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Оглавление1 SPIRITS OF THE NATIVE PEOPLES
The reader will find in the first section of this book descriptions of the psychical and spiritual practices of the Native people, as they were recorded in the columns of the newspapers of their day. Prior to the 1960s it was customary to refer to the Native people who occupy the polar regions of Canada as “the Eskimo” and “Indians.” The tone of these accounts is by turn quaint and condescending. But they do preserve a sense of surprise and mystery as they describe shamanistic or pagan principles and practices, and they do prepare the reader for the final account, a memoir, which is much longer than all the rest combined. It is included here because it brings everything up to date. It suggests that the Native mysteries, far from being relegated to the past, are very much part of the present and will positively be part of the future, too!
In the 1960s, as if to mark the coming to political power of the Native people, the word Eskimo was dropped in favour of the word Inuit (which means “people” in Inuktitut, the language the Inuit speak). Since articles like this one predate the 1960s by almost a century, the word Eskimo will be maintained. “Spiritism among the Esquimaux” appeared in the Sarnia Observer, December 4, 1874. It must have represented a novelty to the readers of that paper. Nothing is immediately known of its source other than what is named in the last line.
Spiritism among the Esquimaux
The religion of the Esquimaux is of all curious systems of theology, the most curious. Nevertheless they are not polytheists, demon worshipers, not even idolaters, in the common acceptance of that term. They believe in one supreme deity, whom they call Toongarsoon, their word for the devil, who is of the feminine gender, but whose proper name, if she has one, I could never ascertain. Their god is supposed to reside in a handsome dwelling situated somewhere in the sea. His occupation, according to their notion, is a very benevolent one, for he is said to keep large herds of seals, sea-horses, etc., for the express purpose of providing entertainment for the souls of the good men, which are transported immediately after death to the apartments assigned for him in the marine palace where his godship resides. A large apartment of this place is said to be fitted up with cooking apparatus, on the most extensive scale; pots and kettles of such dimensions that walruses, sea unicorns, seals, etc., in large numbers are boiled or baked therein every day to furnish a perpetual feast for the happy spirits of deceased Esquimaux hunters, or such of them as behaved themselves with tolerable propriety while in the flesh. Hence it will appear that the Esquimaux heaven consists of a never ending feast of fat things, an eternity of well cooked walrus meat and seal’s blubber.
The devil (a female one, remember) is supposed to be an unworthy sister of the divine, Toongarsoon. She resides at some distance from her brother’s palace, on an island, where she takes charge of deceased sinners, who, under her domestic management, fare worse if possible than the inmates of some of the cheap boarding-houses in New York. In fact, these delinquent spirits suffer the pangs of starvation, and their cries and shrieks of agony are often heard above the howling of the arctic gales and the angry war of the mountain torrents. — Prof. Sountage’s Narrative, etc.
This article exemplifies the habit of non-Native writers of the past for finding Native practices remarkable if also somewhat ridiculous. “Superstitious Indians” appeared in the Winnipeg Free Press, January 6, 1894. It was reprinted from the Boston Transcript. Although the writer uses the first-person singular, his name is not given.
Superstitious Indians One Reason Why Missionaries Make So Little Progress
North of the Lake of the Woods lies a region which is as yet unpenetrated by the lines of travel. In this section, perhaps, more than any other in British America, the Indians deserve the name which even the Crees about Lake Winnipeg apply to them, “Heathen Indians.” During a visit to the eastern shore of Lake Winnipeg I saw some of these Indians, and our inspector of Indian agencies, the Hon. Ebenezer McColl, gave me many particulars concerning their customs.
Among these natives flourishes unabated the superstitious belief in the power of the medicine men. These artful old conjurers, more interested in extorting from the people their living than in their advancement, prejudice them against all inroads of teachers or missionaries, and by their monotonous incantations and weird ceremonies frighten them into following their advice. Into this order both men and women are initiated at any time from childhood to extreme age. A variety of rites attend upon this initiation. In one order it is the custom to demand of candidates certain sacrifices before admitting them into the sacred precincts of the medicine lodge; then food and drink are dealt out. After partaking of these they immediately retire to some secluded place, miles from the village, where fasting and sleeping, they pass from one to ten days according to their powers of endurance. During these protracted fastings the good and evil spirits visit them, showing not only the good and evil they are empowered to do in after life, but designating the object, either animate or inanimate, to which they must look for assistance.
From these visiting spirits they claim to receive instructions in the most commonplace affairs, even in the number and variety of the poles used in the constructing of the conjuring tent are designated. Those who fast the longest are the “biggest medicine,” and claim that, in the latest days of their fast, is imparted to them much more information than they received at first, their patient endurance having proved them worthy. These revelations are to be kept secret throughout life. Should they happen to be disclosed, their virtue is destroyed, and all power given is lost. When the initiates return to their lodges, each is given two swallows of a drink in a birch-bark cup, and about the same quantity of food. No more is allowed (although they are starving in sight of plenty), until a half-day has elapsed, when they are at liberty to appease their hunger. — Boston Transcript.
W.E.H. Stokes is the author of the strongly argued article “Saskatchewan’s Indians and Their Religious Beliefs,” published in the Regina Leader-Post May 30, 1906. Stokes’s name does not appear in reference books for Canadian folklore or literature. He asserts with an intensity uncommon in newspaper articles that the word pagan should not be applied to the Indians of the Northwest. He objects on the basis that the word means “heathen” — that is, a faithless person or a person who worships evil, the Devil. Yet at its core the word pagan means “rustic,” the opposite of “civic.” Still, Stokes is well ahead of his time in stating that the spiritual beliefs of the Indians should be respected and not submerged in the religious beliefs of the white man. In our day there is wide-spread interest in the survival of the principles and practices of shamanism. In the archaic period it was a global phenomenon; in our period its last-surviving remnant is undergoing a revival. It has always been characteristic of the Indians of the Northwest.
Saskatchewan’s Indians and Their Religious Beliefs
Perhaps no greater injustice was ever perpetrated by one race of people against another than when the Crees and other Indians of Saskatchewan and Alberta were officially styled “Pagans” by the Dominion Government. After having had a somewhat exceptional chance of enquiring into the obscure subject of Indian religious beliefs, I think it safe to say that the word Pagan is not in any sense applicable to these people, and I think that if the missionaries to them would first apply themselves to the study of what the Crees and the Blackfeet believe, their efforts to Christianize them would be attended with a much greater degree of success than they have achieved hitherto.
But no, with scarcely a single exception the missionaries, both Catholic and Protestant, that I have met with approach the Indian they desire to convert thoroughly imbued with the idea that what the so-called Pagan believes in is such a weird, childish tissue of fancies that it is scarcely worthy of the serious attention of any sane man. The Indian’s beliefs, as I have been fortunate enough to ascertain, are as sacred, as real as ours are to us, and I have yet after fourteen years’ experience in this country to meet with the clergyman who had the least idea of what he had to combat in the minds of the Indians, or had ascertained if there was any mutual belief that he and they both held which might be used as a starting point to work from. As a rule it must be admitted that to the missionary, the Indian’s creed is Anathema Maranatha.
This may seem to you to be a rather sweeping condemnation of the methods that have been followed by Protestant and Roman Catholic missionaries in this country for almost two generations, but when I reflect, and, by your leave, when you reflect upon the enormous sums of money that have been expended, upon the loss of life and health, and upon the real devotion and zeal that have been and are even now being displayed by the clergy and other workers for Christianity, it must make us sad. It must give us pause. To what results can we point? The only answer that has been given to this question is “Give us more time, more money, more workers,” but I reply, and hope to prove that I am correct, “Your efforts are misdirected, you have started wrong, and in the meantime the good you have accomplished is largely discounted by the tide of civilization which has undoubtedly undone and is pernicious to the races of Indians which you and I are so anxious to elevate.”
In what then do the aboriginals of this country believe? The following is what I found, and it cannot be more than a mere outline on account of the short time in point of years that I have devoted to this, to me, extremely interesting subject. They believe in two deities, the Great and the Small, the Great they call Manitou, which has the power for all good, and the Small Matchee-Manitou, which has the power for all evil. The possession of power being to the Indian’s mind the greatest and dearest attribute, he will, naturally apply himself to whichever of these two deities will most further his ends for blessing or cursing, but, whereas, he will through another, submit supplications and make great sacrifices through a mediator to the Great Spirit, he will pray, occasionally, to the Small Spirit without any intercessor or formalities or sacrifices. He dare not pray direct to the Great Spirit, but will, recognizing his own innate baseness, go through almost anything in order to secure the interest of a mediator or intercessor, who he trusts will have more influence with the Great Spirit, or Manitou, than has his unworthy self. It is in the selection of this mediator that the influence of dreams, in all ages and climes a great and powerful agent in their operation on men’s minds, comes into force. These mediators must themselves be spirits, and only can reveal themselves to man in dreams, or sometimes they have been known to possess the insane, or mentally afflicted. These latter, however, are often possessed by the Matchee-Manitou, and then the evil spirit must be driven out, resulting in the barbarities familiar to us, when a human being is supposed to have a Weh-ta-ko, or Wehtigo. The Indian believes that his own influence with Manitou is as good as anyone’s except a Spirit’s. What is then his definition of a Spirit? It is hard to define, but the explanation of the term according to the Cree and Blackfoot is this. It is the invisible essence that formerly animated the body of a human being or animal when living, also it is reflected in and by the shadow cast by inanimate objects when the sun shines. This latter idea appeals to me as a very beautiful and poetic one. We know that all things above ground change and go through their appointed periods of bloom and decay. Nothing in nature is everlasting, the very face of the world itself alters, and that even within a single lifetime, so that when the Indian says, “Must there not be a spirit or soul in inanimate things as well as in those bodies which we deem endowed with life,” it is not an extravagant or even a peculiar thing that he should believe that there is a spirit of a stick, a rock, the prairie grass, or the mountains. He will therefore attach as much importance to the revelations conveyed to him by dreams of these objects as he will to those of his dead fellow creatures, dreams of his dead forefathers or relations, or of any animals or creatures which we call living creatures.
All of these spirits alike were called into being by Manitou and are being recalled into his presence as one by one they die or depart from mortal ken.
Now if the Indian dreams frequently on any object dead, or inanimate, that is to say, of any person or animal dead or any object above ground that casts a shadow, he believes that the spirit of that particular person, animal, or thing casting a shadow, as the case may be, has either some power for him, or some message for him or perhaps that the spirit wishes to signify to him that he or it will protect and patronize him by presenting his petitions to Manitou. The spirits themselves have no personal power except only that they are acceptable mediators between the poor Indian and Manitou. Therefore it is to these spirits of which the Indian has frequently dreamed that he will address his prayers, devout supplications and sacrifices in order that Manitou may be pleased to send to the suppliant power to gratify his wishes, whether they be for success in haunting or in the council tent, or for power to work harm to his enemies or for whatever particular thing it may be that at the time is most earnestly desired. Even though he may be dying the Indian will not even presume to make these prayers or sacrifices more than twice a year, as he fears to intrude so unworthy a being as he feels himself to be upon the notice of his patron spirits more often, and is afraid to be so presumptuous as to have a petition from him presented to the Great God more frequently than this, owing to the reverent fear in which he holds his very idea.
