Teaching Drum Outdoor School

Just as with the space around the outdoor hearth, the lodge space has many uses. It is bedroom, living room, kitchen, work area all rolled into one. In our houses we use the bedroom to sleep in then close the door for the rest of the day. We use the kitchen to cook in then leave it for the rest of the day and so on. This creates a huge investiture in our houses. As discussed previously we need a considerable house in order to accommodate our indoor living style. Because of this we become virtually indentured to our houses. We have long-term mortgages, insurance, cleaning, upkeep, utility expenses and so on, for space that is vacant the vast majority of the time. Imagine what life could be if we were free of all that and you'll come close to envisioning how a Native persons relationship with his lodge. The concept is called multiple usage of space - the same area around the hearth is used throughout the day for the variety of activities that we have spread throughout our house. For example, after a family awakens they will roll their bedrolls against the wall to open up the floor space for meal preparation. After the items associated for the meal are put away the area might be used for craft work, or as a play area for children. In the evening the lodge may accommodate a social gathering. A lodge which might be two body lengths (12 feet) in diameter can easily accommodate a dozen people sitting around its perimeter and still have a large central area. This form of space usage demands that living accouterments all have their place and be hung up or put back on their shelf immediately after usage in order to keep the floor space free and open. Some civilized cultures, particularly in the Far East, have retained this concept of multiple usage of space. Their houses, though constructed of contemporary materials and in urban areas, are still quite small and possessing of few rooms the space of which is used for many purposes throughout the day.

In the Old Way no distinction is made between the physical and the material aspects of life. But this is evidenced in the symbolic and practical considerations for both the placement of the door and the dwelling areas within the lodge. The lodge opening usually faces east so that the first rays of the Sun Father will fall upon the hearth, Fire to Fire - this is in acknowledgment and honoring the Sun Father's gift of Fire. He is the source of our fire, His touching warmth is captured in the trees which are the fruit of His fertile union with the Earth Mother. Our gift from them is the ability to, in the creation of Fire, undo that union, and in so doing we return the Earth Mother's flesh to Her and the Sun Father's spirit - Fire - to Him. In a symbolic sense the door is placed in the east, for the is the direction of first light, enlightenment. Here we find the inspiration for fresh starts and new ideas, the energy for cleansing, the inspiration for new birth, new beginnings. In so placing our door in the east we honor the Gissis Mikana, the Sun Trail which is marked by the Sun Father's first rays falling across our lodge from east to west. The Sun Trail is the path of life which everyone traverses from east to west, from birth to death. Not so coincidentally the east is also the best practical place to have a door. The first rays of sun are important for taking out the night chill and for bringing light into the lodge. It is the direction most sheltered from storms. Elders are given the honored place to the west of the hearth, the end of the Sun Trail. This is the most honored place because being farthest from the door it is the most isolated from drafts, and when things are needed, and the warmest place, and they being farthest from the door are least likely to have to go out to fetch them. Also, because they sit directly opposite the door they are the first to be seen and greeted by visitors. The south side of the hearth is the place of women, being the realm of warmth and nourishment, of the fruiting time of the year, and of mid-day brightness. It is the natural place for women to dwell. Opposite woman, in the north of the lodge, is a cooler, slower place, the realm of introspection. Here buds and seeds lie under the white blanket awaiting their time in the sun, here the minds and memories of a man immerse themselves in the contemplation that fosters the new ideas, the inspirations that come as the circle comes around itself and again meets the dawn in the east, time of new births and new beginning. Beside the door is the place of children. There as the new light of their lineage they are the first to be touched by the new light of day, they are the first to be served at mealtimes, they are the first to be out the door to play, and they are the first to fetch wood and water, or do other errands as needed.

Our concept of home evolved from the Native concept of hearth - center of Native lifeway. In order to gain a feel for this concept - for it more a feel than an understanding - let us explore our relationship with Fire. For it is that relationship which is the primordial source of the warmth found in home. I believe that we humans distinguished ourselves as a species not when we began to use tools, for other animals use tools as well. Not when we began to speak, for other animals have language as well. Not because of the evolution of our intellect, for other animals as well are intelligent in their specialized ways, but when we began our relationship with Fire. For this is what truly distinguishes us from the rest of life.

