Raymond Ruka

I remember

A story of introduction from the Custodian of Stories:

It was on a sunny day when I was sitting with my brother Raymond Tekorako Ruka, son of Waitaha, the Water Carriers tribe of New Zealand, and the conversation came round to his wealth of stories and remembrances of his life. We spoke of how these precious words of memory and wisdom of the Matriarchal aspects of life could be shared with others. We spoke of having a younger relative keep them, or of his memories taking the form of a book. 

Then without preparation on my part, Raymond turned to me and said “Stephen, I want you to be the one to keep them and find a way to share them. For they no longer belong to me”. Honor was the only word that came to mind. Then the topic of copyright came around. Should we copyright? We then let the thought settle just like muddy water will settle when you give it time. Then you see clearly. And so it was. 

There was to be no copyright. No one owns these stories, for they are gifts freely given. The whole issue of copyright smacked of ownership, and control, and had echoes of colonialism that Raymond and all Indigenous peoples of the world are familiar with. 

So here is the gift freely given. No charge, no fee, nothing but the current of breath that brings them to you. 

 

Stephen W. Emerick Ph.D./Tipene ~ Custodian of Stories

 

I Remember

Raymond Te korako Ruka

I remember a beautiful summer morning stretched

across the landscape of my childhood memory in

New Zealand when I was eight years old. The year

was 1959 and one of my beloved grannies and I

were going on a walk, as they were wont to do with

any number of their grandchildren in those times.

Up into one of the valleys we would meander,

hand in hand, until we reached the summit from

where we would usually sit, hand in hand, and watch

the beautiful Tasman Sea spread out before us. We saw the

white caps of ocean, and heard the cries of faraway seabirds

echoing in the overhead streams of wind. How

incredibly efficient a people can become by listening

to and learn the different tones and rhythms of

the wind.

 

The valleys always smelled of fresh watercress and wild

mint mingled with the hint of salty ocean air. We were

taught to pay attention to life happening all around us

in all its forms and never to chatter. Listen, but if a

question came to mind, we were always encouraged to

be brave and inquire.

 

On this particular walk, we had kept to the trail that

wound itself beside the bubbling stream which had 

its source at the very foot of this particular ridge and

I had an idea that that was where we were headed.

The spring where this rivulet emanated was

considered sacred, and our Healers used its waters

sparingly for ceremony and healing purposes. Only a

few members of the family knew of its whereabouts.

When we arrived, the morning Sun was at mid-station

and even he appeared inquisitive, so directly overhead

was he present. My granny sat herself down upon the

lush green of the small embankment and quietly urged 

me to go forward to the stream and asked in a whisper

if I could see anything.

 

Everything seemed bathed in a gown of radiant light

and I told her so in the same tone of quiet.

When I approached and knelt beside them and 

prayerfully asked permission of the spring to put my

hand forward into its life-giving sustenance, a flurry

of movement in the clear water caught my eye as

hundreds of trout fry came swarming from all

directions and began nestling into the palm of my hand.

They appeared like swarming bees, filling my small

hand to overflowing, spilling outwards, and now lying

layer upon layer in both of my submerged hands, completely

occupying the small creek space where I had just bent over.

Thousands of living baby trout.

 

I turned to look for my grandmother, but already my

Granny’s head was bent in prayer. I thought better to

not disturb her and returned my attention to the stream.

The privacy of the moment with the swarming fry, the

music of spring water having recently escaped from

the core of Earth Mother, and the scent of watercress

mingled with wild mint had narrowed my view to only

that which was directly in front of me.

 

And then my spirit was opened – to the depth and

width of it all. I saw for the first time the golden disc

in the water below, all the wriggling babies, and the

bubbling music. It had been there all the time.

I remember…it was waiting.

 

The reflection of the sun in the pure spring water

beneath me was an enormous golden sphere.

Directly in front of it, the face of an astonished eight-year-old boy 

had imprinted upon it, Love. Not a word,

symbol or formula. Nor expression, merely an insight.

It was something his immature brain could not yet

conjure up or explain in words, so Nature had invited

him into Her and draw him a picture of it on his face

and give him a mirror in which to look, remember and

never forget.

 

The heart of his grandmother, the milling trout, the

Life-giving spring and that golden disc of life in the

cloudless sky above. From that day forth, the boy 

understood what was meant by the Oneness of all

things.

 

When I glanced over my shoulder in my stupefied

state, seeking out my granny for an answer, she was

no longer there. I never panicked, she would never

have left me alone. My Anchor had to be somewhere.

They demanded of us our trust in everything – which

we gave unconditionally. They in turn promised us

the key to unlocking their wisdom, and then they taught

us the combination.

 

In that instant, I knew this beautiful old lady I had

the privilege of calling Grandmother, was part of the 

unfolding magic. We had not randomly wandered this

way. We had been invited. A door had been unlocked.

When I looked back into the bubbling stream, the fry

had begun dispersing back to their hidden places and

I noticed the sun had moved from his meridian. Glancing

back again I noticed my granny had reappeared and was

watching me. She was gently smiling as she always did.

Silently, I washed my face and hands and sprinkled

water on the grass where I had knelt and gave words of 

gratitude on behalf of my granny and I, for the gift I had

received.

 

As I had been taught, I went the short distance to the

spring outlet itself, cupped my hands and filled them as

best I could and walked over to my granny, repeating

the awkward trip several times to bath her hands, her

face, her arms, and her legs until my simple water

ceremony of gratitude had been completed. I remember

her uncomfortable hint of approval.

 

We walked home in silence hand in hand. There was

nothing more to say, it had all been done. One day, that

beautiful old woman’s albatross feather which was

plaited into her hair would waft in the winds of destiny

and finally fall at the feet of the next servant of peace.