JOURNAL, Wednesday, Feb. 20th

Fools, said I, you do not know,
Silence like a cancer grows
(“Sounds of Silence”, Paul Simon)


When I write of our time on Saltspring, the narrator in me shares a lot with Jean; I’ve come to trust her with the shadows that reach into certain corners of my life. But there are crevices of blackness where details have lodged themselves – and no power will expose them to another’s light.

They are the morsels of evil that transform Jacob from an irritant to a torturer as he lifts Island’s jar from beneath the steps, and raises it high above his head to send it crashing to the ground, where it meets a rock and showers glass arrows in every direction. Before the eyes of children – some haunted, some horrified, some delighted – Jacob picks up the worm from the rubble of grass and twigs, and choosing a large shard, he slices through the wriggling body, exposing its inner slime.

I once asked mom why Jacob was so mean. The question, or perhaps the fact that I had asked it, seemed to startle her. She explained that the Family believed that if you let Nature guide the children, then Nature would lead them to their true path. Sometimes the road may be a bit rocky but the Family believed that it was the only way to discover your true self. She said that the mothers who made up the Family were working to restore that true nature in themselves, the nature that had been taken from them as children, by rules and structures and discipline. They believed that only Nature could lead children to their ultimate reality and to good.

Her presentation of the Family’s philosophy never made sense to me, and it explains much of the discomfort I felt around these women. I also believe that they had to recognize the infiltration of something dark and frightening in Jacob’s unchecked leadership of the little ones. The truth is that I was used by mom and by the other mothers; practically speaking, they needed a babysitter to keep things under control while they tried to restore and commune with their own inner spirits -- and I was to be that babysitter.

Claire’s role, on the other hand, was to justify mom’s position as one of the “mothers”.

Within the Family, the word “mother” meant so much more than what the world would understand. It was used to describe a certain type of person beyond the fact that she has borne children. The ”mothers” wore their long print skirts and cotton shifts like a uniform. They produced breasts for nursing like a badge of honour that defined them. They spoke of Mother Earth, goddesses, herbs, elves and fairies in tones that suburbanites would use to discuss politics, or the price of gas. They birthed, nursed, then absolved themselves of all responsibility for their children, believing that the Great Mother/Nature would guide the little ones to discover the essence of life.

They were secretive, dark, haunting and controlling. They communed with men but did not admit them into their circle. These “mothers” fashioned the environment that held me and frightened me. Their raw earthiness, their absence of shame, modesty or privacy assaulted my soul. Their insular vision, drawing them to focus ever more on their beliefs, frightened me and made me want to claw my way out of their funnel that kept sucking me downward.

Claire legitimized mom’s presence in this world of mothers. In many ways, because of Claire’s special needs, their relationship was the same at this stage when Claire was two and a half, as it was when she was an infant. It was as if by denying everything that had taken place since Claire’s illness and hospitalization, mom could simply freeze time and relive those days of caring for the infant-Claire that she had enjoyed so much. In the evenings, mom would sit on the porch with the other mothers of infants and rock Claire until the darkness fell, singing to her, at times nuzzling her face into a breast that lay exposed and unsucked. Then she would bring her upstairs to tuck her into the nest of blankets that was her bed. Sometimes mom would remember to say goodnight to me, and she might kiss me on top of the head and ruffle my hair. And if there was moonlight to cast a few defining shadows on the walls, I could rest.

In the morning, the whirlwind would return and the house would be frantic once again with the activities of communing with Nature and each other, and preparing for sales at the market by which the Family made their living. Claire and the other kids were left to find their way through the maze of dirty clothes, unwashed bodies and unguided spirits.

My Claire, whom I had grown to anticipate and care for, demanded peace around her and for the most part she had always found a way to get it. In this place she found her peace by retreating even deeper inside herself, by abandoning all connection with us. She had had a pace that was so different from the rest of the world, which didn’t allow her to move ahead without constant coaxing and support. The freedom that this place offered as its main form of nurturing was neither coaxing nor supportive, and I couldn’t imagine how Claire would ever find her way. I’m so sure that mom had no idea who Claire really was when she took us away from Sophie.

The Family – the Mothers – the Farm – the Island: these words, always preceded by a definite article and a capital letter in the language of the commune, became singular and powerful.

I finally recognize now why I didn’t try to contact Bill or Sophie once we arrived on Saltspring. During the first few weeks on the island, Sophie’s parting words about informing Bill of our departure sustained me and kept me anticipating his arrival from minute to minute. But as the days went by and I realized that I would have to seek him out, as he would have no way of knowing where we were, I tried to imagine what I’d say to him that would convince him, and the police if necessary, that we needed to be rescued. I could still hear mom’s words to Sophie: “I’m their mother; what would the police possibly do for you?” …As if proof of ownership were the most important fact in parenting.

I wouldn’t have known how to explain my fear. I couldn’t even explain this sense of threat to myself; it wasn’t tangible. They were just a group of women struggling to make a good home for themselves and their children on this rundown farm. To me, they were my jailers: my age, my fear and my anxiety about being separated from Claire left me powerless.

Fear lived in the pit of my stomach and made the dull ache of nausea my constant companion. I worried that if I let myself believe that there was a way out, if I lined up all the evidence of neglect and cruelty and coldness and darkness and secrecy and silence, if I tried to explain my fear to someone outside, but failed to make it clear enough, real enough, that they wouldn’t see how real it was to me. Perception is everything.

I sit back in my chair at my desk, and shudder these cold, dark feelings away in the early dawn, and comfort myself by taking Pussywillow onto my lap and thinking about the lovely walk in the conservation area that Danny and I took last Sunday. The crisp air and the sunshine on new snow were cleansing, like clear running water through the murky sluice box of my brain.

On our walk we came to a clearing in the forest where a group of people stood around a large, wide willow tree whose bare branches were draped with balls of seed encrusted suet for the birds. A mother was pouring small mounds of black sunflower seeds into the tiny hands of her children who, on extending their arm, would receive a chickadee on their outstretched fingers.

The mother offered me some seeds. I don’t know what made me take them, except that I’ve been thinking so much about Claire lately and she always reminds me of a bird in her frailty. I held out my hand with its little pile of seeds for a minute or so before a chickadee came to light on the fleshy part at the base of my thumb. His tiny claws were prickly on my cold skin.

Danny took a picture of him in my hand. In the picture, I have tears in my eyes as I cried at the simple wonder of how beautiful simplicity can be – and how much of that beauty that I’ve missed out on.

Copyright 2003