My Novel:

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

Our Stories Our Lives

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

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.

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