The Rememberer
Photo by Kmax
The
Circle of New Beginnings
© 2006 Oona McOuat
Photo by Leigh Hilbert
Photo by Leigh Hilbert
Photo by Leigh Hilbert
Photo by Leigh Hilbert
Photo by Leigh Hilbert
Intergenerational Storyteling Project
Haiku
for the Murakamis
© 2007 Oona McOuat
All of the children, including Isabel & Helena, chose to create pictures of the Murakami's life as successful fishers and farmers as it was before internment.
A magical love story to help you remember who you really are
( To read a PDF preview of the first chapter Click here.)
I arrived in Ireland on September 11th, 2001 with the key to a friend's vacant cottage in my pocket. I was traveling to County Donegal to live like a hermit and write a novel. Never mind that I was thousands of miles from home in a world suddenly turned topsy-turvy, in a country where I didn't know a soul. My first morning at the cottage, I got up, wiped the cobwebs off the kitchen table and began to write. Several years and bowls of oatmeal and blackberries later, I finished The Rememberer and I am now actively seeking a publisher or a literary agent for the manuscript.
Photo by Kmax
by Oona McOuat
© 2009 Oona McOuat
“Hear ye, Hear ye. ‘Tis the Eve of All Hallows,” called the Town Crier. “The wheel of the year is about to turn. Everyone to their places!”
As the town crier moved across the village with his call, Spring sat beside the fire, brushing her long golden hair.
“I’m so glad it’s not my turn to be front and center,” she said sleepily. “It’s getting so dark and cold out. I don’t have a thing to wear for this weather! There aren’t even any roses left in the garden to weave into my hair. I’m feeling so tired. I’m still tuckered out from helping the trees bud and the seeds become little green sprouts. I think I’ll just curl up right here on on this couch carved from a fallen log and take a nice, long nap.”
Spring yawned, fluffed up her pillow of dried leaves and fell fast asleep. She was sleeping so soundly she didn’t feel her sister Hope gently shaking her shoulder or hear her asking her to wake up.
Meanwhile, in her cottage down the road Summer was singing a little tune while she packed her bags.
”Para baillar la bamba,
Para baillar la bamba yo necessito,
una poca de…” when there was a knock at her door.
”Come in!” she called, and in rushed Hope with a basket of plant bulbs hanging from the crook of her arm.
“Summer, what are you doing?“ she asked breathlessly, looking at the pile of shorts and sunscreen on the floor.
“I’m packing my bags and heading to Mexico for a very long winter vacation,” Summer answered.
“But Summer – you can’t go. The call has sounded. The wheel of the year is about to turn and Spring is fast asleep. She was sleeping so soundly, I couldn’t wake her up! You must stay. Someone has to be here to help Lady Winter keep the balance.”
“Sorry, can’t help you” said Summer breezily. “Warm sun and balmy seas await me. Got a flight to catch. Snow Goose Express. Non-refundable ticket. You know how that goes… Now, which pair of sandals should I bring – the blue or the pink? Para Baillar la Bomba….”
Hope didn’t know what to do. The wheel was about to turn, the seasons were shifting and someone had to be there to help Lady Winter tell the people that in its turn, winter would pass and the days would grow warm again. Hope ran out Summer’s door down the spiral path to Autumn’s house. But Autumn wasn’t there!
“Of course she’s not home,” thought Hope. ”She is so busy at this time of year. She could be anywhere!”
Hope continued down the spiral path, her basket of plant bulbs swinging on her arm. She soon came to the orchard where, in the distance, she saw the Harvest Elf gathering the last of the pears and apples from the trees. Hope dashed through the yellowing grass towards him.
“Harvest Elf!’ she cried, “Have you seen Autumn?”
The Harvest Elf put down his basket, pulled off his orange pointed cap and scratched his head.
“Not in person for a good long while,” he answered. “Not since September 22nd, to be precise. But I see signs of her all around me – the turning of the leaves, the falling nuts and berries, all these bright red apples that I really must continue picking. You see, Autumn’s been keeping me rather busy lately, so if you don’t mind, I’d best get back to work.”
The Harvest Elf picked up his basket and headed deeper into the orchard, taking the path that edged along the Forest.
