out. There was also a full translation, expanding on my hairdresser’s synopsis, to detail the singer’s longing and love in simple and exquisite terms. “Kitege, nakuwaza, kitege” – “Little Bird, I dream of you, little bird” … but of course, lacking the money, defeated by the fortunes of the world, the singer cannot marry the beloved angel.
Looking at the words, it occured to me that this song was pretty much the lyric kin of any Country & Western tale of hardluck and longing… but so pretty, so irresistibly melodic.
What was most exciting to me, though, was to read the Swahili lyrics, rendered phonetically.
I felt ridiculously accomplished, for, about a decade after i learned it, i had remembered it very well indeed. And i was also in awe of the ladies who’d sung it, for their rendering was pure enough that i, not speaking the language, could so accurately hear the syllables of the words. Ladies of Malaika, wherever you are now, Chi Megwetch! A huge Thank You.

So, i wrote down the 2 or 3 syllables i needed to correct, and ambled to class full of glee.
I had to wait til today, though, for the right opportunity to spring my surprise on Clothilde.
It was great. The teacher i work for, Jessica, graciously gave me carte blanche to teach a lesson today, on the topic of Aboriginal culture. Anything i wanted to share, as next Monday is National Aboriginal Day….
So, i whipped up a lesson plan, prepared some snacks using traditional foods, and brought my drum.
By the time the drum came out, i was giddy as a little kid, because the ladies dove right into my offering.
“Remember,” said Margaret the head teacher, having praised my lesson plan, ‘that the most important thing is to use your stories to provoke them to share their stories.’ Then she glimmered out the door.
And i started talking about foods, and almost right away, the lesson plan fell away, and i found myself remembering one story after another, about the origins of certain foods. So, i told the stories. And with each one, somebody would say, ‘Yes, yes! That reminds me of a story from my country…” and off they’d go.
By the time i brought the drum out, they were pretty giddy, too, excited about our shared wealth of stories about the way things are, what nurtures us, how we learn to nurture.

And then i took the drum. And before i could play it, a couple of people wanted to touch it, talk about their own drums, how the drum is where they come from.
And then it came back to me, and they waited with their faces all shining. And i started a simple beat.
And then, burst into Malaika. And the African ladies – who are several, apart from Clothilde, and include a professional singer – the African ladies whooped, and laughed, and began to sing along.
And it was every bit as wonderful a surprise as i’d hoped. And Mama Clothilde looked at me and nodded, her old calm eyes glimmering with something quiet and sweet.
And as i launched into a song in Mi’gmaq, i marveled.
So long ago, i fell for a song, for no reason i could name.
Maybe it was just waiting, for this one moment here. Maybe some angel somewhere knew, down my road, i might find it joyful to have a song to offer that would be a bridge, a way to make co-conspirators in song and laughter. How could i know it would come to me? Who knows what moves us to do what we do?
A slice of the mystery, to all us lovers, and all us beloved angels.
all my relations
ams

Today in Grande Prairie, they’ll lay to rest a musician. Richard Callihoo lived 90 years, and by most reckonings, they’d have been full years. He had 11 children, if i recall rightly. I grew up with some of them, and with some of his grandkids.
His family and mine set up Local H.O.P.E. 5 of what was then the Metis Association of Alberta. HOPE – Help Our People Evolve – was about trying to help our little community of marginalised people, to make our lives better through whatever means a political organisation might leverage. Others would know better what HOPE 5 accomplished. One day, i mean to ask around, ask people who were there what that work might have meant to them and their families.
What i remember most about Richard was the music, the glorious music he played with my dad. Richard was a fiddler, and a fine one. My dad could play, too, but his real forte was in accompaniment. Together, they had a sound that was irresistible, if what you wanted from music was something that brought out the will to dance.