Let me go back for a moment. I found that among the older so-called Pagans, the Lesser Spirit, or Matchee-Manitou, is a being that they would hardly consider seriously, although they believed in his existence firmly. They seemed to attach little importance to the power of the Evil Spirit who they thought was held strictly in subjection to Manitou, and they apparently only used Matchee-Manitou as a sort of figure-head on which to lay the blame for any misfortune that might overtake them. In fact they would always try to turn aside my inquiries with a laugh, when I asked them about Matchee-Manitou. I need not perhaps refer to him again, as it is only very rarely that an Indian will pray for power to do evil, to this ideal of everything that is bad, called Matchee-Manitou, and, as already pointed out, they would never invoke the aid of an intercessor, or make any sacrifice to obtain the power he might have to bestow. But their silence and refusal to answer my questions may, nevertheless, be due to fear.
You will observe that the so-called Pagans are great believers in dreams which they regard as an intimation from some spirit which desires the dreamer to make use of it as intercessor or mediator with the God who is so holy in comparison with the suppliant, that he would otherwise be unapproachable. Therefore the Indians relate to one another the dreams that visit them, and when it becomes known that a man or woman often has the same dream, the others recognize that individual as being under the protection of the spirit of the object dreamed of. In this way a large number of them, to us incomprehensible names so common among them, have arisen. They are named after the spirit or thing or person or animal they have dreamed of so frequently. This of course only applies to some of their names, which do not descend from father to son.
If by any chance you should happen to see one of these mis-named Pagan Indians at his devotions (and it is only by chance that you will do so) and should ob-serve that he apparently addresses himself to a tree, a rock or to nothing that is discernible, remember that he is only doing as the Roman Catholics do, that is, asking his patron spirit to approach in his behalf the very same Great God that we believe in, but whom the Indian, so poor and vile a creature does he believe himself to be, dare not, and will not directly address. Protestants believe only in one mediator, one intercessor, one ever-living though once dead, sacrifice — Jesus Christ. The Pagan Indian knows nothing of Him and is inclined to regard the story of His incarnation as a flight of the imagination. There is this to be said, that once the postulate is granted in the matter of the Spirit or immortal essence permeating what we call inanimate things — and this is not a matter that would seem difficult to me — there is nothing in the so-called Pagan’s creed which demands the surrender of his reason, or the great and child-like faith which Christians deem necessary. That it is necessary I believe myself, not from any superior knowledge given to me compared to that granted to an Indian, but merely because I recognize in myself so much that is contrary to my reason and yet so much that I accept as true, without anything in the way of evidence.
Though the Christian gospel may not appeal to the Indian’s reason, the effect or result of Christianity does appeal to him, and in no attractive light either. For what does he find? Civilization, which must follow Christianity, has been a blight on the Cree, the Blackfoot and on all Indian nations. This is a truism, but the fact remains that civilization has acted and reacted upon the Indians very much as the introduction of a city sewer would do upon a clear and limpid mountain lake, polluting from underneath, insidiously, the various strata of the Indian’s life, affecting first the young, the vain, and the foolish and at last, as the older generations die off, slowly obliterating the last trace of the purity and beauty that formerly was its boast.
It may be said, “Is Christianity to blame for this?” but the Indian does not try to draw the distinction between Christianity and civilization, he concerns him-self only with the effect of either, or both, he cares not which, upon his own and his nation’s well-being.
All “old-timers” will bear me out when I say that the Pagan Indian is an honest and God-fearing a man as ever lived, that there is less immorality according to the ideas which prevail among them, I mean less personal meanness, and almost no petty thievery among the Indians, where they have been fortunate enough to escape the evil influences which the arrival of white men among them has invariably produced. This may seem to some extravagant language, but it is my experience at all events, more particularly among the Mountain Stoneys, who have in a great measure preserved their much-despised Pagan principles of right dealing, honesty and general uprightness. They are Methodists now, and as far as I could see they had but to make a slight change after all in their beliefs, and no change in their daily lives. They believe now in God, the Trinity, and have eliminated the mediation of every spirit but that of Jesus Christ and seem to have found that their old conception of Manitou differs in no important particular with that of their new-found Father Almighty, the same all-good Power that they have always acknowledged to be their master. No much of change perhaps; who among the living can say? Formerly they were Unitarians, with the very beautiful theory of spiritual intercession added; now they profess with equal sincerity Christianity or Methodism, as you prefer. Whether this result should be attributed to the Rev. John McDougall, or the inaccessibility of their homes and hunting grounds I cannot say. I have not had the honor of meeting this missionary and he is therefore not among the failures alluded to above. Honor to whom honor is due. I have met with Mountain Stonies both at Morley and Lac Ste. Anne, and I would trust one in all matters implicitly, relying on his good principles that I should never regret it.
The forms and ceremonies connected with this religion are really few in number, but as they have been so frequently described and even witnessed both by those who understood and by those ignorant of their meaning, perhaps it is scarcely necessary to describe them fully. It will not be in any sense relevant to the question at issue, which is simply this — why are the Indians of the late North-West Territories called “Pagan”?
If I accomplish anything by what I have said which may awaken a train of thought in the minds of my superiors tending towards the removal of the stigma “Pagan,” I hope at all events to see the day dawn when the official name of “Pagan” may be altered to some word more applicable, more true. Call them, I suggest, instead of Christian worshipers, worshipers of God-in-Nature. Jehovah and Manitou, Jew and Indian, not I beg of you, Christian or Pagan, Protestant or Roman Catholic, or Christian and any name except Pagan. Jehovah of the Jews and Manitou of the pure-blood Indian resemble, and in fact, probably mean, one and the same conception of God. Let them then, and that soon, be styled Pagan no more.
Much cultural lore and many of the spiritual traditions of the Ojibwa people, which would otherwise have been lost in time, were preserved in written form by Peter Jones. One of his books which is particularly valuable for the light it sheds on the Native belief system is titled History of the Ojibway Indians with Especial Reference to their Conversion to Christianity ... With a Brief Memoir of the Writer and Introductory Notice by the Rev. G. Osborn, D.D., Secr. of the Wesleyan Methodist Missionary Society (1861, 1970).
A Mississauga Indian learned in his people’s traditions, Jones was a convert to Christianity. He was converted by Methodist missionaries and, ordained a minister, he preached the social gospel among his own people. He found more comfort in the monotheism of Christianity than in the pantheism and polytheism of his Native religion. “In all my fastings I never had any vision or dream,” he confessed, “and, consequently, obtained no familiar god, nor a spirit of the rank of a pow-wow. What a mercy it is to know that neither our happiness nor success depends upon the supposed possession of these imaginary gods, but that there is one only true and living God, whose assistance none ever did, or even can, seek in vain!”
Here is a passage from Jones’s book which documents or dramatizes the Native notion of the afterlife, what the white man calls “the happy hunting grounds.”
He Came to Life Again
The following story, which was communicated to me by an Indian named Netahgawineneh, will serve to illustrate the source whence they derive their absurd ideas of a future state: —
In the Indian country far west an Indian once fell into a trance, and when he came to life again, he gave the following account of his journey to the world of spirits.
“I started,” said he, “my soul or spirit in company with a number of Indians who were travelling to the same spirit land. We directed our footsteps towards the sun-setting. On our journey we passed through a beautiful country, and on each side of our trail saw strawberries as large as a man’s head. We ate some of them, and found them very sweet; but one of our party, who kept loitering behind, came up to us and demanded, ‘Why were we eating a ball of fire?’ We tried to persuade him to the contrary, but the foolish fellow would not listen to our words, and so went on his way hungry. We travelled on until we came to a dark, swollen, and rapid river, over which was laid a log vibrating in a constant wavering motion. On this log we ventured to cross, and having arrived at the further end of it, we found that it did not reach the shore; this obliged us to spring with all our might to the land. As soon as we had done this, we perceived that the supposed log on which we had crossed was a large serpent, waving and playing with his huge body over the river. The foolish man behind was tossed about until he fell off, but he at length succeeded in swimming to shore. No sooner was he on land than a fierce and famished pack of wolves fell on him and began to tear him to pieces, and we saw him no more. We journeyed on, and by and by came within sight of the town of spirits. As soon as we made our appearance there was a great shout heard, and all our relatives ran to meet us and to welcome us to their happy country. My mother made a feast for me, and prepared everything that was pleasant to eat and to look upon; here we saw all our forefathers; and game and corn in abundance; all were happy and contented.
“After staying a short time, the Great Spirit of the place told me that I must go back to the country I had left, as the time had not yet arrived for me to dwell there. I accordingly made ready to return; and as I was leaving, my mother reproached me by all manner of foolish names for wishing to leave so lovely and beautiful a place. I took my departure, and soon found myself in the body and in the world I had left.”
Creation myths and “just so” stories abound in the oral traditions of the Native peoples of Canada. “A Lake Superior Legend” appeared in The Nor’Wester (Winnipeg, Red River Settlement), August 24, 1869.
A Lake Superior Legend
In the summer of 1864, while in the Lake Superior country, I took a notion one day to have a swim. So, donning a light bathing dress, I dropped into the water. The plunge almost took my breath away. I had anticipated coldness, but I had not anticipated such icy coldness as this. The Lake Superior Indians never bathe; the reason they assign is, that the water of the lake is never warm.
A great many years ago the waters of the mighty lake were warm in the summer season. The Indians were the sole inhabitants of the land in those days. Manabozho was a great manitou (good spirit), and the Lake Superior tribes were his favourite children. But sometimes Manabozho used to put on his Seven League Boots, and stride away over the mountains on a visit to his mighty brother of the setting sun. He had gone on such a journey one melting day in July, and the Indians lay in their forests, dreaming dreams about the fairy lands of the East.
There was a bad spirit who hated the Indians fiercely. This bad spirit was a monstrous snake. He was very much afraid of the good manitou, Manabozho, and when Manabozho was at home the bad spirit stayed in his fiery lake, away back into the forest.
But now Manabozho was gone on a journey, so the bad spirit resolved to take advantage of his absence to destroy the tribes whom he hated. He had a large number of demons in his service, who were ready for any work he might set them. He dispatched an army of these demons to annihilate the Indians. For his part he set himself to watch for Manabozho, in case that good manitou should return unexpectedly.
The Indians saw the army of demons coming, and knowing that in the absence of their chief they were powerless to fight against them, they gathered their women and children together, and paddled away in their canoes across the lake. The demons could not swim, and had taken a great dislike to the water, and when they saw the Indians paddling away, they howled in their rage, and belched forth great clouds of flame and smoke.
