I wrote this a lunar year ago, just before the February full moon of 2013, to accompany the exhibition of five paintings embedded below. The paintings were created to tell the story of a group of friends who are actively creating and developing their own sense of tribe, stories, and indigenous relationship to themselves and to the land in which they live. That full moon I exhibited these paintings, this text (below), four other text pieces written by others who were present in those canoes that night, and even one of the canoes themselves. At the time of the exhibition, it had been a whole lunar year since the original canoe ride, and it has been another lunar year since the time of the exhibition. In keeping with this new tradition of February full moon magic and wonderment, I send this text and these images out to a greater audience in hopes that it will inspire more people to actively find their people and weave more magic into their lives and into the places in which they live.
We Are the Weavers
Once upon a time, many moons ago, we listened to the land. It spoke to us in many voices, told us of where we came from, where to go, what to eat, and gave us our songs.
Those voices, of the trees, the land, and the ancestors, they patiently wait for us to remember. To join them in the peace and the quiet. It doesn't take long, this remembering. Simply a day or two, without any other input, in a place untouched by human folly. Theirs is simply a subtler frequency. Powerful when tapped into, they will never bombard you, they simply wait for you to listen and feel. They want to share with us. It is our birthright.
Once upon a time it was easy to listen.
How far have we gone from Home?
Who are we, in this time? What is it exactly that we are doing with our time, our hands, our lives? Have you ever thought that you could use your life like a dagger? Or a needle pulling thread? At any moment, we each have the ability to cut through the mire and weave our own realities.
What would yours look like?
Gather the Weavers.
A lunar year ago, ten of us gathered on the river near this very spot where you now sit. Into the river we lit three canoes and nestled in for the journey. The February full moon was bright, the sky was cold and clear. The river was slow and shallow, but it didn't dampen our merriment. It helped us soak in our surroundings, and the sense of peace that one can only experience while floating, bundled in blankets, under a starry winter night.
In our boat, I was in the middle. I was so cold they wrapped my entire self three times in blankets. Behind me, my lover, in front, my sister and the Head Seamstress. Her stitches were always perfect, and she had a gift of seeing the finished pattern before a single cut was ever made.
There were ten of us that night. There are more than that now.
And after tonight, there will be more still.
Of the ten, some were clear, some were altered, and some were just along for the ride. Two fell in. Their feet and legs soaked up icy river, but their smiles and laughter never wavered. Their canoe held four. It was the party boat. There's always one. They brought the clowns and the fun. Our boat held the severity, the depth and the vision. Tucked between two paddlers, my eyes had time to take our journey in.
That night there was one who shared his birthday with the fullness of the moon. And like the moon, his face was always bright and full of mystery. He kept his secret the whole night so the celebrations could be everyone's.
There was also a silent heartache amongst us. Once our canoes reached their destination, her story wove into ours. Crystalline and smooth, the island's blanket of snow and ice silently held our footsteps. We moved across the cold surface to the middle of a ring of five hollowed Cottonwood stumps. There a warming fire was built. Then candles were lit and placed inside the five tall corpses to create a circle surrounding a circle; light encircling warmth. All of us gathered around our altar, except for one. Her absence made us feel her all the more.
Some of us were festive, some somber with gratitude. Yet all of us were there that cold winter night. We were learning to take care of one another, to listen-to each other and to the place.
We were remembering how to Listen.
What do you hear tonight?
What will you weave from it?
