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Spirit Knows
by Larrein Trudeau
212 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #99-0067; ISBN 1-55212-317-0; US$18.00, C$22.95, EUR15.00, £10.40
This is a story of the Spirit, my defiance and the lifetime consequences. It is clear at the age of four an inner voice is intact to guide children. I was in-tune but unaware of the purpose, and too young to understand.
At age ten I escaped a corrosive world with out-of-body experiments. At fourteen my inner voice prompted me:
"You must follow or you will fall off your path, and it will be many, many years before you get back on."
I disobeyed. When the inner directive is not followed, an uninspired life ensues. Basic instincts become the prime objective. Life is run on self-will. The consequences of my defiance unfold.
After 20 years of depression, alcohol and drug abuse, I finally concede to the importance of my inner voice and surrender control.
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about the book about the author sample chapter catalogue info
About the BookReview of SPIRIT KNOWS "Larrein Trudeau is a member of Victoria Monthly Meeting, a member of Ministry and Counsel, and a friend of mine. Since I met her four years ago, I have been impressed by her simple assertion that Spirit speaks to her -- tells her what she should do. If she does not hear His voice, she waits until she does. She has learned through hard experience what to do next -- she celebrates, and follows His directions. "I believe the answers to our pain stem directly from emotional injuries received as small children or even in the womb," she says in her introduction. "I unravel my life in these terms....My story is universal. I quashed my spirituality to deal with my pain." Her book, SPIRIT KNOWS, is the story of her journey, from an unhappy childhood, a confused and painful early adulthood, alcoholism, moving from place to place in northern B.C., to her present certainty. The story is touching. Her achievement is impressive. She has been helped along the way, and she has helped others, as a friend, as an Alcohol and Drug Counsellor, as a member of the Religious Society of Friends, and finally by writing this book." - by Constance Mungall, of Canadian Friend Magazine |
About the Author
Larrein Trudeau was born in Chilliwack, British Columbia, Canada, to a French-Metis logger family (distantly related to a former prime minister of Canada). She was pregnant at age 17 and a few years later turned to alcohol, Valium and Librium. At 39 she stopped the use of mind altering drugs through a 12-step program. She was certified as a counselor in the provincial Alcohol and Drug program. Larrein is well-known in alcohol recovery circles.
She was compelled to write about her life experiences by an inner prompting.
Sample Chapter
Chapter 36; The Drum Beat
This morning I had my shower, brewed a pot of delicious coffee with a touch of cinnamon, lit a scented candle, tucked my special, blue needlepoint pillow behind my back and settled into a meditative mode with background music. I have chosen to write about my practicum at the Nenqayni Treatment Center. Although I recall it well, meditation helps to add clarity and to surface long-forgotten memories.Although I was usually flexible about college courses, I was adamant with my choice of the Nenqayni Treatment Center for my practicum. I had to go there, but didn't know why, other than perhaps my personal experience with alcohol and drug addiction. I was thrilled when I heard the good news. With hindsight I realize my Spirit had its own reasons.
About thirteen kilometers north of the city a gravel road leaves the highway and circles down to a secluded and serene valley. The red corrugated roof stands out sharply against the green backdrop of a small mountain, once a ski hill.
Built only the year before and constructed of timbers and logs, it is circular in design. Entering the main door underneath a large set of windows, I stepped around pairs of hand-knitted slippers, boots, and shoes to the front desk and introduced myself to the receptionist. "I'm here to do my practicum. Doreen is expecting me." A pleasant, slightly plump, Native woman, Doreen had curly black hair and dark skin. She was wearing a pair of handmade beaded moccasins.
The place was serene, with pale peach walls and pale pink doors. The large inner circle enclosed a gymnasium and meeting room. Large, peeled logs stood on end in a circle in the style of a Native pit house. Daylight streamed in through skylights overhead. Around the inner circle a second circle formed a hallway with access to suites to accommodate up to four families for the six-week treatment program. The whole atmosphere was set up for the clients'emotional health and to provide an opportunity for spiritual growth.
"This is my office." Doreen had a very soft voice. When I sat across from her, I had the strangest feeling I had done this before, that I'd been in this exact spot looking at this same woman earlier in my life. I had seen the same view through the window. I heard myself repeat words I'd spoken before at some other time. The thought and visualization lasted only a second, then was gone. I didn't know how this could be possible. It felt eerie, yet natural, almost as if it were a normal occurrence. If I'd been there before in Spirit form, it would have been quite recently because the center had been newly opened.
I accepted the experience as a positive sign and decided to be open for anything else that might happen - negative or positive - and try to be consciously aware and grow from any experience I might have. I kept that decision close to my heart.
