AN ELDER FRIEND once taught me something crucial about how to change the world. I was in my early thirties, just becoming politically active in pursuit of Native rights. By then, my comprehension of Native issues had grown to encompass the environment, hunting, education, employment, spiritual empowerment and the use of traditional science, a list far beyond treaty rights, land claims and constitutional issues.
The elder and I were walking by a river as we visited. Her name was Lorraine Sinclair. She’d founded the Mother Earth Healing Society, an organization seeking to build a diverse community of people around the desire to return the planet to balance and harmony. She was recognized as a wise and learned woman, and I sought her advice often. That day, I described my frustration at pushing forward our people’s agenda. The magnitude of the issues was daunting. As a journalist, I feared my work would never be finished. We were beset by far more problems than there were practical solutions, it seemed, and the situation was agonizing and exhausting.
Lorraine listened attentively, as she always did. We walked a long way along that river, and I waited as patiently as I could for her words. I expected her to prop me up, to offer praise for my efforts. I expected to leave with an emotional and spiritual band-aid firmly in place. What I got from her was far more.
As we paused by a pool in the river, Lorraine took up a pebble and tossed it in. In silence, we watched the ripples eddy outward in concentric rings and lap the stones at our feet. “That’s the way you change the world,” she said. “The smallest circles first.”
Creator built us of energy and spirit. Beneath our flesh and bones are molecules, atoms and neutrons spinning in a nonstop cosmic dance. That is the truth of our physical reality, so one small act can have wide-ranging consequences. That’s what she showed me. Do what you can where you can. Think less of the big picture than of what is achievable right now. Do whatever needs doing with a grateful heart and a mind clear of expectation. That’s how you change the world.
Almost a quarter of a century later, I’m still pondering her message. I thought of Lorraine’s words again not long ago, in connection with a new tradition Deb and I have started at our house. It’s really an old tradition that we’ve dusted off and revived. It’s a ritual that hearkens back to the days when people would gather in their homes to tell stories, read to each other and sing songs. It predates television, computers and cell phones.
We share a potluck dinner first. We never ask anyone to bring a particular dish; we’re grateful for whatever arrives. The night of our first gathering, we had an incredible feast. Everywhere you looked there were people talking and eating and having a great time. When the meal was over, the main event got started. I walked around with an old hat, and everyone who chose to dropped in a slip of paper with their name on it. After Debra and I had welcomed everybody and sung a song, we drew the first name out of the hat, and that person sat in our antique rocker and did her thing. There were eighteen of us that night. Deb and I had invited a few friends, and they had spread the word, so the people who came were mostly strangers to us and each other. But there was a feeling of safety and community in our living room that night.
Everyone had the chance to tell a story, sing a song, read something they’d written, read something that had moved them or introduce a special piece of recorded music. We sat in candlelight, with the fire in the woodstove crackling, and we were awed by what came out.
We heard a touching story about homelessness and setting down roots from a man who lives down the way. He and I had never spoken before, only nodded at each other when we passed on the road. But his words were riveting. They showed him to be a man with a history much like mine. Without that gathering, I might never have had the privilege of learning that. We listened to folk songs performed on a six-string guitar and a blues song accompanied only by hand claps. People told stories about childhood, the spirituality of fly fishing and the trials of war. One person read a poem for the earth.
As the evening progressed, people sank deeper into their chairs. The silence between offerings was an oration in itself. There was no need for booze, loud music, video games or other contemporary distractions. Instead, we luxuriated in the old-time feeling of togetherness.
Deb and I have held similar gatherings every month since. Everyone who comes leaves feeling more complete, more attuned to their neighbours. Community happens that way, people coming together for a common purpose. That’s what Lorraine meant when she said “the smallest circles first.” One ripple at a time: that’s how we will change the world.