The road less cycled

This I wrote in the heady days of Grade 12, a time that teeters on the boundary between the real world and juvenile academia. I dug it up while browsing through old work. I think it might be time to restore the prose/poetry balance.

Life: The Choice

commit yourself

to institutions

to women and statesmen, money and ideals

bow to nations, constitutions

submit, and give what is demanded

 

give your days to man’s creation

wring out the bills

to suit your nation

 

be ill at ease

for you have forsaken

that which breathes your heart to awaken

sleep at night with knowledge sure

that once your days lived fully were

 

your days are lifeless, but for a cat’s purr

you have forgotten

that which is pure

 

Go! and leave me

for your heart’s devices

wander not my fields so free

spend your days in man’s good vices

far away from cloud and tree

 

for you cannot

abandon me

Further information on Peter Donaldson can be found at www.peterdonaldson.net. This post is a replica of an assignment for my creative non-fiction course.

Some of my most memorable experiences involve a man by the name of Peter Donaldson. It was Donaldson who acted out the one man performance “SalmonPeople” – the play about the space that doesn’t exist between “Salmon” and “People.” Donaldson, too, who conducted an environmental leadership workshop at the X:aytem longhouse in Mission, where his presence transformed the atmosphere into one of thoughtful focus. Again, it was Donaldson who created the reverential atmosphere inside the dugout pithouse behind X:aytem by reading his epic chronicle of poetry “Salmon Circle.” A final time, it was Donaldson who performed “Eagle Eye,” again in the X:aytem dugout – a masterful narrative of the human species’ journey of discovery over its relationship with nature, seen through the eyes of an eagle. Of these four experiences, perhaps the one that stands out most to me was the reading of the “Salmon Circle” at the 2005 Fraser Valley Bald Eagle Festival.

Donaldson had just guided us through a series of thoughtful exercises with regard to sustainability – how to incorporate it into our lifestyles and how to effectively communicate it, and we had then then been treated to an absolutely sumptuous dinner prepared by a woman of First Nations heritage by the name of Denny Stobbart – whose husband Al I would later get the chance to count bald eagles with. The meal was entirely sustainable, prepared with ingredients sourced from local farms and organic where possible– no mean feat for late November. It was entirely composed of finger food on toothpicks, with no disposable plates, cutlery, or cups on hand. For Denny, the amount of work involved must have been immense. The impact it had, in driving home the importance of doing sustainability all the time, not just when cost effective or convenient, however, by far justified the work involved (easy for me to say, not being the cook.)

Following the meal and workshop, Donaldson posed the question of whether we would prefer to engage in a social for the rest of the evening – just to mingle and get to know the others in the room, or to troupe out to the dugout and hear some of Donaldson’s poetry. My friend Bob Thomas, the flamboyant red-haired gentleman and Manager of the Mission Chamber of Commerce who had chauffeured me from site to site for the 2004 Eagle Festival, broke a lengthy silence by saying in serious tones undercut with a hint of humour, “I’d choose to hear some poetry. I mean, I like poetry…” Donaldson replied with mock surprise, “That has to be a first. The manager of a Chamber of Commerce likes poetry…” The exchange was met with a collective chuckle, and the choice was made. Poetry it would be.

As the group finished eating, we slowly trickled out to the pithouse, arriving one at a time, ducking as we entered as a result of a doorway that only reached shoulder height on most of us. We seated ourselves in a semicircle around the back, opposite the door. Big cedar logs supported the dugout inside, and a roof that slopes up to a point and an opening permitted a fire when desired. Tonight, there was no need, as the evening was mild and accommodating. The air inside the dugout seemed imbued with a sense of calm, of peace, and you could feel the cares lifting off of people’s shoulders as they settled themselves and waited.

Peter was the last to enter, lithely stooping very low to wend his tall frame and broad shoulders through the doorway. He began with some natural conversation, congratulating us and expressing wonder that this small group of perhaps a dozen people was almost solely responsible for organizing the Fraser Valley Bald Eagle Festival, which this year was to attract literally hundreds of people, and blow previous attendance numbers out of the water. Humbly, those in the dugout pointed out that there were others, too – they just weren’t represented here. Peter then brought the conversation round to the 2010 Olympics here in Vancouver, and the enormous responsibility and opportunity that existed to pull off a green, sustainable Olympics. Peter’s like that, having the uncanny ability to gently, effortlessly pull a discussion round to the most relevant topics, and picking out the important bits for emphasis.