Last year in June, i found a box of broken fiddles, up in a closet in our old family home. I brought them here, hoping to rebuild them. I hoped i’d find, in that work, some way to pay tribute to the old guys. And i suppose i can say that, one year later, i have learned a little.
I’ve learned how easy it is to break things, how hard to mend what is broken.
And when you have no way to learn how it broke, sometimes you can only look at the pieces in mute wonder that they ever held a song.
I’ve not even managed to finish the first of the four fiddles. I don’t know if i’ll ever succeed to build them. And if i do, then what? It’s not like they were high-born concert instruments in the first place. Just a bunch of old wood, maybe marginal at best, the kind of thing that poor folks rom the bush could afford to have. The kind of thing that came to my dad, that he didn’t throw away, despite his lack of any specialised tools or knowledge about how to repair such delicate things. Maybe it was just foolish sentimentality that made him keep those fiddles. Maybe it was bull-headed arrogance, to think he could ever make music out of junk.
But maybe it was also part of the gift that he and Richard shared back and forth, the thing that i suppose was the glue of their friendship.
Maybe it was the spark of light that travels in the music, however faintly. Nobody can teach you that. Nobody can give you that. You have to feel it. And the great ones, they have the gift of transmitting that spark, of letting it grow in them, letting it loose. Richard was one of those great ones.
I will keep my box of junk fiddles, in honour of him, in honour of my dad, and in honour of the sure knowledge i have: those guys could make music out of anything.
Today, i will play the last whole fiddle my dad had. I will play it as well as i can, because i’ll be sending a message, a thank you, and a pledge.
I’ll do my part, however well or poorly. I’ll seek the song, and the spark in the song. I’ll be thinking of your joy. And of Hope. And whether or not i ever get those fiddles rebuilt, i won’t give up on them. On what they mean.
God speed your soul, Grandpa Richard. Chi Megwetch. Merci. Hai hai. Thank you.
All My Relations
ams

Well, sometimes dreams come true. And sometimes the reality is every bit as rich as the dream of it. Today is one of those times for me.
Today, i was a Dragon Boat Racer.

See, i have a good friend, let’s call her Charlene. Char and i go back a long way, back to theatre classes at the end of the 80s. After university, we lost touch. We met up by good fortune at the public library, a little less than three years ago, when her daughter was newly minted and my own was two. And we discovered how our roads since school had been, and that we’d both lived in and fallen in love with Japan, and so on.

And this spring, Char joined her company’s dragon boat team for Corporate Challenge, a day of fun races, a fundraiser/teambuilding activity… and a long-time dream of hers, to race a dragon boat. When i oohed and ahhed at her opportunity, she immediately volunteered me for the position of drummer. And we were off.
Not to the races, but to the first of 2 whole practices we’d get as a team before today’s competitions.
Two practices.
Twenty two people, many who worked in different parts of the company and had never met (and of course me, the ‘friend or family’ extra), all trying to pull together. What a concept.

I knew i’d love the physical side of it, and it is grand. The full-body work of the paddling, out in fresh air, on the river, is nothing short of exhilarating. Sitting up on the prow, on the drummer’s chair, setting time and exhorting the team, also a full-body workout and exhilarating.
I got to do both things come race day. A team that was short of paddlers asked for volunteers to fill their benches, and i grabbed a paddle. So, i got to do both jobs, full-on, in races.

What is fascinating to me is what Corporate Challenge reveals about people in team situations.

See, our team fielded a full boat. And, we finished respectably, in the middle of the pack both in ranking and in average times for our heats.
And yet, there was a wide range of attitudes among our team members. I know, because i got to hear about things. Some people spoke up to me because, i suppose, i felt safe, not being a regular co-worker. Some things, i just happened to overhear. Some told me because i asked them.

Thus, i heard the opinion that we had ‘at least 19 captains’ on our team; which was looking accurate at the moment, but which begged the question of ‘and what do you propose we do about that?’
And, i heard lots of commentary on what everybody else could be doing better. And, because i was drummer and sat facing the squad, and because the captain asked it of me, i got to dish some of that out, too. And it was fascinating observing grown people struggle with their own confidence, competence and ability to learn.
We were all beginners. Why would any of us expect to have to know it all? What does it take to, as a team member, offer observations about a team-mate’s technique? And what does it take, as a team member, to hear suggestions and corrections in a spirit of confidence that we are really, all on the same team, just trying to be the best we can?

Did i mention? We had, in total, six different experts from the boat club directing us… and each one used different counts, different strategy, different commands. So, we’d get taught one thing, barely grasp that, then be taught another way. Down to the very last race, the experts kept changing the rules on us. Maybe that was to keep us from taking anything seriously?