But as soon as the Indians had safely reached an island, a thick covering of ice suddenly overspread the lake, and the demons yelling with joy rushed upon it. When they were all safely upon the ice bridge, it parted as suddenly as it had appeared, and became an ice-craft, and floated hither and thither. The demons were in great distress, being unable to get to either shore. And now the form of Manabozho rose to view. Manabozho understood the situation at once, and stretching out his mighty arm, larger than a pine tree, roared with a voice louder than thunder, “Sink, sink, and rise no more!”
And the raft sunk, and the demons perished, and the Indians came back and worshipped Manabozho. And this is why the waters of Lake Superior are so cold.
When I began to collect people’s accounts of supernatural and paranormal experiences, a fellow writer and editor noted, “John Robert receives the most fascinating mail in the country.” I immediately agreed with him. These days, as I continue to collect accounts of people’s experiences, including those of a psychical, spiritual, and mystical nature, I feel I receive “the most fascinating email in the country.”
Witness the present email from Sparrow (or White Sparrow) and some of the accompanying files. The inner narratives described herein took me by surprise. Indeed, from the first lines they surprised me, as I had (automatically) assumed that my correspondent was a male. Why? Who knows? These accounts are certain to raise a bevy of questions (and supply a handful of answers).
I cannot tell Sparrow much, but I can assure her that these accounts of her experiences are at least as astounding as any that I have published. She fears they are “relatively tame.” Well, in terms of seeing ghosts or being cursed by ghouls, they are, but as her experiences are those that enlarge the soul rather than assault the spirit, they are germane and genuine. At the same time, they evoke the wisdom and wonder of the spirit of the Native people.
Feathers Within
From: Sparrow
Sent: Friday, May 20, 2005 8:00 PM
To: jrc@ca.inter.net Subject: Purchased your book today!
Greetings John Robert Colombo!
Well, Sir, you may wish to grab yourself a coffee, tea, or something stronger to sip on! The reason being, my connection to you today is becoming as strange as some of the stories that I am in the process of currently reading!
Earlier this afternoon, I purchased a copy of More True Canadian Ghost Stories, John Robert Colombo. (I have only read a dozen or so pages and felt compelled to write you!)
I have many books on my shelf, but none of them include full collections of such stories!
Nothing I do is ever simple! Which makes this email to you now rather long and complex! For that, I apologize!
I was in a book store in Owen Sound, Ontario this afternoon. I was browsing for something new to sink my reading teeth into.
First, I immediately picked up a book entitled Emily Dickinson: Poems. A book or two away was yours! I don’t buy ghost story books. However, I am learning more and more to follow my instinctive hunches or callings, as I call them.
At the time, I could not make the connection between poetry and ghost stories! That is until I type in your web address! So, now I am even more convinced I was meant to contact you!
I’m not sure, Sir, where to begin!
My personal journey is quite a story all on its own. I am right in the middle of a very odd life situation. I am also currently trying to write about it behind the scenes, so to speak!
Let’s see!
I am a decade long member of the Canadian Country Music Association. A member of SOCAN [Society of Composers, Authors, and Music Publishers of Canada].
A published songwriter and published poet! I also have a sixty page and growing website which I use as a way to vent some of my creative energy. I am NOT an editor, by any stretch of the imagination! When I am not working at one of the previously mentioned, I am working full time at a private resort!
I turn fifty next month! Two months ago, I JUST completed a long “legal” process with regards to my name!
I am now LEGALLY called White Sparrow!
It is two words ... but only ONE name!
I do not recognize my forename as “White.” Nor do I recognize my surname as “Sparrow”! My name is only SPLIT when government, or standard forms insist on requiring me to do so! This is most unfortunate, but such is life! (For the most part, I simply SHORTEN my full name to SPARROW for everyday use! My signature is White Sparrow! Phew!)
To get a tiny glimpse into my story behind the story, make yourself welcome at the following. www.whitesparrowwigwam.com. My bio is but a flicker of the journey that I am currently on!
My future plans include doing an e-book from my website, as well as perhaps having it put in regular book form. I haven’t decided. I sort of fall into things rather than preplan! One might say that I operate on Indian time! lol!
Basic recap of myself. I am White on the outside, Red on the inside! (Well of course, except for my unusually high cheek bones!) Which probably has something to do with my name, but that’s a whole other chapter in my one day book!
Aside from all of the above I have been known to do some out of the ordinary things! What I can clarify for you at this point is that, the older I get, the stronger this talent seems to be growing!
Unlike the many folks that I read about, who are so calm, cool and collected about such experiences ... I can assure you, it is NOT something that I have become comfortable with! Especially in some cases! One as recent as a few weeks ago!
Bottom Line — Mr. Colombo, I have had “several” experiences that seem to fall right in line with the stories that you gather and have published! Many have witnessed these encounters or experiences that I have had! They come to me ... both through Red eyes and White!
My Native encounter I am planning to use in my own book! However, I am at the bottom of the totem pole here. Therefore, it might be of wiser use to also pass it along to you as well, if you feel it might be something that you can use.
I realize that I have given little detail to you at this point about my experiences. Most of them I would have to create files for and email to you. They are only in my memory at this point in time, and, in the memory of those who have been involved! The length of them are as varied as the encounters!
Perhaps, Sir, you would prefer to scan some of the material on my website first! I say scan, because there is a lot of material for a busy person to delve too deeply into!
Should you be remotely interested, you can respond to me at this email address! (I use my email address on my site ... strictly for site related issues!)
In true appreciation of your time and your compiled stories! I will now go back to continue reading them.
Currently, I am wrestling with a good case of laryngitis! So, this is a perfect opportunity for me to get to know more about the stories that interest you!
Once again, thank you for listening!
Sparrow
Feathers Within: May the Great Spirit Watch Over and Bless Us All! by White Sparrow
1. The Beginning: My Dream: There’s a Buffalo in My Bedroom
2. The Middle: The Sacred Circle: Emerging as White Sparrow
3. The End: My Calling: One Lost Sparrow and One Great Canadian Chief
In the year 1905, exactly one hundred years ago, Civilla D. Martin (lyricist) and Charles H. Gabriel (composer) collaborated on the hymn titled “His Eye is On the Sparrow.” The refrain:
I sing because I’m happy,
I sing because I’m free,
For his eye is on the sparrow,
And I know he watches me.
Matthew 10:29–31: “Are not two sparrow sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. So, don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.”
1. My Dream: There’s a Buffalo in My Bedroom
It had been over three years since I had slept in my own bed, in my own bedroom. I had spent three years of sleeping on a living-room couch. There was no logical explanation for this. Nothing that I could say. This is the reason why.
Somehow, there was comfort from the back of the couch when it pressed up against me. I have been on my own for longer than most people stay married. I thought I had a full life. I was working full time, was a published songwriter, and had two grown sons out in the world making their own way.
For a momentary second, I was starting to question the state of my mental health. I mean really! What would prevent a grown woman from sleeping in her own bed?
Then, I began to dig inside myself for some straight answers. Like, when exactly, had I stopped sleeping in my bed, and why?
Three years earlier I decided to change the décor of my sleeping quarters. I decided to undo the Native Indian decorating, but something stopped me from completing this task. So there sat my bedroom, half one way, half the other!
Convincing myself I was on to something, I set my sights on putting the room back the way it was. You know, as an experiment. It still wasn’t nearly finished, but somehow with even just a few changes it had already began to give comfort to my restless spirit. So I made up my mind to try camping out in it once again.
That first night, before falling asleep, I prayed for a sign! Not just any old sign, but something big and profound. Something that would unquestionably answer my searching. What I wanted and needed to know was if I was headed in the right direction. Well, I think I may have prayed just a little extra too hard. Here’s what happened.
That night, I quickly, calmly, and quietly fell asleep. The next thing I remember was the earth shaking under my queen-size bed. I looked out my large window to the east and could hear what sounded like a freight train headed straight toward me. I looked hard with searching eyes. Nothing was in view, only more rumble and shaking.
Finally, there came the image of a huge black buffalo. It was travelling at an enormous speed, and the dust was swirling under its thundering hooves. All I could think to do was roll myself quickly in towards the window. By doing this, I thought by the time it had reached me it would jump over me, rather than landing right on me. I rolled over once and than twice. Then there was a horrific smashing of glass. As I turned and looked up, I witnessed a full-grown black buffalo leaping above and across my bed and over me! Before it crashed and disappeared into my double closet, it immediately changed colour from jet black to pure white!
I instantly woke from my dream and sat straight up in bed looking over at my closet. “Woe-wah,” came spilling out of my mouth soon followed by a wide grin. It was the exhilarating answer to my prayer. Just as I had requested, the Great Spirit had sent a message so large and so life-like that not even I could miss his message!
My answer was “Yes!” I was moving in the right direction, on the right road.
This is by far the most profound and vivid dream I have had to date. Other dreams come close, but this one was definitely over the top! Within days, my bedroom was added to one article at a time — until, it had the look and feel of home for me. Native Indian!
2. The Sacred Circle: Emerging as White Sparrow
Who would ever dream one’s rite of passage could or would ever arrive in their mailbox, and for free? Well, I am here to tell you that this is how one of mine came to me. Now, that’s just about as close to your own doorstep as life can deliver.
One day, while surfing the Net, I bumped into the website for Alan Greywolf. I didn’t know at the time that the event would become a key to my life’s journey and would result in my new legal name!
At the time I was researching anything and everything on the subject of Native American Indian history, culture, legends, you name it. This was an obsession. I suppose it still is!
When I began to read through Alan’s site, I became engrossed in the subject. I ended up spending the next seven or eight hours there without a break. I read every sentence, every line, and every word! After covering the site from top to bottom and from start to finish, I decided to email him. Actually, it was more like I was compelled to email him.
It was not long after my initial email of self-introduction that Alan mailed out to me one of his own guided and self-produced meditation CDs. More precisely, the CD was The Sacred Circle.
For those who may not be familiar with this term, with Alan, or with his CDs, allow me (with his permission) to capture the essence of this CD and the purpose for which he created it. The purpose appears on the back of his CD jacket cover in these words:
Within your own centre you will create one of the most mystical and powerful symbols for life, your own personal Medicine Wheel, the Sacred Circle of the Native Americans. Here you will connect to elemental spirits, and the Spirit Keepers of the Four Directions.
Through these connections, you will find the power and the means to enhance and change your life. New directions, growth, abundance and prosperity, your own truth and wisdom, all are open to you as are many more possibilities.
Well ... let me clarify this as one of the biggest understatements that I have encountered in my lifetime! If Alan ever needed a testimony for his ability to guide one through a meditation that delivered every single thing that he said it would, then mine is a given!
Neither Alan nor I believe in such a thing as coincidence. Our paths were designed to connect, and they certainly were successful in completing this mission.