“Oh dear,” sighed Hope. “What am I to do?”
Just then she smelled the most delicious smell – it was warm and yeasty and she realized she’d been so preoccupied with running here and there she had forgotten to eat lunch! She followed the scent to an old wooden cart being pulled very slowly by one tall, chestnut horse. Now Hope was just learning to read, but on the side of the cart she made out the letters: A—N—C—E—S—T—O-R.
“Maybe there’s a new bakery in the village,” she mused, thinking that the woman in the white kerchief and red apron who was driving the wagon looked a little familiar.
“You must have a heavy load!” called Hope.
“Yes,” answered the woman, as she gently reined her horse to a halt. “This wagon is full of memories and time.”
“Oh, I wish I had more time,” said Hope,” but I really haven’t. You see, the wheel of the year is about to turn and I can sense Autumn, but I can’t quite find her, in person, I mean, and Spring is sleeping and Summer is about to leave on a long winter vacation and…”
“Here, child” said the woman as she reached behind her into a large basket covered with a clean, white cloth, “Have a piece of bread from the Ancestors. When you eat this bread, time stops. Only that which is passed from parent to child, from one generation to the next, remains.”
“Is it made of magic?” asked Hope, as she held the bread to her nose and smelled its fresh goodness.
“It is made of Love,” answered the Ancestor and she urged her horse forward, taking the spiral path towards the Forest.
Hope sat down on a big, smooth stone and bit into her bread. Suddenly all her worries about this and that faded away and she was back at home with her mother and father, sister and brother, sharing food and stories around the dinner table, enveloped in warmth and contentment.
She swallowed her last bite of bread and quickly stood up.
“Now where was I? Oh, right, I was having lunch. I always like to finish off a meal with a big bowl of fresh green salad. I’ll stop at the garden to pick some vegetables.”
“Oh my goodness! What’s happened here?”
Hope arrived at the garden to find only a handful of chewy kale and a mouthful of bitter arugula growing in it. Her favorite things, like the sweet and tender peas and green beans were nothing but brown, withered stalks.
The Garden Helper was digging over by the compost pile.
”Yoo hoo, Garden Helper!” Hope called as she ran towards him. “Something terrible has happened to the garden. I swear, just last week I came and filled my pockets with parsley and lettuce and green onions and now – why there’s nothing left!”
“I know it must be a bit of a shock to you, who loves the green and growing time, to see the garden like this, Hope, but the garden is at rest now,” said the Garden Helper.
“Blub, blub, blub.”
“What was that?” asked Hope.
“Glop gloop. Glippity gloop,” was the reply.
“That’s just Earth and Rot,” answered the Garden Helper. “They are busy decomposing a new song.”
Just then the two most amazing creatures Hope had ever seen came oozing out of the compost pile. They were covered with bits of moss and leaves and sticks. They were slimy and crumbly and smelled like skunk cabbage and unwashed socks. Before she could say a word, they each put one of their hands in hers.
““Don’t be afraid,” said the Garden Helper, “I think they want to help you. Even though they look and smell funny, they’re a part of the cycle of things too.”
With those words, Earth and Rot led Hope along the spiraling garden path right into the Forest.
“Er…hmm,” Hope nervously cleared her throat, “If you please, Cousins,” she said timidly, “If you please, although the Forest is very beautiful at this time of year – full of mushrooms and rosehips and fallen leaves, I really don’t have time right now to go for a hike. You see, I must find Lady Winter and tell her my sister Spring is fast asleep and that Summer is about to go on a long winter vacation and that Autumn, well Autumn is obviously here but I haven’t actually found her. In person, I mean. I must tell Lady Winter that I am afraid she will have to keep the balance between light and dark all by herself.”
Earth and Rot didn’t say a word. They just gurgled and burped and led Hope even deeper into the woods, little bits of them falling to the ground as they walked.
Suddenly, the air grew chilly. They rounded a bend and there, in a frosty grove, was Lady Winter.
“Greetings, Little One,” she said to Hope, the autumn sunlight shimmering in her mane of silver hair. “I have been waiting for you.”
“For me?” Hope asked. “Surely it is Spring or Summer that you need, my Lady. They are much more important than me.”
