There is a certain comfort in the ceremonial [column]

WOLF SONGS & FIRE CHATS

There’s a ceremony I do for myself every morning. Once I’m awake and have had a coffee and some time to feel my spirit moving, I gather my prayer articles, my smudging bowl, eagle wing fan and cedar, sage, tobacco and sweetgrass. I put them in the bowl, light them and go through my home offering blessings to my wife, myself, our things and saying a quiet prayer of gratitude for all of it. It feels wonderful.

These days there are fires in the woodstove. The ambience of that feels timeless. And moving through the quiet of this small cabin in the mountains is healing and redemptive. This act of ceremony grounds me. I’m fully present in my home and in my life. I’m aware and thankful for all of it. There’s no fanfare to it, no big Native production number; just a man moving humbly through a ritual of gratitude and blessing. I can’t start my days without it.

I’ve been to a lot of traditional ceremonies over the years, since I found my way back to the traditional and cultural lives of my people. I’ve been blessed to travel to Sun Dances, Rain Dances, Horse Dances, sweatlodges, pipe ceremonies and Vision Quests in virtually every part of Indian country.

I’ve met a lot of truly amazing and powerful people; their power directed mostly through the immense aura of humility they carry. It’s been a wonderful adventure and I have become more fulfilled because of it.

Ceremony is the center of our traditional lives as First Nations people. When I was first introduced to it as a young man of 24, I embraced it enthusiastically. There was something in the atmosphere surrounding ceremony that enchanted me and allowed me to feel included, even when I felt awkward and ashamed of my lack of knowledge. In fact, I became such a staunch ceremonialist that for a long time I went to one virtually every week and I became educated in our ceremonial way.

I learned a great deal of things about prayer and principles and about the virtues of living a life directed by them. I heard great and moving stories and legends. I learned about the cosmology, worldview and philosophy of my people and they shaped the man that I eventually became.

I learned that with ceremony in my life, I am able to cope better with events and circumstance and I stay in balance when fate shifts and life becomes difficult or challenging. But that didn’t come automatically.

At first when I was going to all of those ceremonies I felt like it was the Indian thing to do. In order to be a good Ojibway I had to be in ceremony, had to be actively pursuing my traditions and living accordingly. I had to be seen as being a ceremonial person and I had to represent that in everything I did or said. I believed that ceremony was a Band Aid that I could apply to any wounds the world caused.

But once, things in the late 1980s weren’t going very well. I was living in a big city and working very hard. I didn’t seem to be able to get ahead, to get beyond a hand to mouth existence. I drank too much to deal with the stress and I found myself struggling to maintain a good life. Someone I knew was hosting a sweat lodge and feast. I packed all my ceremonial things together and made the trip.

The ceremony was long and hot and I felt as though I left a lot of pain there and had prayed for strength and a good heart to face my challenges. But at the feast later I didn’t feel any better. My stomach still churned with indecision and doubt. I felt shame over choosing drink to deal with my issues. I felt troubled about not representing a brave ceremonialist face in adversity. An elder friend noticed my discomfort and she took me to a quiet corner and asked me what the problem was.

I told her about my troubles and how I’d come to the lodge expecting to me lifted up and out of all of it. I explained how dedicated I was and how much I believed in our healing way. She looked at me and smiled and gave me a big hug.

“Ceremony doesn’t change you.” she said. “You change you. Ceremony is just the trail you learn to follow until you reach the place where that can happen.” I’ve never been able to forget those words. I quit trying to use ceremony as a Band Aid after that. Instead, I worked at healing me, worked at changing the way I dealt with things and ceremony became the celebration of success.