Prior to receiving this CD, I had never listened to or read a single article on meditation. Quite honestly, I didn’t understand the topic, and I certainly didn’t put great stock in it. For the record, so to speak, I have no desire to ever listen to another one. Why would I? Alan’s had succeeded in changing my life forever. Forever!
Picture, if you will, me, tearing the shrink-wrap off of the CD. I immediately was drawn to the beautiful photo shot on the front of the jacket cover. This feature alone brought me to a place of solid, solitary grounding. Next, I popped the CD into the player and hit the power button on the machine. Didn’t have a clue how one goes about meditating, but I was willing to give it a shot. Then I quickly whipped over to the couch and lay down as if I was getting ready to be transported in a space shuttle! Oh, if Alan could have only seen me then. I’m afraid he wouldn’t have believed I would ever gotten through it!
Immediately I hit pause on the CD, and jumped up to light some tea lights. Then I just as quickly lay back down on the couch again and strapped myself into the get ready for lift off position! You know, absolutely board stiff! Cripes, I couldn’t have been more tense if I had of planned it out for weeks in advance!
Next, with straining ears, I heard the beginnings of soft music grow slightly stronger and stronger. It was soothing, original, and I liked it! My mind-set had already began to change. I was starting to think that maybe I could be on to something here.
Then, my ears filled with the “warm lavender” voice of Alan Greywolf, a voice with the quality to fill out a microphone without crowding out the listener! For any of you men out there, reading this, his voice isn’t just soothing to a woman. His voice is simply soothing, period!
Anyway, just as I was thinking that I had no clue how to go about meditating, Alan began to speak in a voice that beckons you until you follow! He began to tell me step by step “exactly” how to proceed.
Well, how about that? A man who knew “exactly” what to say and when to say it! Sorry guys, just venting here a little! Okay I thought this might be a bit of all right!
What Alan does on this CD is verbally massage your body, mind, and soul into a state of relaxation. How does he do that? Beats the heck out of me; but, ladies and gentlemen, it works! He seems to know every single place to pinpoint to successfully complete this process.
After the first few fits of giddy silliness at my awkwardness with meditation, I found myself getting more serious about the potential it might hold. I began to trust Alan’s voice. I knew I was in the comfort and safety of my own home and that he hadn’t said to do anything strange or bizarre to cause me to be concerned. It was from this mind set that I surrendered my conscious mind to his direction.
What I really appreciate the most is how he guides! He instructs one on what to do, but at the same time with the freedom of independence to do it in your own individual way. This impressed me, a lot. Perhaps this is the underlying secret to the success of his ability. Then came the real icing on the whole cake. The soft solitude music that is feathered into the background of his voice-over guidance! This entire process I found just as interesting and relaxing as the unwinding and unraveling of my tense and stressed body and mind.
Yes, I had been working a lot of crazy hours and shifts prior to this meditation, and that seemed to strangely add to the potent magic of just how powerful Greywolf’s gift really is! Before you know it, you seem to operate on automatic pilot.
Once the relaxation stage is complete, Alan walks you into your Sacred Circle. The name alone drives one to draw nearer and listen closer as he speaks. Now I was getting good and hungry for what he was about to feed me next. I didn’t know what to expect or what was coming, but I strongly felt it was going to be something like I had never experienced before, and I was right!
Alan leads you once around the entire Circle. Then into the sacred heart of the Circle via the east arm! There I stood upon a sacred and ancient stone. From this point of the CD, nothing and no one else mattered or entered my thoughts. I was on the inside of myself, and it was quite a trip!
Here Alan warmly introduces you to the Eagle. The Spirit Keeper of the East! To Native Indian peoples, the Eagle represents a heavenly messenger. You see animal medicine is very sacred, very powerful, and very respected medicine. It is not to be taken lightly! Not to take it seriously is unthinkable and a sign of great dishonour! Animal medicine is also part of one’s animal totem, but that’s a whole other story.
I felt humbled and honoured to be introduced to the Great Eagle. I truly felt as if we had communicated with one another. I would have stayed here longer in visit, but Alan’s voice gently nudged me to continue on around the Circle to the next keeper, the Wolf. The Spirit Keeper of the South!
What an incredible visit, this one is. Particularly, because I share wolf medicine! You go one-on-one with the Wolf in this direction. The experience is so real you can all but touch the softness of the Wolf’s thick neck fur and coat as he is within only inches away! Incredible is the best word that comes to mind to describe this visit.
The greatest reason I think is because there is no fear in this realm, only the purest fascination here for one another. Animal and human, communicating without spoken words between you. It is a truly awesome feeling!
As for anxiety, what anxiety? The furthest thing from your mind at this time is what the heck you were doing, thinking, or stressed about prior to turning this CD on! Ah, but back to the Sacred Circle!
Well, you have only gone half the Circle’s distance when in the southern direction. You subconsciously or consciously wonder how this could get any better, but then it does.
Once again, Alan’s voice coaches you to follow him further around the Circle. Here you share space with the Bear. The Spirit Keeper of the West! Bear is a true contradiction between strength and gentleness! The power of bear medicine is so hard to define in simple words!
It was at this point on the CD when I realized that I was weeping a steady stream of tears. They came to the surface of my eyes and spilled over with no prompting on my part. I didn’t even realize they were spilling out of me until I felt the salty wetness of them running down out from the corners of my closed eyelids.
It’s hard to explain, but these tears seem to come from me as a cleansing of all the toxic and negative thoughts that had dammed up my purest positive beliefs in myself — from a well years hidden and buried deep inside of myself! At no time did I make any attempt to stop them, wipe them, or prevent them from escaping my body!
The Spirit Keeper of the West, he never left my side during this process! This Great Bear just sat watching all the while, mysteriously mothering the resurrection of true belief in my own worth, my own strength in self! He never moved to leave even once, until I had finished washing all the sounds of hurt from my heart away!
It was at this point that I fell into a state of sleep like no other. I could still feel the toxic thing flush itself down the sides of my face. A lifetime full of anger was literally washing itself clean, as I lay motionless on the couch.
From here, I drifted into a deeper state of sleep, for I could no longer hear or identify Alan’s voice. It was as if Alan had relinquished himself as my Indian guide and gently passed me over to another guide that seem to pick up the trail without missing a beat.
Now, I was one with the Sacred Circle! Alan Greywolf was nowhere to be heard. Before me now standing on the sacred centre stone was an Indian Maiden. She was younger than I was. You know, with the perfect shaped figure that we women and men fantasize about!
She was dressed in a long, tan-coloured, fringed skirt and long-sleeved, fringed top. Her hair was dark, straight, and lightly blowing in a gentle breeze. My eyes were completely fixed on her. Her energy was calming and peaceful and although I couldn’t see her face, I knew she was there to give me answers that I was hungry for and longing to know.
As I was studying her presence and peaceful pose, I noticed a formation starting to appear in front of my eyes. As she stood there with her back turned toward me, I struggled to focus hard on the back of her shirt. Closer and longer I watched.
While this transformation was slowly developing, I was soon able to identify it as a symbol of a white bird. This bird first showed itself as a child-like cartoon drawing. Then it continued to transform and take the shape of a real bird. I witnessed it grow and come to life! I was mesmerized! It magically became and turned into a little sparrow. It fluttered and fluttered its little wings until it broke free from the maiden’s shirt and flew up and off toward the Guardian of the East. The direction of the Eagle! The direction of all new beginnings!
I felt as innocent as a child making a first and new and wonderful discovery! The bird quickly and playfully flew around for a moment above the maiden’s head and hair. Then it settled and positioned itself back onto the back of her shirt and transformed itself back into the white child-like symbol of a bird. I can’t explain how profoundly this affected me. My eyes blinked and wept a flood of happy tears!
Carefully and closely, I watched this Indian Maiden softly retrace the same previous trek that Alan had guided me on, around the Sacred Circle. She spoke no words to me! There was strangely no need. It was clear to me that she knew she had my full concentration. It was also understood that I knew that she had been sent to guide me.
After steadily stepping and completing the circle, her body transformed into that of the little sparrow and resumed and repeated her walk around the Sacred Circle just as before. It was during this particular part of the sleep process that the words White Sparrow rang through my sleeping soul. It was clearly but unexplainably understood that this bird was telling me what I was to do. That I was to become “White Sparrow”! That “White Sparrow” was to become me!
No, I was not on drugs! No, I was not intoxicated! No, I was not brainwashed by Alan Greywolf! The gift of my name came from a much greater source, a divine source.
You see, Alan’s CD is only forty-five minutes long. However, I awakened four hours later! Alan’s CD became a bridge for me. The bridge between my past and my future, and that day, on my couch, I gave myself up and I crossed that bridge!
When I woke and realized the magnitude of what had happened, I anxiously replayed the CD. As it was not a tape, I was unable to rewind it, so I had to let it go through the previous sequence again, until Alan’s voice picked up like an unmissed beat and continued to guide me on toward the last Keeper in the Sacred Circle. The Spirit Keeper of the North! The Great White Buffalo!
This was the best of the best for me! I believe this not only because of the spiritual qualities of the Buffalo, but because when I came to the Buffalo, I came to visit it not as who I had been, but I came to visit there as the new me. I came there guided as “White Sparrow”!
It was in the direction of the North that I felt the Great Spirit had baptized my name! That this is the place that I became one with White Sparrow!
Before I left the Sacred Circle, the Indian Maiden reappeared and stopped at each Spirit Keeper to give thanks. Once she completed this cycle, the little sparrow repeated the pattern. It hopped and stopped before the Great Eagle, the Great Wolf, the Great Bear, and the Great Buffalo! From here, the sparrow, the Indian Maiden, and I myself stepped off of the sacred centre stone and exited the arm of the Sacred Circle. It was from here that I took the knowledge that I had emerged — reborn Red, as “White Sparrow.” The legal name I wear with greatest honour today!
From this amazing journey developed my website, and from the website grew the dream of telling the true story called “Feathers Within.” The story that hopefully you are reading for yourself now!
3. My Calling: One Lost Sparrow and One Great Canadian Chief
“Cape Croker, Cape Croker, Cape Croker!”
On Thursday, April 24th, 2004, these words came profoundly and mysteriously to me, and through me.
At 3:00 or 3:30 that afternoon, I was standing at the front desk of a private resort in Thornbury, Ontario. It was a quiet day, with only a few guests staying with us at the time. I was working my day shift just like any other day. It was near the end of my shift when I was over come and captured with these words. I heard them as a pledge! I heard them as a prayer! I heard them as an answer!
“Cape Croker, Cape Croker, Cape Croker!”
With these words came a great surge of energy and an even greater sense of urgency! My mind was racing with questions as to what was happening and why.
