FOR JOSHUA Once there was a lonely little boy. He had no idea wherehe belonged in the world. The boy had no knowledge aboutwhere his family was or where he''d come from. So he beganto dream. He imagined a glorious life with a mother andfather, sisters and brothers, grandfathers and grandmothers.He put his dreams down on paper and filled the pages withdrawings, stories, poems, and songs of the people he missedso much but could not remember. But he always awoke, thestories and poems always ended, and the songs faded off intothe night. As he grew, the boy carried this emptiness around insidehim.
Everywhere he went, it was his constant companion.Many people took turns caring for the boy, and many peopletried to fill that hole, but no one ever could. Through all thehomes he drifted the boy began to realize that all that everreally changed about him were his clothes. One day, the people around him said that he was oldenough to go and find there. It was a magical place, thisplace called there, because everyone got to choose where therewould be for them. But finding there was difficult. The boy took many roads,many turns, many long lonely journeys trying to find it. He grew older.
He lived in many places and with many differentpeople. But inside himself he was still a lonely little boy whocould only ever dream dreams, create stories and poems andsongs about the kingdom of there. Then one day he met a kind, gentle old man on one of thetwisted, narrow roads he was travelling. This old man hadbeen everywhere and seen many things. He was wise andliked the young man very much. As they sat together by theside of that long, narrow road, the old man began to tell himstories about all of his travels, and especially about how goodit felt to return from those journeys. "What is return?" the young man asked. "Why, it''s to get back to where you started, where youbelong," the old man said.
"What does it mean to belong?" The old man smiled kindly and said, "To belong is to feelright. It''s a place where everything fits." "How do you get there?" the young man asked. "Well, getting anywhere means you have to make a jour-ney. But on this journey, to find where you belong, you reallyonly have to travel one direction," the old man said. "What direction is that?" "The toughest direction of all," the old man said. "Youhave to travel inside yourself, not down long, narrow roadslike this one." "Does it hurt?" the young man asked.
"Sometimes. But anyone who makes that journey findsout that no matter how hard the journey is, getting there isthe biggest comfort of all." The young man thought about the old man''s words. Theywere mysterious and strange. In fact, they weren''t answersto his questions at all, just more and more questions lined upone behind the other as far as he allowed his mind to wan-der. But there was something in the gentle way the old manhad of talking that made him feel safe--a trust that every-thing he said was true. Even if he couldn''t understand it all. "Can I get there from here?" he asked finally.
The old man smiled at him and patted him on the shoul-der. "Here is the only place you can start from." I was that lonely little boy, Joshua, and I was the lonelyyoung man who tried so hard to belong. Like him, I havetravelled a lot of hard roads searching for the one thing thatwould allow me to feel safe, secure, and welcome. Some ofthem led to prison, poverty, drunkenness, drugs, depression,isolation, and thoughts of suicide. But many were gloriousroads to travel--the ones that led to sobriety, friendship,music, writing, and the empowering traditional ways of theOjibwe people to whom you and I belong. There were many teachers on those roads. Always there was someone somewhere who offered things meant to teachme how to see the world and my place in it.
But like most ofus, I only ever trusted my mind--and my mind always neededproof. The sad thing is that when you spend all your time ina search for proof, you miss the magic of the journey, and Iwas on those roads a long, long time before I learned the mostimportant lesson of all: that the journey is the teaching, andthe proof of the truthfulness of all things comes secretly, mys-teriously, when you find yourself smiling when you used tocry, and staying staunchly in place when you used to run away. I spent many years afraid of the questions. I was afraid ofthe questions because I was afraid of the answers, and thatfear kept me on narrow, twisted roads deep into my life. Mygreatest fear was that after the search, after the most ardu-ous of journeys, I would discover, at the end, a me I didn''tlike, the me that I was always convinced I was: an unlov-able, inadequate, weak, unworthy human being. And atthat point of discovery I would be alone. Alone with myself.Alone with my fears.
Alone with the one person I had spentso much time and energy trying to run away from. When I was scared I ran, from darkness to darkness.But flight is futile when the bitterest pain is the memory ofthe people that get left behind. The innocent ones bearingthe hurts and disappointments of our leaving, standing bythe wayside watching as we disappear down another sullenhighway. They never really understand departure. They can''t. Because we are incapable of explanation. We only know thatwe need to move on, desperate gypsies seeking the solaceof flight, the vague, lingering hope that geography, in someway, might save us.
You are one of the innocent ones. You are six years oldat this writing and because of the choices I made during thepart of my journey since your birth, we are not together. Ichose drink and isolation to deal with my pain, my fear, andthe resultant overwhelming sense of inadequacy, and theeffect of those choices is a life where son and father cannotlive together--perhaps not ever. Today the ache of your absence is hard. Because I was there at the very moment you entered theworld. I stood beside your mother when she delivered you. Ireceived you from the nurse and held you, afraid that I mightpress too hard and hurt you, or not press firmly enough andlet you tumble from my grasp. I held you like the treasurethat you are.
When I looked at you that April morning Ifound myself grateful for a Creator that could fashion sucha magnificent being, such a beautiful boy, such a gift to me.Your arrival filled my heart with joy, and it was so great itspilled over into the empty side of my chest and made memore--bigger, stronger, more alive. I didn''t want to give youback to them when they asked to weigh and measure you. Ididn''t want to give you back because I didn''t want to surren-der that feeling your arrival had created in me. For a time I felt like a father. I''d never been one beforeand learning to change your diapers, rock you to sleep, feedyou, and get you to giggle were private joys that I still carryin my heart. They are my pocket treasures and even thoughthey''ve been worn smooth from handling over the years, it''scomforting to know that they are there when I need them. You and I would wander along Danforth Avenue inToronto.
I carried you on my chest in your carrier and talkedto you about where we were going and what we were seeing.We got a lot of strange looks from the people we passedbecause I was not ashamed to talk to you out loud, laugh,and coax you to make some happy noise. There was a book-store we''d go into almost every day and I''d read to you frommy favourite volumes. We''d go to a small park and I''d singto you as we swung slowly back and forth on the swing setin the playground. You used to love that. And as we movedtogether through the great, grand noise that is Toronto Iheard nothing but you and felt nothing but the warmth ofyour body nestled against mine. I can''t enter that city nowwithout a feeling of incredible loss or joy for you. Drinking is why we are separated.
That''s the plain and simple truth of it. I was a drunkand never faced the truth about myself--that I was a drunk.Booze owned me. I offered myself to it when I was a youngman and it was only too glad to accept me into the ranksof its worshippers, the ones who are willing to pay with everything for one more round. I drank because it madethings disappear. Things like shyness, inadequacy, low self-worth--and fear. I drank out of the fears I''d carried all mylife, the fears I could never tell anyone about, the fears thatate away at me constantly, even in the happiest moments ofmy life, and your.