So, there we were, two by two, and i got to be line leader, and some wag shouted out that it was just like kindergarten. And i couldn’t help wondering, how much have we, taken as a whole group, grown up? Would a kindergarten group be any more likely to seethe in thin-skinned sulkiness at the commentary of others? Would kindergarteners be any less able than we proved to follow the captain, listen, and each focus on doing our own part before we worried about correcting our fellow novices?
On the other hand, i doubt any kindergarten group would have more fun.

For every seething sulker, there was also a person who’d come out full of goodwill, full of intent to take this ride for all it could be, and leave aside any ego issues that might get in the way. So, yes, there was a woman who, when i said to her, ‘hey, wasn’t that fun?’ huffed, ‘i don’t like losing’ and turned her back on me. As a volunteer helping her company field a full team, as a person who’d just worked my guts out in the same boat, did i deserve that? No. But i don’t take it personally.
I also got to hear from the team-mates who took the initiative to say ‘good work, thanks for coming out’ or who shared a smile about the many positives in our performance. There were many team-mates who’d evidently learned, whether in kindergarten or otherwise, that joy is where you find it, and every group opportunity is what you make of it.

There were those of us who could remember to just be delighted to actually be there, in boats on the river, able to play, supported in so many ways in taking on something new, fast, engaging.

And that remembering is no small effort, sometimes, when people let fear or sourness get in their way, and show little sign of caring whether they hurt others.

But, it was easy, the remembering, when i realised, again and again, from one beat to the next, that i was part of a greater whole.
We were driving a dragon, lifting it through the water. I was out on the river in the fresh air. I was part of a tradition that goes back to a land far away, to a legend about a poet whose integrity and courage inspired the locals to honour his choice of death before dishonour.

We were hardly struggling for such stakes. There was nothing but corporate bragging rights at stake. All we had to lose was the opportunity to pull together, to know the heart-pounding joy of moving in unison, surging and gliding through the water.
I am proud to say that, despite the bitching and moaning along the way, we did not lose that opportunity. From my seat up in the prow, i whacked that drum with all my power, shouting the rhythm, exhorting my team, using my weight as best i could to augment the surge. And i could see everyone. And there was no mistaking it; every face, at some point, was alive with it, with the burning focus on rhythm and movement. Everyone got caught up in it.
We did not win.
We hadn’t gotten it together enough for that. We moved to the clash of paddle blades, with rocking and bumping, and plenty of splashing.
But we became, at various singing moments, a team. And, for a few moments here and there, we drove our dragon through the water with grace, and fire and style.
Not too shabby, that, when it comes to dreams come true.

All My Relations
ams

He was a man for the mountains. He was so very young. He had old man’s hands, criss-crossed with many lines, sharply square shoulders, and a sweetly quizzical smile. He loved yoga and running, and his singing voice was sweet.
We met and fell into a mad passion, in the spring time. But he lived in another land, and there was never enough of substance or confidence between us to sustain a love connection for too long. He spoke another language, in so very many ways.

One time we climbed the Berg Lake Trail, spent a weekend camping together. Brown butterflies kept landing on me, sipping salt from my skin as we walked the high ridges. I saw mystical signs and animals all around. He was surrounded, too, one morning on the cookhouse porch, by ground squirrels intent on high-jacking his oatmeal.
It was a shooting-star summer, a fling i foolishly imagined into more than it was. He was too young, too many mountains away. And i, like the old poet sang, i was much older then. I invested our brief time together with an unwarranted depth and significance. But one thing, one moment, one gift, was deeper and truer than anything i could imagine:

A family friend – we called each other sisters – was staying with me. Her husband had been brought down to the Cross clinic, a desperate shot at some treatment that would work. The night she found out they were releasing him, so he could die at home, she arrived back at my house just after my sweet singer arrived, in town for a visit.
Sis walked in, told me the news, asked me to sing her a song.
Please, a song, for her own heart was too heavy to sing it herself. I took the guitar. So many times she and i’d sung together. Now, no songs would come.

And then that boy from the sage lands, that mountain singer, he gently picked up the guitar. And for a woman he’d never met before, he sang, sweet and true, a song for her and her life’s great love, father of her children, who’d not live to see 42.

When he began making plans for a cross-country journey i had no way to join, i knew it was coming to an end. We had tickets to a concert, and on the way there, we broke up. Still, when he left town, he asked me to keep some things for him. I said no. I didn’t want any physical bookmarks, any excuses. If he ever returned, it would have to be just for wanting to see me. I have never seen him again.