Now, I openly admit here, this was not the first time in my life that I had had strong sensations come over me. On a number of previous occasions, I have been known to receive messages either for myself or for or about other people. What I had never encountered, though, was the strength, intensity, and the speed by which these words were reaching me. I readily knew that something major was about to play out in my life. The only fear that accompanied this experience was the fear of not being able to follow it through, the fear of losing the trail of this sensation before I could make logical sense of it. There was no time to lose!
Working at a resort gave me access to many tour guides, maps, and magazines. I quickly bent down and opened a bottom drawer that contained a full array of them. I had certainly recognized the name Cape Croker, but I didn’t even know where it was. Where would I begin?
My hands started sliding and shuffling the magazines around one after another. They finally stopped, when I came to one called Manitoulin Island and on a second one called Bruce County. Something told me to try these two.
So I quickly grabbed them both up and began frantically flipping through their pages.
Like many of us, I have a certain percentage of routine in my life. For instance, every Saturday I dedicated to my mother. Therefore, I definitely knew that I had to contact her to tell her that our plans for the up coming weekend were about to be altered.
Now, there is not much point to looking like a fool if you don’t have any onlookers. So, naturally, I had a couple of co-workers witness this frenzy as it played out. It took everything in me to stay and finish my shift that day!
When my shift ended, I quickly said my good-byes, grabbed my purse, and headed to my car. In my hands I was clutching one of the magazines that had an article on Cape Croker. I was extremely pleased and relieved to discover that Cape Croker was located just a little over an hour from where I was.
My butt had hardly touched the driver’s seat of my car when this same energy sent me back into the resort on the fly. One of my co-workers asked, “What happened? Didn’t your car start?”
“No, my car’s okay,” I replied, “but something tells me I’m supposed to look in that other magazine again.”
Hastily, I headed back to the drawer of magazines and grabbed the one lying on top. I flicked through the pages until I reached the name “The Indian Carver.”
I prompted both my co-workers standing next to me to tell me if they had ever heard of the Indian Carver.
Both shook their heads and said no. Puzzled, one of them asked me, “Why do you need information on the Indian Carver?”
“I don’t know,” I snapped back. “I only know that I’m supposed to check it out!”
With that, I picked up the magazine and headed out to my car, which I had left running. Once in my car, I knew that I was about to drive directly to Meaford to my mother’s apartment. As anxious as I was, I didn’t speed. I needed the driving time to mull over exactly how I was going to explain what was happening to me. You see my mom is a huge skeptic when it comes to stuff like this. So I was trying my best to come up with the words that would be the most convincing: (a) so that we both didn’t think I was crazy and (b) to let her know that we might not be able to do our usual grocery shop on the upcoming Saturday.
Mother to daughter and wide-eyed, I quickly spilled my story to her. Then I offered her the opportunity to come with me to Cape Croker, or she could stay put Saturday and I would go on my own. Maw’s no dummy, and she clearly got the message I was going to be going, with or without her. She looked me in the eye and said, “Well, I guess it looks like we’ll be going then.”
“From the way you are speaking, there wouldn’t be much point in trying to talk you out of it.”
“You’re right,” I answered her, “there isn’t!”
Little did I know that this mystery was only just beginning to unfold.
After I left Mom’s, I went home to research the magazines. I practically ran to turn on my laptop to see what I could learn. The only thing I could find under Cape Croker through my magazine tips turned out to be about Wiarton and Wiarton Willie. This made no sense to me! I was clearly past the point of focus.
By now, my body and mind were completely exhausted.
All of my energy had been spent! I don’t think I even ate supper on this night. My body was on empty so I took the hint and simply crawled into bed. I immediately fell asleep.
Friday morning, I was back at work and sitting in the staff room. Was I spun for fun! I was well rested and strongly charged up and driven to follow up on my mysterious Cape Croker journey. A few of us were sitting around the staff room table talking about the afternoon before enjoying those first few minutes of bliss before starting your morning routine.
While engaged in random conversation, the Assistant Manager appeared in the doorway to ask me if I was expecting a fax from an Indian man.
“What do you mean, Indian man?” I asked her.
I immediately rose to my feet and went over to read what she was holding in her hand. I was stunned! Across the top of the fax I read Cha Mao Zah. It then went on to mention the Indian Carver.
“Where did this come from?” I asked her.
“I just picked it up off the fax machine now,” she stared and replied.
Immediately, I began to interrogate everyone in the room, asking if they had requested this information. I knew full well in the back of my mind that there were only two other people, not counting my mother, who knew I was looking for information on the Indian Carver. One of them was home on her day off, when I called to question her. The other one was working for another company and I wouldn’t be able to interrupt her until noon hour. We all knew that no one had intervened on my behalf, but I still had to make the rounds anyway. This was just too bizarre and uncanny.
Well, I wasn’t for sitting still and doing nothing. And, I certainly wasn’t about to wait until lunch-time for answers. They knew it, and so did I. So I took the fax and scurried off into the back office to make a phone call.
There I sat looking at the telephone in front of me, trying to collect myself. Then, I dialed.
“Hello, Cha Mao Zah,” came a woman’s voice.
I was searching every nook and cranny of my mind for the best words to respond with. Finally, out came, “Good morning, I’m calling from a private resort. I have a strange question to ask, so please bear with me! Do you know who might have been trying to send us a fax today? You see, we seemed to have mysteriously received a two page fax from you folks here this morning. However, we have over forty rooms here, and I can’t seem to find a name as to whom it should be directed!”
“Yes, and no,” came back the woman’s voice.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Now I am confused!”
She then went on to explain, “When we came into the office this morning, there was a strange kind of phone message left on our answering machine. It was very garbled and all that we could really make out was a number.
We tried dialing it, only to find out that it was a fax number and not a telephone number. We took a chance that someone must be trying to reach us regarding information on Cha Mao Zah or the Indian Carver. Therefore, I took one of our brochures and faxed both sides of it to the number that had been left! We didn’t have a clue where it would end up. I do hope that it was okay to send it there!”
“I’m sorry, what is your name?”
“My name is —!”
“Well — I think we are suppose to meet,” I said. Then I explained what had happened previously at my end and then I sputtered out, “Can I ask you this? Is there really an Indian Carver?”
“Oh, yes,” she enthusiastically replied.
“Is he still living?” I almost held my breath at this point, waiting for her reply and hoping that she would say yes.
“Oh, yes,” she replied again. “He is still living and he is eighty-three years old.”
“Forgive me, but do you work for the Indian Carver, or how may I ask are you connected to him?”
“I am the other half of the Indian Carver!”
“I understand,” I answered back.
My heart filled to the top! I can’t tell you how relieved I was to hear he was still living. “Well then,” I jumped in, “please don’t be surprised if I land on your doorstep some day soon. I truly believe that he and I are supposed to meet in person.”
“Before you go,” she piped up, “there is one thing that you should know! The Indian Carver is not in Cape Croker. We are located just south of Tobermory.”
“Tobermory,” I exclaimed! “How far is that from Thornbury, would you say?”
“About two hours. I can’t be sure.”
“Thank you, and please know that you and I will definitely be in touch again.”
After I got off the phone, I did feel pretty foolish. You see, in my haste, I hadn’t taken the time to read their location information, which I was holding in my hand! I can’t explain exactly what happens when you go through something like this. You just seem to throw logic and caution out the window, and fly by the seat of your pants!
Friday evening I sent an email to Cha Mao Zah. I told them I couldn’t wait; I had to meet these folks!
Saturday morning finally came, and the anticipation was killing me! I immediately checked my email. Still, no response was received. It didn’t matter. Not to me, not on this day. I was up for going, and nothing short of dying was going to prevent the inevitable from playing out. Believe me, I was up, showered, and over at my mom’s in record time! I couldn’t have loaded her any quicker into the car unless I had of carried her in my arms.
With a road map stuck in my visor, I was headed north. Along the way, I was only half-listening to the small talk that my mom was making. In my mind, I had bigger fish to fry. I was being strongly pulled toward a man I had never met. More mysteriously, not understanding why, and why with such urgency!
After passing the exit to Cape Croker, my mom spoke up. “We’ll, I guess if we were going to Cape Croker, we just missed our cut off back there.
“Ah, Mom, we aren’t going to Cape Croker just yet. I haven’t told you what happened since Thursday night. So, I hope you had no other plans for today, because we are now headed to Tobermory!”
“Tobermory! What’s in Tobermory?”
“We are! Turns out that the Indian Carver lives in Tobermory, not Cape Croker.”
“Oh!” was all she replied.
I could tell that Mom was becoming agitated and was starting to squirm in her seat. Nearly everything my mom does is based on logic. What we were doing that day had absolutely nothing to do with logic. I felt compelled to sell her on my notions and beliefs of intuition and simply following one’s gut instincts.
On the way there I spotted Cha Mao Zah. I pulled in the lane, but no one seemed to be around. Tobermory was only about three miles away now, so we drove up to the tip of the peninsula. It wasn’t long before we found a lovely little place called the Princess Hotel. Nearly as soon as I had Mom seated in the restaurant, I headed for the nearest phone. I dropped my coins in, dialed the number, and it rang. But no one answered. I left a message saying that I was currently at the Princess Motel in Tobermory. I said that my mother and I were planning to have brunch and that I would try once more after eating to reach them before departing.
Once Mom was served, I was much calmer. Knowing that she was enjoying the food and the restaurant, I began to relax because she was. For me, just being closer in proximity to the Indian Carver brought such a settled peace and comfort deep inside. Something wonderful was going to happen that day! I don’t know how I knew this, I did. That’s just the way I felt!
After brunch, Mom headed to the little girl’s room and I headed straight back to the phone on the wall. I dialed again and this time I made a voice to voice connection. I got the Indian Carver himself. He asked if we were staying over night at the hotel. I told him no, I was only up for the day and heading out very shortly to Cape Croker. He asked if I could be back at his shop for 3:00 p.m. He went on to explain that the shop isn’t opened up during the month of April. However, he was willing to meet me if I could be there! Of course, I immediately accepted his offer.
I know this sounds even stranger, but this man didn’t seem to be thrown off by anything that I said. It was as if he also strangely knew something bigger than the two of us was doing the steering!
It was shortly after 2:00 p.m. and it was a beautiful bright and sunny day. The wind off the water in front of us sure had a winter’s bite still in it, but ask me if I cared! Mom and I drove just a minute or two away and parked the car. We got out and went for a stroll and a talk. I had to walk down to the water’s edge and stick my hand directly into its icy waters, just so that I can say that I had touched it.
Mom’s enthusiasm for the cold icy waters ranked far below mine. She waited well back and up the bank. For a brief moment or two while squatted down with my hands submerged in the water. I prayed and gave thanks in silence for whatever was about to happen that day. I’m no Einstein, but I knew it was to be a profound day, and that it might be many years if ever again that something this wonderful would be gifted on me. I wanted to show my gratitude, even if I didn’t know what was about to happen. Even if I clearly understood my mother’s uneasiness of being there this day with me!