Near the end of my stay, a Native man did a workshop on Native culture. He told us about spiritual beliefs, the pipe ceremony, the sweat lodge, and what it means. He spoke of the throb of drums, of the baby in the womb listening to the beat of the mother's heart. And how that sound takes us back to our roots, the source of our spirituality.
They played slowly and softly at first. I wondered if I should join in, but decided to wait awhile to see what would happen. Feelings stirred that I knew I would have to deal with first. Silently, I wept. I looked at the others. Some looked melancholy, but no one else was crying. I was not too upset with myself. I suspected I would be moved by the sound of the drums. I had heard that the drums would evoke tender emotions in people and that I would more than likely cry but it would then taper off. I was acting as a normal human being would. As the man said, it had brought me back to the womb, a heart-rending feeling, but after several minutes of weeping, I decided that it was time to taper off. So I talked to myself. "Now you can stop, Lorraine, you've had your emotional thing for the day." I continued, "There is a lot of meaning here, but it doesn't have anything to do with me personally, so now it's time to slow down the tears." Talking to myself had no effect and things were not going as I thought they should. I continued weeping, couldn't hold myself back. I felt embarrassed. "I don't have any reason to cry, but I'm crying. Enough is enough. I'm being overly emotional. It's time to stop." I wanted to stop, but couldn't. The painful feelings came from deep within. The sound of the drums had become very personal. I was confused. "Why am I making such a big thing out of this, it's just some Natives playing the drums." I continued to weep even harder. A wound had been opened. Now the drums were louder. I looked at the others and saw some of them seemed to be moved;several had tears in their eyes. I was the only one sobbing uncontrollably. I met the eye of the Native who led the workshop. He seemed unperturbed by my tears.
I turned my head away and closed my eyes. I tried not to listen. I knew what my next move would have to be - I would have to close my heart so that I wouldn't feel any more. I had to make a quick decision. By now, though, I knew that my thirst for inner growth had taken me here and I knew the phrase "no pain, no gain"applied to me. There would be no further growth if I shut down. I would save myself from embarrassment but I would hurt myself in the long run. So I did a physical about face - I quit trying to stop crying. Instead, I monitored myself. I knew I couldn't let my emotions have full throttle and I couldn't completely shut myself off either. I tried to maneuver my feelings to stay somewhere in the middle so that I could still feel, be aware, and stay in the moment. It was an exercise in control. I let go as easily as I could, trying to relax and let the feelings come. But now a new sensation began to flow through me. I was part of something deeper that had to do with the drums. Something Native. I was included;I was part of these people. "How could I be?" My question was immediately answered. I heard from within,
At that moment, I felt at one with my mother, her heritage, the drums, the people, and everything that was happening. My whole spiritual body seemed to spread out and connect me with everyone else. For one brief second my Spirit became a blanket and tucked everything meaningful around me. "It' Mom! She has Native roots." I was surprised. I had no idea. My mother's heritage was written on my heart. Her roots were Indian. My mother's image flashed before my eyes. Why didn't I see the clues before? Pure black hair ... eyes so dark that you couldn't see the pupils ... very dark skin. Now it finally hit me - this is personal, very personal. I was part native too. The shock hit me where I lived. I felt weak.
The ceremony over, we stood in a circle and said the Serenity Prayer. I had lunch with two Native women who were my coworkers. I tried to squash the feelings that were coming to the surface, but began to weep. I shared my experience with them. They were very receptive and shared a little of their own. Aware that we were in the middle of the lunchroom and in public view, I gave up and began to weep again. It wasn't staying down. My insides needed to be heard and aired. After several attempts to swallow my pain with my food, one of my companions suggested I see the administrator.
"I'm part Indian. I didn't know." "Yes," he replied, as if he had known. "The drums started playing and I began to weep and I just knew, deep within, that I'm Native." "That's all right, it's happened before." Thank God he was understanding and didn't discount my discovery. He listened and that was all. I was still shaken when I left his office, but I had made a huge discovery about myself, in a safe place.