But in the spring time, i hope his road is sweet with blossoms. And in the high summer, i wish him the cool of mountain streams. And in the autumn and the darker seasons, i hope he is singing, with other voices wrapped around him, in a place full of the kind of light that lasts. And if my memory is one slight glimmer in that light, well that’s okay then.

All My Relations
ams

May has come. Again. Outside, the yard is greening minute by minute. My one surviving Nanking Cherry is starting to bloom.
I’d love to have a Hanami, and invite the many dear friends, family too, who for one reason or another are far from me. Those Kamikaze guys knew a thing or two about appearances, singing of how the cherry blossom falls.
Bloom of light
falling apart.
I’ve spent the past couple of weekends out in the woods, saying goodbye to one dear friend, reconnecting with another, and missing those i think of when i see the wild birds fly.
My partner, father of my child, single-minded fellow, put down his pen and closed his computer, and cheerfully climbed ladders, slung shingles, nailed up replacement wood. Bats had invaded the tower of our friend’s wooden cottage, filliing the walls with leavings. Our friend needed to get the walls cleaned out and repaired before the bats come back for the summer. At seventy-three, she only stayed off the higher ladder because of doctor’s orders. She is a force of nature. I hope i’ll have as much energy, strength and practical know-how at her age.
Between the weekends, i attended a lot of poetry events.
It was great to meet the authors in Dektet, Frontenac House’s stunningly ambitious and successful gamble, launching 10 books of poetry at once.
And i was reminded of my own launch, this time last year, how very special a time that was.
I marvel, all the time, at fortune and luck. Both have favoured me time and again, not least in the example of Frontenac. Right place, right time, i met Rose Scollard, and felt she might like my manuscript.
The other evening, i witnessed the launch of 10 more people, who all evidently find, as i’ve found, that this publisher is really special. Especially in the strange times these are for books and publishing, i am so very thankful that Frontenac is out there. Buy books from them. The new books are a range of really compelling writing. You will find something for you.

Rain in the bamboo. Candles multiplying in twinkling panes of glass. Warm light on wood floors and beams, murmuring of ideas like sky shared water. This gift.

As Luck Would Have It

I went to Japan once, years ago. I had long been fascinated by China. But Japan had a government sponsored project, the Japan Exchange and Teaching program. And there was my friend Tracey, whose sense of when to push was right on target; she was going, she said, and she would not allow me not to apply along with her. And she refrained from voicing the obvious, that i was wallowing needlessly in a small misery, ignoring the possibility of a whole world of fun awaiting.

It was fun, filling out the forms, going to the library to research cities. We were instructed to choose our top 3 locations. Unofficially, we heard, “and don’t even bother picking Kyoto, you’ll never get it, 75% of people put Kyoto, you know…” We picked Kobe, after much consideration of the available information. I don’t recall my two other choices. But Kobe, a port city of mild climate, an international city, not too big, but definitely not dull, close to the centre; we could see it all, history and modern Japan, the rice paper screens and the cosmopolitan scene. Yes, Kobe would be the place for us.

When the acceptance came, it was late winter. My friend got a small town post near Kobe. As for me, i didn’t ask for it, but i got Kyoto. Specifically, i got Ayabe, a small town just out of Kyoto city. Not for the first time, i boggled at the generous nature of life. I hadn’t known enough about Japan to ask for Kyoto, even if i hadn’t heard of the huge likelihood of disappointment. Maybe that’s how they were picking – we’ll give it to some rube who doesn’t know enough to ask for the best….just my luck to bumble into the location those in the know were purportedly scrambling for like hungry cats fishing for the fresh liver amongst the kibble.

Bridge

In Ayabe, luck would have me share the posting with two fellow foreigners whom i’ll treasure forever, though our paths have long diverged. In fact, i have to credit Andrea Dew with showing me an example of leadership that remains unparalleled in my life. A simple thing, really. She had the courage to meet our Japanese hosts halfway, when there was a thin thread of chance to change a long-standing situation of mutual discomfort, misunderstanding and strain, between the Japanese education office and its long string of foreign JET appointees.
Andrea chose to believe things could be made good, and invited me to walk with her in making that choice work. She set up both her new colleagues, made it really clear that we could choose – the kind of cynical, grudging alienation that too often developed between workers in a strongly hierarchical, work oriented culture and the young hot-shots who typically arrived fresh from university, full of a sense of their own entitlement and inflated by being among the elite chosen for JET.
Or, we could choose to recognise the courage of Mr. Kitano, who, when given responsibility for the foreigners, refused to accept that things could never work out … shikata ga nai, nothing you can do about it… and we could accept the tentative hands of friendship from him and a few others in our office. We could commit to finding a way to be friends, bearing in mind the history of blunders that had built a culture of distance.