My heart was pounding after our walk. Getting back into my car meant that I was about to head south for three or so miles and meet a man, meet a great man!
Before going there that day, I had mentioned to a friend of mine that I hoped I would have the opportunity to meet with this man, to take his hand and simply to walk among the woods with him heavily engaged in wisdom and conversation. Little did I know this was more of a premonition than it ever was simply wishful thinking.
Three o’clock came and as I was pulling into one lane way leading to his shop, his vehicle pulled into another lane way, just a few yards away but parallel to me. My car was dark red. His van was dark red. From that moment on, until I left, I was pretty much oblivious to the fact that my mother or anyone else on mother earth existed.
I immediately got out of my car and walked towards him. He had already gotten out of his vehicle and was standing silently to the right of and next to the base of a tall tree in a wooded, yet cleared area. My mind instantly flashed to a panoramic picture that I had purchased only a week or so earlier that now hung directly above the headboard of my bedroom. It was a photo of a lone wolf, standing silently to the right of and next to the base of a tall tree, with nothing surrounding it but the base of other trees. I realized in this moment that photo I had at home had just transformed from a wolf and shaped-shifted into the human-life form that was standing before me. It was a grand confirmation that I had been purposely and divinely led there. No one anywhere could or ever will talk me into believing anything otherwise. I knew I had just witnessed a miracle!
As an extremely private person, it is not my nature to spontaneously open up to anyone, especially within a matter of moments. However, as I was still in movement and walking toward him, I asked him if it was all right if I hugged him. The words weren’t even out of my mouth as his arms reached up and extended openly toward me in welcome. I hugged him! I hugged him for dear life! I hugged him as if we had crossed many milleniums to be reunited! I hugged him like I had never hugged my own father! I hugged him as if I had finally found my lost way home!
I could not speak! I had no words! I had no voice! He asked me three times, “What is it my child, what is it?”
He did not let go of me, and I could not let go of him! I could only hug him longer and sob harder! Somehow I managed to pull myself together long enough to peel myself off his knitted sweater coat. Somehow I managed to reach up with one hand and wipe the tears that were seeping, steadily from under the bottom of my sunglasses and dripping from my jaw line. Somehow I had hit God’s target squarely and fairly, and I could now feel it in my heart, in my soul, and wetly on the cheeks of my face.
He clearly knew that I was no ordinary guest! Somehow he also knew that this was no ordinary greeting. Then, just as I had spoken of doing earlier to my friend, we instantly took one another’s hand and we walked together around his grounds. You could feel a great presence and peace there! It was walking and watching among us! The sun was filtering through the branches of the trees as we walked out into an open clearing. It was like no other moment in my life!
My speech was still broken. I could not recapture my voice. So he spoke for me. He gave me a guided tour of this sacred space that we walked upon. We never for a moment let go of each other’s hand.
After I had gained control of my overwhelming emotions, I began to ask many questions. There was synchronicity and harmony between us. There was pleasant humour and great wisdom dispensed from a forever youthful, quiet, and intelligent gentleman.
I asked questions that I’m sure were completely mundane on most accounts, but he showed no boredom. He offered up his answers with generosity and without hesitation. He instinctively seemed to understand my need and hunger to learn as much as possible in a short but given time. I was no regular visitor to this earthy camp-grounds and lands known as Cha Mao Zah!
In that short time, I had learned many things. A lot of Native ways and culture! A lot of this man whom I was stepping alongside! You see, in the course of our conversation, I had learned that he was strongly tied and connected to Cape Croker. He had been born and raised there. He had also been one of the longest running chiefs of Cape Croker. He had been their chief for fourteen years!
It was from that moment on, from that story on, that I continue to this day to refer to him as “The Chief.”
Now walk backwards, for a moment. From here you will find the words that originated my journey toward: “The Chief” — “Cape Croker, Cape Croker, Cape Croker!”
We spoke of many things, the Chief and I! We spoke of spiritual journeys. We spoke of the people. We spoke of the world. We spoke of the greater plan and the future. We spoke of the past. We spoke of the present. Whatever it was that we spoke of, we both laughed we both learned, and we both enjoyed whichever conversation we found that we had journeyed easily into.
We walked in a circle and made our way back towards his shop, my car, and my mom. My mom, who up until this moment I had completely and utterly forgotten, was there with me! Somehow, as unimpressed as I knew that she would be, I also knew that she was trying to understand this journey that I was on and that she would be okay as long as I was.
As we approached his shop, he gave my hand a gentle squeeze and quickly and softly released it. We were greeted by a woman of my own age. She came up to us and spoke directly to the Chief. She immediately volunteered that she had seen “two eagles” on the way over to the shop. This news delighted the Chief as he smiled when he replied, “You did!” She quickly confirmed it with a “Yes.” He then looked directly in my eyes and smiled. It was later on, after this experience, that I learned that a sighting of an eagle can be a heavenly message or a heavenly messenger. Like it or not, for her, I guess, that included my mom as well as me.
It was at this part of the visit that Mom got out of the car and came to join me. With camera in hand, she graciously smiled and asked to take pictures of the three of us. Oh and let’s not forget Jessie, the little Jack Russell that didn’t wish to be left out of the shot.
From here began the indoor visit, but first came the trip to the rabbit’s pen and a stop off to visit the ducks. Inside the shop, which more resembles a museum than a shop, I discovered a wonderful reserved space of Native living past and present.
As soon as I stepped through the doorway, I impulsively gasped, “I could sleep right here!” Everyone laughed, but me! I was serious. I was in Native heaven. I never felt as if I had belonged anywhere anymore than I had here and now this day. My spiritual thirst had been quenched with the Native culture, upon Native land, and among Native history. I felt as if I had found the missing piece of my soul. I recognized I was learning some life-changing answers to questions that had been sleeping inside of myself for spans of years! All of this, topped off with a kind, wise, and strong spirit that was as eager to teach me about them as I was to learn of them. It was a grand day, a profound day, and a day in which I will carry inside of me forever!
Things were turning bittersweet! I felt the rapids of being rushed come over me. I wasn’t intentionally wanting to be disrespectful to either my mother, who I knew was anxious to get going, nor to the Chief for taking up so much of his generous time. I was feeling torn between what I wanted to do, and what was expected of me to do. As I continued to study the wonderment around me, I tried hard to battle off the feelings of my inner guilt and simply tried to satisfy what I wanted, what I needed. Which was to stay just a little bit longer and drink in all that was around me.
Throughout my earlier conversations with the Chief, I mentioned to him that I had a website. However, I felt that this was more than just about a paragraph or two on my site. I told him that I wasn’t sure why I had been guided to find him. I also mentioned that I was a published songwriter and a poet and that I was convinced that one day I was intended to write a book. I had no idea at the time “Feathers Within” was the story that I was growing inside of me.
While confessing my soul to the Chief, I was also hoping somehow that he might be able to shine a little light on the situation from his side. Perhaps he had been asking for answers or guidance for something that would help add up some answers for me. He didn’t seem to be passing any out. I was unsettled by the lack of my ultimate answer. Why was I there? On the other hand, I also hold a deep belief that one is always without their answers, until the universe feels it is the right time for one to know! That being said, it still left me feeling as if I was going to be walking away from something too soon. Although I believe the Great Spirit has a wonderful sense of humour, I don’t believe that he just wanted to send my mom and I on an old fashioned, wild-goose chase.
Inside the shop my eyes covered as many objects as they could take in on a short time. One piece that stood out apart from all others was a carving the Chief had done.
It was the carved figure of a woman. She was extremely sad and yet sacred looking. It was not a sadness that repelled me. It was one that drew me towards her. I had to run my hand over the texture of this particular piece of wood, to let her know I could understand her sadness. It made me glad that I had made the trip, that it was for reasons yet to be, and so it seemed it was. For on my website, I wrote a poem called “The Indian Carver,” and in that poem I mention this carving that left such an impression on me.
We eventually made our way back outside. I went to my car, opened the trunk, and took out a very large and heavy book called The American Indian. It covers the history of the U.S.A. and Canada. I asked the Chief if he would honour me by autographing it for me. Logically speaking, this was pretty presumptuous on my part, considering I didn’t even know if I was going to meet him. Yet inside, something greater told me that I would, and I had.
When we hugged good-bye, I hugged him with all my heart, as someone I had known a long time, not as someone I had just briefly met only in passing. We promised each other we would be in touch. I felt torn as I let him go, like a child who wants to cling to a parent and not be left with a strange babysitter. I could feel he felt the same way. It was no easier for me to try to explain to my mother, than it was, I’m sure, for him to have to explain to his mate either. It was time to let go, so we did. I got into my car and waved good-bye!
My heartstrings were still being pulled as I left his laneway. I turned my car south and headed down toward Cape Croker. I couldn’t imagine how anything at Cape Croker was going to top anything that I had just experienced. However, I stuck to my plan and struck out to find out.
It was only minutes later, when I had glanced up into my rear-view mirror, I made the pleasant surprising announcement to my mother that the Chief was chasing us. Then, I added, “Ah, actually, Mom, that was the Chief that just passed us!”
There was one more unexpected surprise yet to come.
He blew by us, only to pull over up in front of us. Then, he jumped out of his vehicle and was standing at the passenger’s side of my vehicle as I pulled up. Mom was very uncomfortable. As for me, I never even questioned it. I put my car in park, jumped out, and without a word followed in through some trees. Poor Mom, this wasn’t exactly her cup a tea. She doesn’t drive and she was trying to plan our escape should I get in to something over my head.
On the other side of this treed pathway was a beautiful wood home. He opened the door and asked me to wait there. Quick as a flash, he leapt up the staircase and began to start rooting for something. The house was beautiful, clean, and amazingly built. I could watch as he made his way down the hallway to the right. From the silence of this beautiful home came the sounds that I can only refer to as those of a wolf busily digging up a long-forgotten bone. No sooner had this thought passed through my mind than he was on his return down the stairs and back towards me.
In his hands he held a package that he motioned toward me to accept. I took it into my arms and hugged it closely to my chest. I told him that I would guard it with my life. He immediately responded, “And so you should!”
We both stepped back outside the house again. With this mysterious brown paper package under my one arm, he took my hands in his and made a bridge between us. “Your one story is in there,” he said. He looked intensely into my eyes, then smiled and slipped around the side of his house as quickly and as silently as a wolf.
I swiftly made my own way back to my car, glancing over my shoulder to see not another glimpse of him. I opened my trunk, placed the unopened package into it, and drove off toward Cape Croker, feeling like a secretly inspired Nancy Drew on her hottest mystery ever!
My mother’s only words as I climbed back into the car again were, “You are very trusting, aren’t you?” I did feel for her concern for me, but in the same breath, I had never felt safer in all my life. I tried my best to deliver this message to her as we were driving away.
