Ground Truth

He gave me a hammerhead of ancient craftsmanship,
Amidst our chatting ’bout how I could with his work assist;
As he is off to walk into a road of treatment days –
I wish him well with chemo-packs and radiation's rays.

I am not sure just what it meant to giver in this gift,
But as I view it sitting here, it's impact is not missed.
Affirmed I am – Your gentle touch upon my harried soul –
As I walk into Giver-land, with ground-truth as my goal.

I feel my Creenglish side affirmed – exchange from ancient days,
Amidst dis-ease here in my soul with larger culture's ways;
Some person living in these parts worked hard to wear that stone
Into its shape with rounded groove, to hammer tent-peg home.

Perhaps itself exchanged for something else – a pot? a wife?
Perhaps it found its use in taking from some soul its life;
Perhaps passed down two hundred years, a treasure from some dad;
Perhaps it broke when it was made, the worst week someone had.

Those strange striations on its side – from cultivator's shaft
As it turned up this artefact, when found a few years back?
The shape itself here on my desk looks proud – like skull a bit,
With dignity – did sister see when brother took a fit?

It's rounded head with surface worn from pounding dried-out meat?
Pink granite rock – though tough it is – did not some purpose meet.
What does it mean to me this day – what role in our exchange?
Perhaps a point where I must look for meaning out of range –

Of what I've come to be and do – accept just who I am;
And stop rejecting all those parts – stand up and be a man
Within society who stands twixt these two cultures great;
And be a bridge between the two for future children's sake.

There is a missing half of this old hammerhead that's mine;
The other half now lost to us – low chance that they will find;
For it will have just dimple small to draw a searcher's gaze,
So for eternity will lie, like us at end of days.

Perhaps the handle was replaced a time or two, or five;
For stone outlasts its counterpart of wood, with tightened hide.
But why would this rock shatter thus from impact at the top?
Perhaps it dropped from user's hand; was thrown and hit a rock.

My instinct is “Get rid of it”; “pass on to rightful heir”;
“Don't let it sit here on my desk, it has no business there –
For whites have seized their livelihood, their land, their ways of life;
Cannot we leave their artefacts, utensils of some wife?”

Or is that just the point of this small piece of rounded stone –
That we, as immigrants, must come to where we call this home;
No turning back to Europe's shores, together we must walk
Our roads towards the setting sun, and with each other talk.

But how can we talk man to man, or women, or as child,
When they've been driven from the field by cruel means and mild?
Should we not strengthen up the ones who ’cross the table talk?
Or is it time to take a stand – and with our brothers walk?

Their cultures have impacted me, I am a Creenglish man;
But I was one whose people came from east to setting sun;
My feet are firmly planted here – one foot upon each bank –
I am a bridging-person now, for that it's God I thank.

So question is – best purpose served by holding? letting go?
Should this small piece of broken past return now to the snow?
Or does it stand for us today, a fragment here to see
An issue which we have not faced, since we came ’cross the sea?

So yes, okay, I'll pick it up as gift to pass along;
Give it a place within my home from days before great wrong;
Lord, like that picture I dropped off, let it soon find its place
In someone's heart, and soul, and mind, and be a means of Grace.

For Lord these people say the story's written in the rocks,
If we'll just stop and feel its heft, pass on so next can talk –
Hold; have your say; then let it go that others find a use
For what's been given well to us – so hold with fingers loose.

For that is what the Cree have held to be a better way –
To use such gifts from Mother Earth a minute, hour, or day,
Then let them go, don't pile them up, drag artefacts from past;
But lighten up our burdened ways – for footprints do not last.

Lord, what I'm hearing –“Be a bridge between these cultures great,
And listen for My truth – it's mixed – together new truth make
From what has come from former days – now merged here in this land
Might form a basis for new life – a place where all can stand.”

Lord what I'm hearing says to me, “Stu it's an interchange –
Like Channel Twelve which you came here to help expand its range –
That here in Westman we might walk together on our way;
And bring to light new ways of life, and mould a better day.”

Lord – where to start? “Access, my son, it's what you came here for –
Not access of First Nations held without a fast-closed door,
But access of all people here to what tomorrow brings,
As you develop hand in hand a future life that sings.”

Lord like the film I did not make – though once I checked it out –
The impact money had on Crees, of which there's little doubt;
And here, right at the first you gave to me this hammerhead –
And let the rock its story ask of persons long since dead.

If all of this can come today from this small piece of rock,
What more could come as we pass on this stone so folks can talk?
Perhaps this dialogue can grow, our future way emerge,
And like a steer loosed to the field, into our future surge.

It does not matter who this stone holds in his hand I see,
For it will speak its story thus to all eternity;
Each person brings a part to it, in end, it passes on,
Until this world wraps up its days, and we move into song.

Upcoming soon, our festival of multi-cultured town;
I wonder if a future we can share on common ground?
Perhaps this stone could be a start of moving on, today –
Of sharing insights from our past in inter-woven ways.

Lord, who should I be open to? who open up unto?
Who has the ways and means to bring our future into view?
Please open up to me the ones who can these next steps take,
That all of us can move along – from pasts one future make.

Thanks.

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