For example, Ayabe history included the AET (our title) who had gotten drunk and smashed a car, for which the office had to bear a certain responsibility; in fact, there was a litany of examples of bad behaviour by former AETs. Of course, some might say, they’re not us, it’s not fair to judge us by their actions… and some had said so, and stiffened themselves further with righteous indignation at this prejudice directed at them.

Indian Luck

As for me, it’s another one of those things that makes me boggle at the generous nature of life… i’d lived all my life (save one year) in Canada, as an Indian, so i wasn’t at all surprised. You could say Ayabe was lucky that it got an Indian that year, who wouldn’t be at all shocked to be categorised, pre-judged, subject to the kind of approval that says ‘you’re a credit to your race, wish there were more like you.’…
And this Indian was lucky to get Ayabe that year, to have the chance to try building bridges in a relatively non-pressurised context. Not my history at stake here. Not my immediate family’s wounds. Nothing i need take personally on either side, as i was not from the majority type on either side. I could see humans. And i came to love them, humans from both sides of that divide.
Andrea, Tony, wherever you are, know i remember you with love always; and you, too, Kitano-sensei, Nakai-kacho, Kakioka-san, Hosoi-san, Suwa-san, Mrs. Izeki, and the inimitable Mr. Mizutani… and so many more, all became and remain people i care about in this world.

Yes and No

I’m still trying, 15 years on, to make good use of that gift, still feeling just a little sadness that i didn’t stay on. There was much to recommend the option of staying. Mr. Kitano gave me two sets of forms, one for Yes and one for No, when it came time to choose to renew contracts; laughing in the near-deadpan way he had, because he knew i’d waver back and forth several times. “Of course, I hope it’s yes,” he intoned in his grave and sonorous voice, “but…” and waved one hand to encompass all of life, the necessity for us each to make and abide by our own decisions.
And i had been called to come back to Canada. I’d seen a landscape in a dream, if you want the romantic version. I’d also recognised that, for the long-term, if i was going to make the gift count, i had a responsibility to at least try to do so in the land of my ancestors. There was a chance i might apply myself fruitfully to bridging the gap between humans in my land, divided by history, culture, pain, divided by stories that do deeply involve my own particular family.

Singing

So, i closed the door on a world i loved, gathered in the many moments that had touched me and did my best to believe that i had learned what i was sent there to learn. Leave, while the tide runs high. Leave, while we’re laughing. Having sung a true note together, let it resound.

Song

I recall one day, near the end, when little Mrs. Mizutani, a music teacher from another part of our office, brought out a song book. I was the only AET in the office that day. She gathered a few of us – Kakioka-san, me, a couple of the ladies from her end of the office, and they commenced teaching me a few simple songs. “Sakura Sakura,” of course; but then she turned to a song about leaving, “Wakareru koto wa, tsurai -i – kedo…” And as we sang, a few of the guys drifted over, including our Mr. Mizutani, and he, too, began to sing.

Pachinko Parlour Angel

Out of the corner of my eye, i reeled through a year of impressions of him: his mumbled good mornings, scruffy hair, perpetual cigarette and overall surface of shabby cynicism, slightly the worse for wear; first time i saw him, i wondered if he’d come straight out of an all-nighter, pegged him as a connoisseur of the ironic; but then, his face lit like a little boy’s, looking at wayang kulit puppets one day in the office.

Early in the year, at a festival at Oomoto temple, Hosoi-san and i were comparing notes on religion, Suwa-san and Mizutani-san holding down the other end of the table. Suwa-san laughing, pokes a thumb at Mizutani, says, ‘his religion – pachinko.’ Mizutani ducks his head, drops his eyes to his drink.
But when we go on the office trip to Ise Shrine, he’s there with Mr. Suwa, sitting at the front of the bus with Andrea and i and the ladies, mildly playing Uno and drinking juice, while the rest of the guys were well into the beer by 8:30 am – so there could be no doubt, Andrea and i were chaperoned, were safe, were having no part of any holiday wildness. And when we met, i’d never have picked Mizutani for that job, but there he is, in the group photo by the bus, just behind my shoulder, his hair leaping surprised at the early morning sun, eyes half-shut to the camera.