Then, he stood, and began to read, but it didn’t feel as if he was reading, more as if the words flowed effortlessly from somewhere deep inside of himself. He became one with the words he had penned.

#1: Egg

I’m tiny.

Bright orange

Salmon egg.

I wait,

the long wet winter.

I wait

The wild winds wave

In the forest

Above the surface of my dream,

I wait.

I’m very busy.

I wait.

Underneath

The surface

Of my stream

Inside and in between

Round gray-green

Pebbles, I wait

I’m very busy.

I wait.

I’m very busy.

#4: Downstream

Freshet floods release! Freshet spring!

Freshet rise and let me ride

Downstream, down canyon, cascade and valley wide

As in my dream

Memorize these.

Odor of alderwood,

Fragrance of sandstone,

Scent of gleaming glacier,

Granite’s face a pebbled fate,

Slide of slate and old basalt,

Perfume of beaver dam, rank of iron,

Scant sketch of sulfur skunk cabbage soliloquies,

Bouquets of moss, fallen log,

Vocal fumes from a raccoon bog,

Confluence thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen,

Rapid voices rejoice cascading

Gravity’s laziest choices,

Open wide, mayfly eyes

The valley meandering, we ride

Past railroad ties, timber buys,

Reservoir backwater, slack-water, black-water,

Warnings, warmer,

Time lost is time mistrusted

Anchored aroma creosote encrusted,

Concrete backdrop, logboom blunder, pulled asunder,

Blunder, blunder! Turbines thunder,

Bubbles rumble, spillgate tumbles upside downstream me

Mixed, nitrogen fixed, raceway, race

Away alder beach to picnic reach,

Farm to fields, fecund yields bovine pee,

Wink of dairy, fertilizer spree, whiff, sniff of industry,

Stinking zinc of galvanized culvert,

Sentient impasse, chemical morass

Swiftly move me, swiftly past

Marina pilings, rainbow spills,

Petrol, diesel, aching gills

Profane asphalt introductions,

Impervious sensory deconstructions,

Copper, mercury, crank case oil drop,

Overflow, storm drain, dog crap runoff,

Vociferous, olfactory, aquatic malaprop, O’ malodorous

Big blind river,

Remember me, please, all of these

Backwards.

Truly, the title of “Salmon Circle” was appropriate – at times it was difficult to tell where one poem ended and the next began. Peter paced from one side of the dugout to the other, momentarily hidden behind the wide cedar beams before reappearing on the other side, his deep, fluid and resonant voice filling the space surrounding all of us. Each of the listeners was drawn into the story, imagining and picturing the salmon journey which Peter brought to life. As I glanced around me, I saw people had closed their eyes to better take in the experience, wanting to concentrate fully on the words – a sense of deep reverence and shared respect that could almost be termed spiritual emerged. Everyone in the room was there for one primary reason: because they cared. In addition to working in fields related to the stewardship of the natural world, they cared passionately about the wellbeing of our natural resources, and salmon, as fundamental keystones of our ecosystem, are suitable focal points for this passion.

As he finished each poem, Peter gave someone the sheet he had just read from. Both Mark – my benevolent chauffeur for this event and Fisheries and Oceans employee – and myself reported being gifted with the poem which we had most enjoyed – another example of the impression Peter creates of having some sort of sixth sense that enables him to say and do the right thing at the right time. Peter, in reading these poems in such a powerful setting, in effect sent a message of positive reinforcement to the participants. He was able to say, “You know, you guys are on the right track. The deep sense of reverence for the natural world, and the heartfelt sense of responsibility to protect it, are extremely positive emotions, and by acting on them you’re being responsible citizens. Keep it up.” Many a community activist feels the strain of being overburdened, and goes through self-doubt phases where he or she wonders whether it is all worth it, and an event such as this one which provides the opportunity to interact with such a confident and well spoken figure as Peter Donaldson goes a long way towards setting the activist’s mind at rest – that yes, the struggle is important, and in the end, worth the effort involved.

‘Twas but three minutes
Twenty words, fleeting eye contact
‘Twas enough.

Your euphonic tones
Sparkling eyes
Sureness of speech
Confidence and Independence
Vivacity
Blazed into my consciousness.

Driven to distraction
Distractedly, I drive
Your name I know not
You I know not

Yet, inside I know as I never have before
That you’re already in.
Will you come to claim what’s yours? 

They are correct
Who say it is unexplainable
They are wrong
Who demand explanations.