“No, your sister Spring needs to sleep now and Summer needs the warmth to prosper. It is you, Hope, who carries the promise of the life that will return.”
Hope looked at Lady Winter quizzically and then she remembered the basket of plant bulbs that hung from the crook of her arm.
“You must give your bulbs to the people. As they plant them, they will remember that although I bring death and decay, cold and silence, life still lives in the land.”
Lady Winter reached inside a hollow in the fir tree and pulled out a cloak of owl feathers which she placed over Hope’s rose petal dress.
“May this keep you warm through the frosty nights to come,“ she said, her breath forming clouds in the cooling air. “Quickly now, the seasons are shifting, the harvest is almost complete, the time of rest is near upon us.”
With Earth and Rot her faithful companions, Hope journeyed back along the spiral path, handing her bulbs to all they met, telling them to plant them and believe. As the first snowflakes began to fall, Hope arrived at her doorstep with rosy cheeks and a glowing heart. She bid farewell to Earth and Rot and went and curled up beside her sister Spring to take a long winter’s nap.
This is one of several original stories that i tell with the harp....
Deep in the heart of the world, there was sorrow. And this sorrow dripped like dew from the branches of the Tree of Life into the Well of Wyrd.
Deep in the heart of the world, there was joy, and this joy rose like water from the Well of Wyrd and fed the Tree of Life.
And so the cycle continued: joy and sorrow, the past and the present feeding and forming the future.
Then one day, Spider Woman came to earth and made the four Peoples from lumps of clay - red, yellow, brown, and white. The People moved across the earth, weaving the world through their actions and their dreams. Spider Man climbed up to the Sky and brought back the Stories. He gave the Stories to the People, and as the four tribes spread across the planet, they carried the Stories with them. And although the words each tribe spoke sounded different, the message hidden within the heart of the Stories was always the same.
And so the cycle continued for years and lifetimes until one day the people began to forget. They forgot the Stories, they forgot about the Sacred Tree of Life and the well that feeds it. They forgot that with their words and actions they were weaving the world.
The story of the forgetting is a sad one. I don't need to tell it to you now, for all around you, in your world, you see its legacy - rape, bloodshed, environmental desecration, despair…
This is not the time to dwell on the forgetting. For our hearts and minds are ready to remember.
And so, a circle of women gathers on a small island in the middle of the ocean. They wear green and white. They sit in a circle by the fire, grinding raw cacao and honey from their hives into chocolate. When the smooth brown paste is ready, they dip their fingers into it and feed themselves and each other. They laugh and cry as they talk about their lives.
They talk about endings. Of several little endings that add up to great loss. They could stay here in the sorrow, but it is hard to grieve with chocolate melting in your mouth. As the autumn sun glistens on their bare skin and hair, they believe in new beginnings.
They stand in a circle, their feet on the earth. They sing an ancient song of the first People of this land, asking for guidance:
'Ho maike ike mai luna mai e"…
"Aho", a spider hears their song, and comes and sits on a rock, watching and waiting. When one of the women looks right at her, the spider crawls up and onto the woman's open hand. The spider sits and weaves a silken strand that grows into a ball of possibility.
The woman wraps the thread around her throat and prays for words of peace. She passes the ball of thread to her sister. That woman wraps the thread around her pelvis and prays that no woman will know rape or sexual degradation. She prays for healing for her body and the earth, and she passes the ball of thread to her sister. The next wraps the thread around her right bicep and prays for the men. Another wraps the thread around her heart and prays for the children. And so they continue, wrapping and praying, until the ball of thread is completely unraveled and they are completely intertwined. They have woven a web with their prayers.
They notice that each separate movement one of the women makes, no matter how small, is felt by the whole. And so they stand there, a tangled knot of hope, until the moon comes out. When the cooling air gives them goose bumps - chicken skin - they gently and mindfully begin to disentangle. Cutting this silken cord feels strange at first, almost like losing a limb. At last, the women are together but apart. They each keep a small piece of the thread and tie it around their left wrist so they will remember they are weavers, so they will remember the power of their prayers.