My friend Ron sends me a supply of Weekly World News for Christmas – so i can keep up with culture, he says. I take to taking one along on our weekly office day; at coffee break, Andrea, Tony and i giggle over them, pick out a ludicrous story to show Suwa and Mizutani. Hooked, they want us to translate the most scurrilous tales – “Man’s Penis Implant Accidentally Wired to Garage Door Opener’ has our whole section in stitches. Suddenly, Nakai-kacho, our section boss, looks across from his desk, his normally beaming face thunderous, and barks at our lads to explain what what going on. But it turns out he’s not mad, just feeling left out, and he bounds over to see, and he laughs louder than anyone.

Another day, in the midst of the hum and buzz, clattering grey office, Mizutani asks me to explain an English word. A little while later, i look up, catch his fleet smile, his voice briefly, softly in Japanese; a shy little compliment i look up later to translate. It turns out he comes from Miwa, the tiny collection of villages where i often go to teach; Miwa, the peaceful three, a kind place, very tiny – tt’s one of many things Suwa-san teases him with, beneath the surface years of accquaintance, their interpersonal jibes way over my head. Suwa-san, genki boy, plays tennis. ‘His sport – pachinko’ again with the brown thumb jabbed at his companion, while Mizutani runs a nicotine-stained hand through his already ruffled hair.

And now i am singing with him. We have talked about the northern lights, he says he’d like to see them, Suwa-san would doubtless have a jibe ready if he heard that one… but we are singing. Little Mizutani-sensei, like a kind elder aunt, holds the book; my Mr. Mizutani leans in, holds the other edge of the book for her, singing soft and clear and entirely unironically. And there, standing between Mizutanis, i know i have touched the heart of something, and no other moment could be as pure. A whole possible lifetime has condensed into that time, that place, that circle, sleeve to sleeve, shoulder to shoulder, leaning our heads into one another as we sing, a silly little waltz about the sadness of leaving, but it has to be, and something about a star.

I’m about to set off for a journey into the wilderness, expecting to see a lot of stars. I shall do my best to pay full attention to the beauties revealed, and if the occasion offers, i shall waltz.

all my relations
ams

It’s been nearly a year since this happened; i didn’t publish this then, because i didn’t want to intrude into the sorrow of people who could claim true kinship and friendship to this marvelous man. I knew him only in passing. It doesn’t feel presumptuous anymore to speak of his meaning, for he touched my life.
April 6th, 2009 –
I just woke up with the radio news, telling me of the memorial last night, for Joe Bird.
Joe?! Gone?
Funny, lovely, crazy Joe, with his pretty voice and his flighty ways. Dead at 41, died last week of a heart attack.
I hadn’t heard a thing. I’ve been all wrapped up in my book launches, and other than that in family and neighbourhood life. In fact, haven’t seen or heard much of Joe at all, for years, pretty much since i started Big Sky Theatre and left the scene at the open stage he’d been hosting on Whyte Ave, down in the arty heart of Edmonton. I’d hear of his work  occasionally, of course, it’s not that big an arts community. But obviously, i’d no idea of his life – ever, really; we were never close, even when he used to kiss me. Funny thing, people.

Joe became part of my life in ‘97, though of course i’d seen his work as a comedian around town – who hadn’t. If you were young and artsy in the late 80s in edmonton, you knew about ‘Three Dead Trolls in a Baggie.’ But it was at an open stage on Whyte that i met him one night, in ‘96, when i was visiting in town from B.C. i brought my guitar and sang. and he complimented me, in a sweet and gentle way, and went on about his evening, chatting with the other players there, playing his own turn, creating a hum of smiles.
I felt refreshed.
You see, i was in the midst of some very emotionally and spiritually grueling work out in BC. I was beginning to think it was time to get out. When i knew for sure i was headed back to Alberta, i picked up an arts paper, and found in it the information that Joe was host of another open stage, at a place called Corks on Whyte. I remember reading that and thinking, ‘By the full moon of next month, i could be there, i could be singing on that stage.’

