My broken heart and my defective captive rope


 He was French Canadian but didn't speak French. He looked like a big shaggy wolf with eyes the colour of green sea glass and curly dark hair streaked with grey, like a wolf's mane. He had a big nose and a full lower lip that I always nipped at when I kissed him. He was a working man with the soul of a poet trapped in a crash test dummy and I fell head over heels the minute I laid eyes on him… I even said to myself stick a fork in me I'm done what is even the point to keep looking… He was my Lucinda Williams song come to life in the form of a 6'1" man who should have been a cowboy... or a trapper in the forest breaking the hearts of all the Indian girls he came in contact with, cos he sure broke mine.

I'm such a cliche falling for yet another settler boy.

This time my captive rope didn't work and he broke free…wolves are like that. It was like he prowled around the edge of my fire close enough to settle down near me, padding close enough to touch occasionally but just with the edge of my fingers as he brushed by me, forever wary and circling just out of reach.

He found the chink in my armour and easily broke inside, leisurely exploring every inch of my body with his calloused touch and mesmerizing my mind with the blues and other love songs. He waltzed into my heart like a thief in the night, picked it up and casually tossed it around like he owned it, and then like all settlers before him took zero responsibility for his thievery. And it was then I realized -- I can't do this and said I have to go away, wolf  -- you can't come back to my fire. But I can still feel him circling at the edge of the woods, his eyes on me, watching with amusement.

Falling in love in my 50s was something I didn't think would ever happen. And now I'm wounded and bruised and dazed and incoherent, warily watching for wolf eyes. What the hell happened? I guess the funnel of love never stops whirling you around and hurting you no matter how old you are.



Popular posts from this blog

I Have Been "Kissed By Lightning"

Image
I finally got around to seeing Shelley Niro’s feature film, “Kissed By Lightning.” It was actually on the The Movie Network’s OnDemand service, which pleased me to no end. I was hoping it would be visually stunning and provocative, the way all Shelley’s art is, but this – I have to say, I am feeling teary-eyed and awed after seeing it. The images haunted my dreams all last night and I woke up thinking about the film, which gave me the impetus to write this blog. I think everyone who ever wanted to know about Iroquoian philosophy and our values should watch this film. It was gentle and almost whisperingly quiet, the way Shelley’s art is, but it crept up on me and infused me with its lushly filmed, stunning visuals and the serene poetry of the story. Ostensibly the story of a woman’s journey through grief, it is actually the story of The Peacemaker and Hyenwatha, the two founding figures of our political and spiritual lives. The League of the Haudenosaunee could not exist without this...
Read more

Listen, All of You

Image
Sewatahon'satat. That’s how we always start a story. Tonight I want to tell you my story, my deep dark confession about being Kanien'kehakeh in 2011. About living here in Ateròn:toh, thi s place you call Toronto. This word means, “There are trees standing in the water.” Our elders argue about what the actual translation is, but I like this particular version.  The Haudenosaunee, or as you name us, the Iroquois, had moved south of Lake Ontario to consolidate our considerable power in the wake of the Beaver Wars. When we would return to  Ateròn:toh  in our war canoes, the giant elm trees that grew to the edge of the lake would mirror themselves in the water and you could see their reflection for miles out. This image manifests even now. When you cross the waters of Skanadariio, the Handsome Lake, you can see the towers of the city shimmering in the water. People think this is Mississauga territory. The joke’s kind of on you. The Mississauga were here ...
Read more

In Which I Review Joseph Boyden's The Orenda

Image
When I was about 12, my dad took me and my brother and my little sister on a historical tour of Ontario. We visited Fort George then up to Kingston to Fort Henry and the landing where Molly Brant came after fleeing the Haudenosaunee homelands in New York State. My dad is an amateur historian, and his focus is on Haudenosaunee/European relations in the 17 th  and 18 th  centuries. You’ve not lived until you’ve seen him at one of those funky re-enactment gatherings they have in upstate New York – but I digress. Then we travelled north to Midland, to visit Sainte-Marie-Among-the-Huron. I remember it was a beautiful early summer day, with the sky so blue. I ignored the carefully rebuilt European houses and chapel and instead spent all my time wandering through the reconstructed longhouses. I have long been fascinated with our ancestors and the way they lived their lives before contact. I remember my dad had to coax me away from the longhouses so we could go on the tour. We ...
Read more