The young of other animals are fearful of Fire, they are repelled by it. Our young are drawn to Fire, fascinated by it. Clearly there is something set deep in the human experience that would feed this seemingly unnatural behavior from those of us of the tenderest of age. Our relationship with Fire has brought us the human frontier - the ability to inhabit temperate climates, expand our diets, make tools, food preservation, and, in this industrial age, to evolve conveyances, weaponry, and further energy sources that have distinguished us unequivocally from the rest of life. This Fire which is so wedded to the fire of our souls, the Fire of our minds, the Fire in our eyes, that it is inseparable is the wellspring of the human species experience. Now let us bring this Fire - the soul of the species back to its place in the Native heart. Home is where the hearth is captures the Native experience of belonging. It is from the hearth that women and children and men venture, and it is to the hearth that they return. The hearth brings food to ease hunger, light in the dark, comfort in the cold, a deterrent for predators, makes possible all manner of craft, and it is the center of social and ritual life. With hearth alone we are human. If shelter is built it is first out of need of the hearth, then out of consideration of those who encircle the hearth. A lodge is designed around the hearth, the hearth sits at its center so that life around the hearth can continue as usual. Visitors will often honor the hearth an offering and are given the most honored place to sit in front of the hearth. This Fire is the home of a Native people so wherever this Fire dwells so dwells their heart. When away they long to return to this Fire no matter where it is, no matter where it has moved, for it is the heart of his people. Sitting before this Fire brings forth the memories of youth, the stories of time gone by, the recounting of adventures had, and the vision of those to come. Just as revisiting an "old home place" does for many of us.

Additions

I once met a beautiful raven-haired woman with gold-flecked eyes and a gentle smile. She knew Wolf as her brother, was in touch with the soul of life. As we grew to know each other I thought she might be the one intended for me and I for her until she visited my camp.

She was fascinated with my wigwam, with the birch bark mats that covered it, the greased deerskin window, the bulrush mats that formed its inner wall to keep in the warmth of the open fire. The warm, secure feeling of being encompassed in round truly touched her. It showed in the smooth lines of her face and the way she allowed herself to relax into the soft grass bedding.

Next we visited my snow lodge, a smaller, cozier version of my bark lodge. It was essentially a dome of snow with a thick carpet of pine boughs. My heat alone kept it comfortably warm and the interior was bright because the snow allowed light penetration. As we lay there absorbing the ambiance, I watched a mix of feelings write and then re-write the expression on her face. She grew silent, almost sullen, and remained that way for the remainder of our time in the snow lodge. As we stirred to leave, she, without looking directly at me, absently stated: “This isn’t for me, I don’t think I could live this way.”

We of the Civilized Way carry our isolation from the Mother Bosom and from our human kin into the way we design and use our houses. The disjointedness of our lives—we work here, play there, love over there—is also etched in the layout of our households. Thus, we have specifically designated spaces separate and distinct from one another for each and every of our activities and involvements. The average house will have a sleeping room for each individual or couple, a food preparing room, a food eating room, a sitting room, a room for the execution of bodily functions, one or more room for utilities and crafts, and one or more rooms for storage. Larger houses will have additional rooms devoted to recreation, entertainment, guest accommodation, and perhaps business pursuits.

The native lodge is usually comprised of one room. In that one room lodge occurs most of the activities that transpire in a multi-room civilized house. How can that be? In order to understand how it might even be possible we need to revisit my statement a few paragraphs back about how civilized lives are disjointed. A Native Person, family, play, work, and love are all part of the same continuum. Each is an inextricable part of the other. These juices of life are from civilized perspective all blended together, whereas from earth perspective they are but one juice, one life-blood that is virtually impossible to separate and pigeonhole into components.

From thus rises the dilemma that many find themselves in as we work to unravel out lives and re-weave them into balance. This was the dilemma being realized by my raven-haired friend as she lay on my snow-lodge bed. To gain a greater awareness of this dilemma let us explore these differences as they reflect in shelter. We can sum up the two approaches in two terms. The civilized approach is based upon designated use of space and the native approach is based upon multiple usage of space.