The thought became reality. and the reality was just what i imagined – light, fresh, freeing. I was back in the land of the big sky, out of the claustrophobic clutch of the mountains. I’d survived the weight of my work in BC – which work i do honour, which time was a treasure in its way, but which was a strange, hard time. By contrast, here was a community of people just playing, just making music. And Joe was in his glory, hosting. And he began to flirt with me.
What a flirt he was. A colleague of his once said of that scene, with a wry grin because his wife had been in it too, it was ‘joe bird’s petting zoo.’ Because he flirted with us all. Hugged us, kissed us, complimented us. It was all a game. And while part of me thought i ought to be offended, i enjoyed being one of the bevy of gals with whom he flirted. I liked feeling pretty. I needed that. If that makes me shallow, well, i’m shallow. But Joe’s funny light helped me relax – as much as i ever did. By his standards, i was “probably pretty high maintenance” as he told me one day, by way of letting me know why, for his part, it had never been more than a flirtation. By that time i could smile. He was right, by his lights.

But still, we were never close. I told him another time that i didn’t give a damn about “who he was” because he was blathering some nonsense (though it’s not) about fame; and i was insulted, at the time, that he would imply i only liked him for his popularity. But i was also sad for him, that he felt that way, couldn’t think i’d like him as a person, assumed it was only glamour; on the other hand, it was also accurate in that, as i said, we weren’t close. I didn’t really know him. He didn’t want to be known to me. And i didn’t actually want to be known to him. Apart from the love of music, and desire to be part of beauty, we were too different.

I’m glad, that i knew him when i did. He helped me so much, to come back from the darkness i’d been through. Though he had his own brand of darkness, though he wore shallowness like a shield, there was something truly kind and sweet about him, and i was blessed to meet him just when i needed that kind of kindness. And in fact, i suppose i needed distance and lightness, too. It was best just that way, sweet, light.

He gave me the gift of treating me pretty. And he helped me hook back up with my brothers, because i brought them to see the ridiculous, brilliant show he was doing that summer, Lester B. Pearson’s World of Hypnosis. I remember telling him once, ‘Thank you for that, Joe.’
And being, in my heart, a bit dubious of myself, a bit wondering was I sincere? It was odd to me, the dawning realisation, just as i said it, that that was the gift i’d gotten from him, when i was still, in some way, expecting it to have been the gift of a lover. Though by that time, i had mostly come to understand how he was, just playing, just needing to be pretty himself, needing attention and needing to create a sense of being loved by many, without having to worry about messing up in the follow-through.
Ah, Joe. I wrote a song for him. Well, it was for theatre guys as a ‘type’, but he was the first person i sang it for, the very day i finished it. Which is maybe not too much of a gift in return, but i do hope he really liked it.
‘That’s pretty, baby,’ he said at the time, after jumping in and singing along on the harmonies, just as easy as if he’d known that song forever, his voice soaring sweet and true.
He was part of the beauty.
Good bye Joe.

This one goes out in recognition of the upcoming vote on blue fin tuna fishing, in the hope that this vote will lead to better relations.

blue
light is blue
blue the strangeness
blue the air
that thing you don’t come back from
air

every one born
with fin coloured
like the deadly sky
your death there
beside you
propelling you
reach out
your reach and touch
are death-toned
it is there to open your mind

spread your fins and know
see you
a part of the thing you don’t come back from

they say
there is a song
when you rise
a rushing song
blues
they call it

the old ones
were bold
rushed and rose up
touched the very edge of water
lifted a fin into it

tested the match
blue against blue
tasted the deadly spume
the spray lace edge of breathing

they say dolphins leap
weave together
sky and water worlds
bastards!
so cocky
not like us
dolphins
wise ones
wise ass, more like.

‘ooh, i’ve been in the air,’
like they know anything

it is the old ones who know
whose song is a long dark groaning
oh, i been in the air
felt i could rise
if not for your love
holding me down
keep me blue
keep me down
don’t let me rise
don’t let me drown
keep be blue
anchor me
keep me down

don’t let me rise
don’t let me drown
show me the way
to still water
keep me out of the roll
still water
down low

great songs
the old blue singers had
‘you got me low’
‘deep love falling’
‘lost and rising’

listen to the songs

……..

all my relations
ams