Một nhà tâm lý trị liệu người Cree suy ngẫm về mối quan hệ, sự thuộc về và ảo tưởng về một cái tôi cố định

Editor’s note: This piece is adapted from Carry Your Heart: Indigenous Helping Wisdom and the Science of Psychological Flexibility by Louis Busch, released on Sept. 15, 2026. Copyright © 2026 Louis Busch. Published by Simon & Schuster Canada, a division of Simon & Schuster. Reproduced by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.

BOMGIIZHIK (Isaac Murdoch)

At Nimkii Aazhibikoong, a culture camp deep in the woods on the north shore of Lake Huron, we find Isaac Murdoch, also known as Bomgiizhik of the Great Lakes by the many learners who listen to his stories and teachings each night. Isaac is a Fish Clan member of Serpent River First Nation, a gifted artist, musician, storyteller, environmentalist, activist and ceremonial conductor, but these words don’t really capture the entity that is Isaac Murdoch.

He is a force of nature who is constantly in some act of relationship–building and creative design, whether it be chopping wood for the new lodge he is building for a youth retreat or painting a mural on the pavement of Wall Street in New York City in protest of extractive industries. Nimkii Aazhibikoong is a testament to Isaac’s vision, as he is one of the founders of the camp that offers language immersion, land–based living and learning programs, storytelling and Ceremony.

As we sit by the fire, sipping strong percolated coffee, I am struck by the amount of knowledge that Isaac’s head holds. He is a fountain of information on art, music, history, the Ojibwe language, ancient pictographs, politics and bushcraft. He also carries what seems like an infinite number of stories, which have been passed down to him through the oral tradition. Most striking of all, however, are Isaac’s insights into the human condition, into the nature of suffering, and about the path of the good life.

Isaac’s own life is an incredible story on the capacity of human beings to heal after immense hardship. Isaac grew up in the bush with his family, living off the land until he and his siblings were apprehended by Indian agents and forced onto the reserve. Isaac’s mother died shortly after her children were taken from her. Like many First Nations Peoples on Turtle Island, Isaac has lost many family members to violence, overdose and suicide.

Isaac is open about his experience as a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and shares his story to encourage men with similar experiences to seek help. And in what I can only imagine is the most painful experience a human being can have on this earth, Isaac tragically lost two children in an accident.

By any measure, Isaac should be a broken and bitter man. But the opposite is true. He glows and seems to peer into your soul with a sort of kindness that makes you feel instantly among family in his company. His laugh is contagious, and his message is consistently one of kindness and connection. I was very motivated to learn whatever I could from Isaac and honoured to be able to spend time hearing some of his teachings.

I tell Isaac about the learning journey I am on and my hopes of bringing Indigenous helping wisdom and the science of psychological flexibility together in a way that each may benefit from the other. Isaac reflects on the word acceptance and shares, “There is an inherent part of us that accepts the difficult situations we encounter in this life, but our minds like to fight back and construct all sorts of explanations as a way to escape having to face the pain of a difficult experience like loss, betrayal or failure.”

Isaac repeats the word daapnaan, which he describes as the Ojibwe version of “it is what it is.” He says daapnaan speaks to accepting something, letting the situation be as it is, whether it is an outcome, a feeling, or a dream, even if it is extremely painful. Isaac says our experience here on earth is a process of spiritual training, and that all the experiences we have, especially the difficult and chaotic ones, are like a higher learning curriculum for our spirit and for the future.

Isaac insists that pain and suffering have always been crucial in Indigenous healing philosophies, reflecting a deep understanding that mental health and spiritual health are tightly intertwined. He says that at the core of the struggle, especially in cases as extreme as suicide, it isn’t just a mental health problem, but a disconnection from one’s spirit, the essence that binds us to our true selves and the universe.

“Since the time of our Creation Story,” Isaac continues, “pain and suffering have been seen as gifts in Ceremony,” offering a pathway to healing through acknowledging and embracing our innermost struggles and reconnecting with spirit. Isaac points to fasting and offerings that occur within the ceremonies of some nations on Turtle Island. The experience of pain is offered to the Spirits, Isaac says, in order to facilitate healing in ourselves, our families and our communities. In Ceremony, suffering is viewed as a privilege and an opportunity.

Growing up, the old ones would say, “Oh, you received a blessing!” when you got hurt, Isaac shares. He recalls being puzzled at his grandparents saying, “Hey, that’s a blessing!” when he burned his finger in the fire once. “That’s what they’d say when you burned yourself or got cut! You got a blessing!” Isaac says with an expression of disbelief at his own words. Now he realizes this was a powerful teaching about the nature of suffering. “Offering your pain as a trade for healing is a great honour,” Isaac says. This willingness to feel something unpleasant does something important to one’s view on the meaning of pain.

Hearing Isaac’s teaching, I recall the third day of fasting during my first Sun Dance. I was feeling particularly miserable and sorry for myself. One of the other dancers had just quit. I was tired, hungry, thirsty, and starting to think quitting might not be such a bad idea, when an old man came up to me and said, “Thank you for your sacrifice; your ancestors are proud of you.” Of course I started ugly crying.

Just that short sentence changed my perspective in that moment drastically. Suddenly all the relationships I had been building with my pain were flipped on their heads. Where once there was only “bad, hurt, tired, sad, ouch, stop, quit, escape,” there was also now “gratitude, opportunity, ancestors, pride, belonging.” I have said it before, and I’ll say it again: More things can be accomplished in a four–day ceremony on the land than can be accomplished in a year of psychotherapy. This was certainly one of those experiences for me.

Speak to your mind. “Our mind is its own entity,” Isaac says. “It’s hardwired in a certain way, and whether it is due to our traumas or some hereditary thing passed down to us, we can become prone to evaluating the things around us as constant crises, and we can ascribe stories to ourselves to explain these crises. Why does this keep happening to me? I’m so stupid, I deserve this.” I ask Isaac about his perspective on the tendency of our mind to work against us when things get difficult. Why kick us when we are down?

Isaac shares that Medicine People would sometimes work on someone struggling with an emotional, spiritual, or mental experience by laying that person down, offering tobacco, and speaking directly to the person’s mind. The Medicine Person would ask the mind to be kind to that person, would give gratitude for all that it was doing to protect the person, but would petition the mind to allow the individual to continue to live their life in a good way.

If I think about someone wise speaking to my troubled mind, it is my dad. I can picture him sitting there, calm, steady, and unhurried (probably smoking a cigar) . Maybe he’d put his hand on my forehead and just sit silently for a while. He is both a man of few words and a powerful orator. Every time I’ve seen him get up to speak, be it a celebration, a conference, or a funeral, I am always awestruck by how easily he has the unflinching attention of the room.

In that space, sitting with my mind, I think he would probably pray, and if he spoke to my mind, he might say something like “Hey, Mind, I see you’re bringing warnings and worries. That’s your job. We’ll take those with us and take the next step,” or maybe “Mind, you can be worried, but you don’t have to fix anything right now.”

I think about how those words would land, and how different they would be from the usual way I talk to my mind. Who would you choose to speak to your mind? What would they say if they were right there with you?

Louis Busch has previously received funding from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada (SSHRC) , including a Vanier Canada Graduate Scholarship and a SSHRC Impact Award.