“Mom, think about it! What would make a man that had never met me before trust me with something that obviously meant so much to him? In all the years he has lived, he has chosen me!”
It is hard for me even now to describe the feeling of deeply knowing that we were simply brought together by divine intervention. What else could one ever call it?
Mom and I did visit Cape Croker’s camp-grounds that day. I just drove in far enough to say that I had been there, to see if I felt any strange and profound feelings. What I felt was it was familiar! It brought me peace, quiet, and calmness. It was the end to a very special day indeed.
As I was driving away, I told my mother that I would be back to Cape Croker, that I would return for the powwow, that I was intended to have something more unfold for me in this place. I could feel a strong and future connection to Cape Croker. One day, I knew I would find more answers there.
On April 29th, my phone rang at my work. It was the Chief, and he was asking if we had reached White Sparrow. I answered yes, and we spoke of things in confidence.
Advice and wisdom he wanted me to know; that, above all else, to maintain balance! To never walk too far in any one direction, not even in good times! That I should stay focused and let things unfold in life naturally. Not to be so eager to have all my answers so quickly!
I told him, I had connected with him, that I felt closer to him than to my dad, to my grandfather, or to the man who once raised me. When our conversation ended, I told him that I wished that I could give him a hug. He replied in a very matter of fact tone, “Then just say I love you!”
He had read my mind and I answered back, “I love you!”
Then, I set my phone back down and became teary eyed. I just sat there, quietly reliving his voice and calmness of voice and words. I prayed for the strength to not shout that he had just called, because I so wanted to share it with someone in hopes they could mirror back my bliss in complete understanding.
At the time of this writing, the Chief and I are still very much in touch. I still bombard him with questions, and he cheerfully supplies the answers. We share great laughter and friendship together. Of all the things he has taught me, one came totally unexpected. He has healed a wound so deeply carved into my childhood heart. Only the Chief could cover over and successfully heal such a wound! I pray I come remotely close to offering something as good a trade in return! Like — truth, spirit, conversation, and love of friendship!
The Chief’s spirit is always one with my own! He is one of Canada’s natural resources! His work and his carvings are known around the globe! His roads are many! I am ever grateful to be but a pebble on his path!
For the Chief’s birthday in 2004, I wrote a poem called “The Indian Carver.” He has asked my permission to have it published along with his memoirs! How could I say no to such a great, great honour?
There is so much more to write and speak of about my journey with the Chief! But this is not the time. Perhaps, Mr. John Robert Colombo, you will honour — One Lost Sparrow and One Great Canadian Chief on another path, on another page, on another time!
To you, Chief, until you make camp, the other side of the river, know that I am always and forever with you!
To Wilmer Nadjiwon, Chippewa of Nawash Elder (The Indian Carver), from your little bird friend.
With deepest love, Meegwich, (Thank you)
White Sparrow!
May 21st, 2005
From: SparrowSent: Sunday, May 29, 2005 8:27 PM
To: jrc@ca.inter.net
Subject: Three Documents!
Greetings Mr. Colombo:
Well, sir, after reading more of your compiled stories, I am teeter-tattering between the value of the ones I am about to enclose to you.
When one is experiencing such events, one has the tendency to feel totally isolated and somewhat out of ones mind!
Then, when one begins to read your books on entire dealings of such strange events, I must admit, my own seem to be relatively tame in comparison with many of the others that I have now read!
What does make them unique, though, is that they happened to me! Some of these I have been able to make later sense of; others remain yet a mystery.
I do, however, admire your patience and persistence to sift though all the submissions that you must get flooded with!
Consider the following three submissions, self-serve style! (Meaning: If you like them, then please help yourself!)
This opportunity is not taken for granted!
In appreciation of your time and efforts,
Sparrow
Body in the Bay
It is important for me to begin this story with the greatest respect for the family and loved ones of this missing body that I make reference to here in this story! It is not my intention to bring sensationalism to what must have been a true living family nightmare. I have had my own personal experience with a loved one who went missing. I can promise you, no matter what the surrounding circumstances are, when you are going through it, it truly is — hell on earth!
It was approximately 8:00 a.m. one April morning in 2004. I was headed east, in the direction of the private resort where I work. I was driving across Highway 26 where it crosses with the old Capitol Theatre. When I arrived at this landmark, I felt a band of current or energy rush through my right side and out my left. It was travelling from south to north. At this same time a strong knowing, feeling, sensation, whatever you wish to call it, told me someone was missing!
As usual for me, I only caught fragments of what this encounter actually meant. What I did know was that someone male or female went missing. The questions that followed went something like this. Had someone on that street lost someone? Was it their energy I was feeling? Would someone on that street find someone who was missing? Was it their energy I felt? Had someone just learned of someone missing? Could it be a child that had gone missing? This last question didn’t seem to hold water, so to speak, as it was still April. Generally, children are more apt “in my mind” to go missing in June, after school has let out for the season. For whatever reason, I talked myself back out of this equation. It just didn’t seem to be fitting.
Thoughts overcome me when something like this happens. It consumes my thinking and my emotions. It leaves me feeling helpless and frustrated, as I don’t have all the required pieces. It also makes me feel different and apart from most of the folks who for the most part seem to be so grounded and practical. You know! Those who have never encountered or admitted encountering anything unexplainable! Somehow, these experiences seemed to have been saved for me in my circle of family and friends.
Anyway, when I arrived at the resort that morning, I immediately told my experience to the Assistant Manager. Just her luck — she usually is the one to end up listening to my tales of the unexplainable. During our conversation, I asked her to write down the date and put missing person beside it. She did as I had asked and then proceeded to put the small piece of paper into her desk drawer.
Weeks and months passed and nothing. No news of a missing person. That was the good news. The bad news was, one begins to feel foolish and out of whack with reality when something so strong and strange ends up going nowhere. You start thinking that everyone around you thinks you may just be over the edge a bit, if you know what I mean. However, life moves on in its own peculiar way and there’s nothing we can do about that.
The following April, I heard a helicopter hovering over my home, not once, but many times. It had a pattern of making numerous return trips, concentrating on my area in particular. I told myself this was not the usual military training pattern that often transpires. (You see, the town of Meaford, where I reside, is home to the Meaford training and tank range.) Nor did it look like the typical helicopters that generally whiz by.
I turned on my radio; I haven’t been a follower of television in years. I was able to catch a portion of the news that explained that a man somewhere up in his late seventies had been missing for a day or so. Apparently, they had brought out the dogs a day or an evening earlier, but this part of the search had ended unsuccessfully. The next active step was for the community to come together and organize a manhunt.
The military and regular police were already obviously involved. This new search was to be made up of volunteers, and they wanted everyone to meet at the community centre in town. They were inviting all interested parties to please come out and join in the efforts.
My mind immediately flashed back to the previous April. I was already in the process of getting ready to go in and work my shift. I just decided to speed things up a bit and head in a little earlier. I was eager to get to the intersection of the Old Capitol Theatre and Highway 26. When I got there, I craned my neck from side to side to read the street name. It was Collingwood Street. “I knew it,” I said out loud. This was the confirmation that I had been unfortunately waiting for.
You see, two blocks to my right, on Collingwood Street, is where the town’s people were rallying to set up volunteer search party teams. Of all the streets in Meaford, this was the one where the town’s folks were gathering. Of all the years that I have lived in Meaford, this was the first time I ever remember hearing about such an extensive search for any missing person.
This experience for me was bittersweet. It was nice to know that I wasn’t crazy for thinking and feeling what I had the April before. The part that really floored me though, once it finally sank in, was — how could I have possibly known this an entire year before it had transpired?
By the time I got to work, my Assistant Manager was just getting out of her car a few feet ahead of me. I threw open the door of my car and called out her name. Her head immediately spun around to meet my eyes. She knew something was up.
Seeing her somehow allowed me to let go of the freakish turmoil that was spinning inside of me. I openly admit, I lost it! I began to empty myself through my tears. I remember shaking my hands, as if this would somehow shake off this confirmation. I knew I couldn’t walk inside to deal with the guests until I had pulled myself together.
Thank goodness for the calmness and candor of this person that was now talking to me. I wish I could explain better the process that I went through, but I simply don’t have the words to describe it.
Later that morning, I was still pretty upset. About half an hour after I was officially on the clock, the switchboard rang. Surprisingly, this call was for me and not for one of our guests. It was a female from our community. She was asking about the search. She asked me, if I were there with them, where would I look? After stammering about I had no answers, I finally told her that I would definitely start at the community centre and work my way “toward the water” in a straight line. (This was just the same way and direction that the energy had surged through me a year earlier.)
It was thirty-three minutes after this conversation when she called back to say that the body had been found. She added that although the search party had not found it, all the same the body had been found along the shoreline. When she told me the location, it probably was within a mile or so from where Collingwood Street meets the waterfront.
I never claimed to be nor ever want to be a psychic like Sylvia Browne! I never claimed to say who the missing person was, or who would find the missing person. I never claimed to have known or predicted anything, except that someone had gone missing. That, my friends, was apparently more than enough for my rookie system to handle.
After all of these events had unfolded, I contacted a friend of mine who channels. I’m not exactly sure how one does this, but I do know she has passed out some pretty accurate information to me personally in the past. I turned to her for some kind of comfort for what I had just experienced. Her words brought me reassurance, comfort, and a sort of peace of mind. What she said was this: “You will never be given more than you can handle. You will have to learn to deal with the pain and the emotion that comes with it. You will be fine!”
You will never be given more than you can handle. Boy, I must have repeated her words five or six times out loud and in my head. They seem to bring me immediate comfort, just by saying them! My intuition, as I call it, has travelled from Thornbury to Tobermory in the past. However, this was my first time to ever unknowingly know of something that would or could transpire one year ahead of time!
Mr. Colombo, I would like to thank you once again publicly for allowing me this unique opportunity to vent the unordinary occurrences that I have experienced. It is paramount for me to let you know this! It is also just as important that you receive your due rewards for putting together these self told, original, and compiled experiences. In purest appreciation for these opportunities to share with other liked minds!
Hallway Funeral
Have you ever attended the funeral of a complete stranger ... especially when it was totally and completely by accident?
Well, I have! Leave it to me! I am an original! No carbon copy, that’s for sure!
Like many folks, I come from a large family. Truthfully, I am closer to some of them than to others. I have four brothers and two sisters. I am for whatever reasons closer to my two sisters. Lynda is my older sister and Donelda, who prefers to be called Donel, is my younger sister. Although I am smack dab in the middle of them, the two of them are closest to each other. (I have always been the lone wolf of the family.) I used to call myself the black sheep of the family. Now, I refer to myself as the Red sheep!
Anyway, Lynda had just recently moved into her new apartment location on Cedar Avenue in Richmond Hill. My mother had wanted to make the trip down to see her. Mom always likes to be able to visit someone in a new place at least once, so she can later picture it in her mind.