Photo by Kmax
The women lie on the earth, watching the stars appear one by one, and they recognize that we, the four peoples, live under the same sky. They sense that we are gathering all over the planet - the healers and rememberers, the wounded and the weavers. In halls and hovels, in backyards and on beaches, men and women are gathering to remember the power within and the mystery without. Together, we are weaving the beauty into form.
Deep in the heart of the world, there is sorrow. And this sorrow drips like dew from the branches of the Tree of Life into the Well of Wyrd.
Deep in the heart of the world, there is joy, and this joy rises like water from the Well of Wyrd and feeds the Tree of Life.
And so the cycle continues joy and sorrow, the past and the present feeding and forming the future.
And it is good.
This successful program, funded by a grant from the Community Arts Council, allows kids grades one to three to hone their literacy skills as they learn about history, storytelling, and life from their elders. I invite 3 seniors into the classroom to share stories from their childhood with students. The children then retell the stories in their own words and illustrate them to create unique storybooks which are gifted to the elders at a final celebration where we share food and games were mentioned in the elders' stories.
The most poignant
story to date was told by Salt Spring resident Rose Murakami who, along
with thousands of other Japanese Canadians, had her home and possessions
seized and was sent to live in an internment camp during World War Two.
To see the children's versions of Rose's story in PDF format Click
here. A few excerpts from the book follow:
Rose shows students the 1941 and 1943 class pictures from Salt Spring Secondary school. The first has several Japanese students in it. The second doesn't have any.
I wrote these haiku as an introduction to Rose's book using images she shared with us during her storytelling:
Internment
Bitter
dandelions
In spring they take our father
Next they take our farm
Pack one bag and go
Good winter coat gets dirty
Dust and diesel hurt
Herded to horse stalls
No sweet smelling strawberries
We do not belong
This poem was created by the children by stringing together the parts of Rose's story that impacted them the most.
For
Richard, Rose & the Murakami family
By the Grade Ones of Fulford School
The Boy who liked to Lick Butter
Five
thousand chickens
Tomato plants and berries
White people got jealous.
Bombing
Pearl Harbour
White people are angry
Prison camp.
Bad
food
Fresh horse poo
Living in a stinky old barn.
Planting
sugar beets
The door covered in flies
Grave of a baby who died.
Retrospective of Storytelling Highlights
Long ago and far away, the bard was weaver, healer, teacher - a thread that connected the present to the past through her stories.
Accompanied by my Celtic harp, I tell Celtic, Hawaiian and original stories - Earth tales, Peace tales and stories of seasonal celebration. Old words and new tumble together to engage the senses and cultivate joy, to delight, awaken and transform listeners of all ages. My stories add a touch of old world Magic to gatherings, festivals and performances of all natures. Contact me at oonasong@yahoo.com for booking details.
Winter 2000 & 2001- My original song & story December Song was featured on the NPR radio special "Do You Hear What I Hear? A Holiday Folk Tour" aired on over 100 stations across the US and hosted by folk icon Judy Collins.
Spring 2001- Told The Faerie Harp, an original musical story set to the Celtic harp at Libraries across the Big Island of Hawaii.
Summer-Fall 2001 - Told stories with my harp at the Edinborough Fringe Festival & on the streets of London, Glasgow and many towns inbetween!
Winter 2006 - Told my original story The Birth of Bridget at an Imbolc service at the United Church on Salt Spring.
Photo by Leigh Hilbert
Fall 2007- Opened a benefit concert for aid to Africa with my original story A Circle of New Beginnings at Alex Goolden Hall in Victoria, BC. Other artists included with Ferron, Tony Childs & Jamie Sieber.
Fall 2008-Spring 2009 - Member of Puente Theatre's Storytelling Collective. Venues included the Royal British Columbia Museum.
Winter 2008 Toured Libraries on the Big Island of Hawaii with my original storytelling show, Winter Tales.
Fall 2010 & 2011- Performed my original musical story Apple Magic at the Salt Spring Apple Festival
Winter 2010 - Performed my original musical story A Journey to the Magic Lands at Yukon Schools and libraries
Spring 2011 - Told the story my original story Can You Keep a Secret at the Folk Clubs Gumboot Gala, Salt Spring Island
Spring 2011 - Told my original story Green at an Equinox service at the United Church on Salt Spring.
A project still in its inception!