Now I had time to look back at my life - as a young child, as a teenager, as an adult - and realize the true meaning of my mother's strange behavior, which I didn't understand. I didn't know at a young age that any comment leaving one's lips belonged to that person only and pertained to their pure essence. I had left her comments to die a slow death in my memories, but now they came back to life. Now I understood why she always made mention of people's Native or non-Native ancestry. I can picture us together, going up the street from our little hotel, sometimes walking on the roadway where several inches of dust drifted up and onto our shoes. Whenever we went out walking, we would eventually meet up with someone and I always knew ahead of time that our conversation would turn to someone's ancestry. It was a significant part of our walks together that I never understood. It was as predictable as the rain. Even before we got right up to anyone, Mom would comment. "See that person coming towards us." "Yes, Mom, I'm looking,"I would answer in a bored tone of voice. "Well, that one is Indian, that's obvious." She always sounded so sure of herself. Or she might say, "Now take a look - see that person coming towards us, that one has just a little bit of Indian. Some people might not see it, but I can." Her tone of voice implied that maybe someone else might be fooled, but she wasn't. I laughed at her idiosyncrasies. "Mom, how do you know that? How can you be sure?" "I just do,"explaining their facial features and their coloring to show how she had figured it out and why she was so sure. The whole thing left me rather baffled. Now I know how she knew so well - what she said pertained to herself. At some point in her life, and at some level, she knew she was part Indian, but someone along the way didn't want her to acknowledge that ancestry. I think she must have shoved it down inside, but on our walks some of it slipped out. I was too young and not wise enough to know what was going on. I used to think to myself, "What a silly woman! What does it really matter who's Native and who's not." Now I know, she cared. "Oh, Mom, I apologize to you and to your ancestors. I cry for your pain. I'm so sorry that people in your life found it necessary to convince you to hide your own bloodline. You were not able to be in touch with your truth. I believe you hid it so well that, on the surface at least, you actually forgot your heritage."
Black people were another of her favorites and I couldn't figure that one out either. They were always the heroes in any television show she watched. I heard her, but never put two-and-two together. Again, I didn't attach any personal meaning to her favoritism. I wonder if anyone else in the family did. Denial was always part of our family's dynamic anyway, so if anyone knew they were certainly more keenly aware than I was. Maybe I even asked her about it, I don't remember. If she had been in denial - and it certainly appeared that way - I wouldn't have gotten a satisfactory answer to such a question anyway.
I remember her outlandish devotion to some Metis guy named Louis Riel. She told the story many times about how people damned him as a madman, while she knew he was really a leader. She would go on and on about this man, what a hero he was, how he had been betrayed and hanged unjustly. She would verbally battle anyone who had a different opinion! As I watched her campaign and argue and stand up for him, I could tell that no one was interested in her story as much as she was. She seemed to be alone in her mission to ensure that his life and death remained a positive memory. I couldn't figure out why she got so all-fired up and took his life personally, almost as though she were still fighting his fight for him.
She confided in me that she had been in love, as a young woman, with an Indian man who lived near her hometown, but her parents discouraged her from marrying him, explaining, "You may end up without much if you marry an Indian. They don't usually have a lot of ambition." So she never pursued her love. When I was thirty, I played around with the idea of writing a book about my family, so I wrote about her love for that man and how her parents had discouraged her. I brought it over to her place for her to read, to try and get more information from her. She went into an emotional tailspin when she read it. Her moods, her opinion, her acceptance were so intertwined with my own sense of well being that I threw it all away and never tried to write again . . . until now.
The first thing I did when I got home that night after the Native drum ceremony was to phone my sister-in-law, who had cared for my mother before she died. I told her about my experience at the treatment center and asked if she knew anything about my mother' ancestry. She surprised me when she answered, "Yes, I do. I've known for a long time that your Mom was part Indian." She continued, "When your Mom got upset and lost patience with herself, she would shake her head and say, "Oh, well, I'm just an Indian anyway." That clinched it for me. I trusted what my sister-in-law said and knew she wouldn't lie. I had corroborated my overwhelming feelings and felt satisfied. I was part Indian. I also realize that when my mother was a small child, it was a time when most people wouldn't readily admit to their Native ancestry, so I can understand her denial. It was hidden as well as it could be. Later on in my tentative search for my heritage, I asked a local Native if he thought I should look for evidence in government records. He said, "More than likely you won't be able to find it in government records, it was usually bought off by white relatives that wanted the fact kept hidden. The church is the best place to look, they kept more accurate records."
I had a feeling that I wasn't going to find pertinent information, so I didn't put a lot of effort into the search. I did look at the family records that were sent to me by a cousin, but of course there wasn't any mention of Native bloodlines. I didn't understand why, as an adult, I hadn't seen it until it was thrown in my face. I too had been carrying on the family tradition of denial. At least I know why I feel an affinity towards Native people, why I feel a warmth and closeness when in their company.
My mother, the person I have loved most in my life, was part Native. A Metis, I'm sure, part French and part Indian. Now I am planning a trip some day to look into the records on my mother's side of the family. I'll seek out her Indian heritage in the church records so I'll be able to see it, officially, in writing and feel it again in my soul.
