HERE IN THE mountains, the dawn hours seem to stretch forever. The sun breaks elegantly over the top of the peak behind us, so that light appears to slide over the world. You can almost feel the shadows ease. The essence of the land is palpable when you step out onto it. It fills you. When the dog and I venture out at this time of day, we are silenced by the majesty of it all. Our walks are punctuated only by the call of the birds, the nattering of squirrels and the sound of the breeze. Animal talk. My people say that in the beginning, the animals could speak with each other, and there’s still a sense of those ancient times, like a whispered conversation. The Indian in me is drawn to it. I stand on a rock above the water, close my eyes and pull the feeling into me with each breath. Indian. Ojibway. Human.
Deb and I gathered with friends recently. Our hosts were Ed and Arlene, former Edmontonians who moved here after Ed’s insurance career had run its course. If being retired means a devoted tending to house and home, then that’s what Ed and Arlene are. Ed and his brother Ron married two sisters. Arlene and Carol are fastidious and loyal, Catholic in their upbringing. Their lakefront homes are immaculate and charming. The two families live two houses apart, and there’s a well-worn path between their doors. They are linked by a blood that’s thicker than most, and there’s a tightness to their connection that you can feel. At this gathering, there were brothers, sons, daughters, cousins and grandkids.
The adults convened in the living room, looking out onto the lake. The kids disappeared to the basement rec room, where they watched videos and occasionally meandered up to peek at us and cadge cookies or juice. A fat, well-tended cat prowled the room. A newborn baby girl, Ed and Arlene’s granddaughter, Olivia, lay in her aunt’s arms, staring wide-eyed at everything. It was comforting to sit in the influence of their togetherness. We talked about everything from plumbing to well water, woodpiles to cougars spotted on the road, gas prices, vacations, home renovations and hockey. We’ve known these folks for less than two years, but we are comfortable enough with each other to tease and joke and banter. The talk had a life of its own, and we followed the energy wherever it took us.
Ed and Ron are from Ukrainian farmer stock, and Arlene had prepared a sumptuous spread of ethnic foods for the event. Thankfully, we Ojibways are omnivores, and I dug in heartily. Even if I avoided the head cheese, I lost myself in the plenty. Arlene and Carol hovered over everything, gently badgering us to eat more before they sat down to enjoy the meal.
After supper, the guitars came out, and three of us sat in the dining room and jammed to blues, country and acoustic rock. The others let the talk take them down numerous roads. The kids went outside for a game of tag, the cat found a lap, the newborn slept and the sun slipped behind the mountain to the west. The snowy platter of the lake turned purple in the gathering dark. Later, there was tea and cookies, along with the crackle of a fire in the woodstove.
When we left, finally, it was to hugs and handshakes, smiles and laughter. Deb and I walked to the car with full stomachs and light hearts, feeling the glow that comes from good times in the company of good friends. When we got back to our own home, I saw it as a living thing, containing its own stories, carrying the spirit of the lives it holds between its walls. Walking through the door to the welcome of the dog, I stood for a moment and just looked at everything.
Deb and I come from broken homes. Both of us were put up for adoption when we were small, and the families we landed in were ill suited to the people we were meant to be. No one took the time to get to know us. Instead, they set out to make us exactly like them. Our days were marked by rigid discipline, neglect and loneliness. The gatherings we experienced back then were mostly about exclusion and separateness. It’s taken us both a long time to get over that. We became loners because of those unwelcoming family circles, more comfortable without company than with it, happier in a small, well-chosen circle of associates than in a gregarious crowd. We lived in the corners of rooms, at the fringes of things. But here at the lake we’ve learned what it feels like to be included.
It’s the land that connects us. I’m convinced of that. Everyone around us is here because the land has a song we want to listen to through every season, in all kinds of weather. We’re a motley Canadian crew: Ukrainian, Ojibway, Scots, French, Cree and Scandinavian. We live in community, allowing each other our privacy but gathering, at times like this, for the ceremony of togetherness. We enter our homes filled with it, are framed by it, with its power to erase tattered histories and soothe ragged souls. We are framed by it, buoyed by it, this deeply spiritual sense that is far more than the effect of geography.
This is our home and native land, and we belong here—all of us. There’s a miracle that’s put into motion by the opening of a door and a hearty welcome, whatever language that welcome is spoken in.