Well, after several failed attempts to co-ordinate schedules, Mom and I were finally able to visit. Donela unfortunately was not able to make the trip. Actually, at the time of writing this story, I don’t think she has made it down there yet. It was my first time in Richmond Hill. I had no idea just how memorable it was going to be.
Mom and I got settled in okay, and shortly after Lynda’s girlfriend Ruth ended up dropping by to visit as well. We had met Ruth before, so it was also good to hook up with her again. Somewhere during the course of catching up on all our news, Lynda suggested we haul some of her many books downstairs and put them into storage. With all our extra arms to help, why not? She then further suggested that she would like us all to meet her new superintendent. Well, our sole purpose was to come down for a visit so, once again, why not?
We were all up for the little jaunt down to the basement. Books in hand, away we headed. First out the door was my sister, then Mom, then me, and last thoughtful Ruth.
We made our way on and off the elevator in the same order. Ruth and I seemed to be strongly engaged in catch-up conversation, and thereby ended up as the two stragglers in the group. I distinctly remember seeing Lynda and Mom making a right turn up ahead at the end of the corridor. Therefore I was in no rush to catch up as I could see my destination point without any fear of losing track of them.
Seconds after they disappeared from view, I stopped immediately and abruptly in my tracks. I was completely taken off guard by what I encountered. I can’t remember if Ruth almost bumped into me, or actually did end up stepping on my heels when I stopped. What I do remember was spluttering, “Oh my God, I just walked into a funeral!”
I didn’t wait for Ruth’s response. I remember asking, more like interrogating her, “Can’t you smell it?”
“It smells like that warm sweet flowery smell that you smell in a funeral home.”
At the risk of sounding self-consumed, I don’t know if Ruth said or did anything except witness my actions. I guess one would have to ask Ruth if she remembers.
What I remember next is looking up to my right and overhead to see if there was some sort of vent or air duct that could have been pumping the smell in. Nothing! Solid walls, and solid ceiling. There was absolutely nothing to distinguish this portion of the hallway from any other particular spot. Very odd indeed!
At some point, Ruth came up from behind me and stood to my left side. I remember cautioning her, that we should not say anything to my sister, at least until my mom went to sleep that night.
What follows next gets even stranger! Part of me wanted to rush down the hallway and drag my sister back to share this with her, but the bigger part knew that for whatever reason Ruth was the one to experience this encounter with me.
Next, I looked down at the space on the floor where I was presently standing. Nothing looked different to the naked eye. I did, however, feel like I was standing in a 24” x 24” square perimeter. It also felt to be very tall. Like a pillar of energy, or beam, if you will. It seem to extend from the floor to at least my own height and taller. Obviously, I didn’t have a tape measure on me, so I can only guesstimate at these measurements.
With Ruth as my witness, I remember stepping repeatedly in and out of this invisible perimeter. As I stepped to the left, I said, “Can’t smell it here.” Then I would step back into the perimeter and say, “I can smell it here.”
Then I did and said the same thing, as I moved forward from it and directly back from it. I could not do so to the right of me, as that was where the wall ran.
It was the smell that was so defined, as was the area in which it occurred. I probably looked up at the ceiling a couple of times. I found it incredibly hard to imagine that it was just coming from nowhere.
Shortly after this step-dance of mine, I pulled myself together, and the two of us scooted on down the hallway to join the others in the room on the right. Inside Mom and Lynda were cheerfully chatting innocently away with the new super. Lynda was showing and describing the fitness area, et cetera.
What hit me in this room was how beautiful it was for a superintendent’s office. It was none like I had encountered over the fifteen years or so that I had lived in the Mississauga and Brampton areas. I was thinking they must pay the supers a lot better in Richmond Hill than they do elsewhere!
I continued to swivel around in place, looking at the dark wall unit and the wall pictures — the personal homey kind of touches to this office area! It was at that point that I stated how surprisingly nice it was. It was at this juncture that Judy, I believe her name was, softly explained, “Well, you see, years ago we used to have a lot of seniors living here with us. Many of them just like family, so we sometimes ended up using this room to hold wakes.”
As these words made contact with my ears, I quickly reached to my right and grabbed a hold of Ruth’s arm in an attempt to prevent her from blurting anything out.
She and I made instant eye contact, but no words were exchanged between us. I quickly ended my conversation with the super and headed towards the exit.
A sense of anticipation was building even stronger in me now, and I am sure Ruth as well, to spill out our experience to Lynda at the earliest point possible. Lynda, thank goodness, was also ready to make her way back up to the apartment, so we all thanked Judy for her kindness and hastily made our way back down the long corridor. I remember wondering how Lynda was going to take this news, considering that she had just nicely gotten herself moved into her new surroundings.
What I would like to reiterate is the part about the mysterious perimeter. There didn’t seem to be any harmful, bad, or hurtful vibes, if you will. It seemed to be a gentle source. Quite possibly, but unfortunately unknowingly, I was unable to confirm female or feminine energy that I was drawing on! For some reason it did seem to fit in line with adult energy and not child-like power. However, I’m not exactly sure what, if any, difference this makes to anyone reading this — except that it rounds off the experience the only honest way I know how.
Perhaps, it may mean something to someone who reads this, if they happen to know of anyone who passed over in an apartment building on Cedar Street in Richmond Hill. Or, perhaps, this encounter was of someone who visited or worked there. How would one ever know the real answer? I learned a long time ago that this world was never intended or designed for us to hold all the answers, only to guess the possibilities of all the “what ifs”!
At the time of writing about this occurrence, I can tell you this detail. My sister is still happily living in this building. To the best of my knowledge, she has never heard or encountered any such stories as the one that I just shared with you!
Raining Intuition
Every once in a while, we seem to notice how life has changed us. I don’t just mean how it has changed our body. It does that, but I mean how it has changed our thinking as well. Every experience we have slowly adds up to our own unique process!
I’m not at all sure when my very first unusual encounter was, but for the sake of argument, I will tell you about the first one that sticks out most in my mind!
I was sitting at my mother’s kitchen table in Meaford, Ontario. At the time, I was visiting with her from the city of Mississauga. You see, just previous to this visit, I had received a phone call to say that my dad had taken ill and was in the Owen Sound Hospital. Upon sharing the news with my sons, my oldest son decided that he would take my car in for a car wash. In case you hadn’t guessed, he had just recently acquired his driver’s licence and would be happy to drive at the time for nearly any mundane reason!
On the return from his good deed, I was to learn that the automatic car wash had eaten the driver’s-side windshield wiper completely off! There was no time to waste! I explained that I would have to be the one now to drive up North. The reason was it might start to rain and I was supposedly a more experienced driver! My son was disappointed with this news, to say the least, but he also understood it was for the best.
So we loaded up and headed off. Not a raindrop in sight! We had bare roads and clear sailing all the way. We all settled safely two hours later at our destination. The next morning, before heading over to the next town to make our hospital visit, my son Damon asked if he and my youngest son Ryan (Rye as I call him) could borrow the car for a quick road trip to visit briefly with their uncle who lived nearby. This particular uncle is three months “younger” in age than Damon! In other words, his grandmother and I were pregnant at the same time. (This is known as a M.A.C. situation — Middle Age Carelessness!) It seemed to be a fairly clear day. So I told him there was no problem so long as they were back by 1:00 p.m.
Approximately a half-hour later I shared my gnawing concern with my mother. I explained that every time my sons get together with this particular uncle, a twist of fate soon follows, or so it always seemed to me. This day was to be no exception.
Minutes following this comment — intuition rains down on me — and I shot straight up off my chair, causing it to crash against the kitchen wall behind me! I remember spouting out, “Something just happened to the kids! Something’s wrong, I can feel it!”
My practical, logical-minded mother began to tell me that I shouldn’t be thinking like this! She asked me why I would say such a thing.
The words had no sooner left her mouth than her telephone rang. It was for me. It was the Meaford town police. A lady officer began explaining that my two sons and a third party had rolled and totalled the car! She quickly went on to add that they had been admitted to the Meaford Hospital. She also asked if I had any other transportation. I said no. So she immediately offered to come and pick me up and take me up to see them.
Long story short! Apparently, they picked up their uncle and went out for a short drive on some nearby gravel roads. During this back-road tour, it immediately started to pour down rain! Damon was driving and he did what any other driver instinctively would do. He reached up and hit the windshield wipers, only to be sadly reminded he didn’t have one on his side of the car. With no vision, they ended up going around a bend in the road and rolling the car a couple of times down over an embankment.
The police officer did add that they had “not” been speeding. She said they had only been doing about fifty miles per hour. She explained that, with a passenger in the front seat and a passenger on the same side in the back, when they went around the corner, the weight displacement added to the car flipping over so easily!
I remember getting out of the officer’s vehicle. I remember thanking her, but I don’t remember seeing her after that. I remember walking into the hospital and asking at the desk to see my sons. I also remember nervously asking, “Who was hurt the worst?” but not really wanting to really hear or know the answer.
In through the doorway I went. First, I spotted my youngest, Rye. I knew in his eyes he was happy to see me, but also at the same time pleading in his brother’s defence that he was so worried about the car. I quickly hugged him and said I’d be back after I checked on his brother.
The hospital was keeping him on the opposite side of the room. I could see a doctor with him. He was going over him closely, checking for signs of whiplash and whatever else they look for. I guess, as the driver, Damon had got it the worst.
Upon spotting me, he immediately started apologizing for rolling the car. I told him not to worry about the car, it was insured. I asked the doctor how he thought they medically looked. He told me that both of them were bounced around pretty good, but luckily both had been wearing their seat belts.
I don’t remember what happened with their uncle. He wasn’t there! At the time that was just as well, I had enough on my plate to deal with. All in all, they had relatively small bangs, bumps, and bruises compared to what could have happened. I think the biggest injury was their minds and naturally their nerves! Damon, especially, felt the responsibility for both his passengers and the car. He didn’t seem too concerned for his own physical condition!
The details that hang heaviest over me to this day about the accident are two-fold. Number One, how easily I could have lost both my sons in one easy freak swoop!
Number Two, the feeling of the energy that had shot through my body that day that told me something wrong had happened! How unnerving and helpless I felt, because I was unable to capture any of the details.
The best way I suppose to describe this feeling to others is like this. It is like someone witnessing a dog barking incessantly at something but not being able to see or hear what it is that the dog is barking at. You only sense that it can’t be good. All you really know is that common sense tells you to act defensively, to be alert, and to be on guard!
This source of energy has come to visit with me on other occasions as well. For the above-stated reasons, it continues to be both a blessing and a curse. It immediately overcomes me at different speeds, strengths, and lengths of time!
What I have figured out is that the older I get, the stronger it seems to get! Also, that it picks me! I never pick it! I usually end up pacing and my mind racing as it occurs. My mind and my heart do instant battle.
Which one wins? The honest truth? The one I feel the most!
May 26, 2005
