The Refuge House

So what is this? This is a very short work, the third in a series, prompted by the following two quotes:

“Talk, loudly and frequently and in detail, about the future you want. You can’t manifest what you don’t share.” ~ Madeline Ashby

And

“Remember to imagine and craft the worlds you cannot live without, just as you dismantle the ones you cannot live within.” ~ Ruha Benjamin

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The Refuge House

No this isn’t your future, this is our future.

The old man looked like he wanted to argue about something. Sitting on the edge of his chair, leaning over his knees, gathering his energy and thoughts into a rant.

We had not seen him before, he came to the refuge house sometime late last night. Two canes and that old shuffle of bad knees. Dragging a wheeled cart full of what he thought was important not to lose. We gave him distance, and silence, allowing him to make a nest in one of the common rooms. He fell instantly asleep, snoring loudly. But we gave him space and dignity to just warm up, sleep, and feel safe.

In the late morning one of the medical staff gently woke him to insist he take some time in the Onsen, clean up, and where they could see if he had any other medical needs. He had been living rough for a long time, but seemed in pretty good health. He had not said a word, to our young staff, but refused to let anyone get close to him.

The refuge house is open to anyone, local, traveler, of any age or origin. We train in letting our clientele show us their needs, rather than imposing our own. Travelers like this this guy are not uncommon, but we see fewer each year.

Our elders tell stories of huge numbers of displaced people, traveling in large groups for protection, coming down the valley, and how they had to ration care. But for us this has not happened in years. The village built this house, both as a refuge for us, and for those still traveling. Onsen, teahouse, medical clinic, kitchen, sleeping rooms, and a general gossip center for all.

The old man, still no name, had eaten a huge bowl of fruit and yogurt. Changed into more comfortable clothes, surprisingly clean, and was now sitting at one of the tables in the cooking area. Looking like a lecture was gathering, or an angry rant was about to explode.

But what happened surprised us all. He started to sing, a low soft short of chanting, in a language none of us knew. Then switching to English he started to sing a poem, moving back and forth between some unknown tongue and English. His voice was low, strident, and full of both anger and kindness. We all were stunned, His eyes now slightly closed ignored us, and kept singing. He had a deep bass voice that somehow filled the whole space.

Then an old women, grandmother to a few of us, stepped in the refuge house, drawn by this voice, and picked up the chanting, in a higher harmony. She came to stand near him and they made eye contact, but never broke the chant. She knew this language, that was completely foreign to us. And they sang together. Her coming in on the strange language parts. Him singing the English prose poem.

It was a poem of life. Living with the land, not on it. It was old, older than both him and our grandparents. A story of before the technology age, long lost even too our great libraries. He was singing about wolf, and bear, and crow. Rabbit, salmon, and animals we had only read about, orcas, and eagles. Now far off but coming closer was someone with a drum, marking the rhythm, another elder who had heard our grandmothers high voice. The drummer appeared with 3 others, the oldest of our old. Some in push chairs. All taking up the foreign chant.

Suddenly the drum, and the chant stoped. Our old, new friend continued in english, making eye contact with us the young, that had known no other place but this village.

“This is a thanks, and a warning. A praise, and an exhortation. You have heard the song of my people. I carry it to you from the far past. But as long as the streams and rivers flow, I will sing it. To teach you all not to forget, to remind you that all this you have built is precious and temporary. Thank you for this refuge. No this isn’t your future, this is our future.”