Full Circle

Robert E. Livingood watched as a single Salmon slowly swam in a circle, twice. Slowly, methodically, this lone  Salmon swam along the surface of the clear, teal water of a very large, deep lake. The perfect circles rippling out, he thought, were a sight created for none other than the Sun, the Eagles, and himself.

"We need to grab all the radiation, all the toxins, and say thank-you, and then give them back to the Sun. It's Sun food, it's no good for us, we can't eat it, but the Sun makes it and the Sun eats it. We need to thank the Sun for sharing and then give it all back to the Sun." The local Medicine Man's words rang through his head as he watched the ripples move further out over the clear, still water. 

There were no other sounds, save the occasional call of a Gull, nor any other Salmon to be seen beneath where he stood on the black slate knoll over-looking the lake. 

photo by Robert E. Livingood

It was early evening, and we were standing on traditional Xeni Gwich'in grounds, saying our farewells to Chilko Lake. We had been living here for a week now, waiting for their arrival. The Salmon had finally reached this area of the large lake. They had come all this way. 650 kms upstream, against rapids and strong currents, up 3850 feet of elevation, and through toxic effluent leaked into the Fraser from the all-too-timely Mount Polley mine tailings pond breach. We followed their migration route. We wanted to see, as best we could, what it actually means to come back home for these Salmon. We dipped into the Fraser canyon to follow the Fraser River for a time. We tried to imagine what it would be like to have to move through all the toxins from the tailings spill - to have it absorb into their livers and gonads, to concentrate in their eggs and sperm, their entire reason for making the arduous journey. We camped for three days at the confluence of the Chilko and Taseko Rivers. We saw how the teal waters of Chilko meet the milky-white of the Taseko, and how the two rivers travel side-by-side for a time before finally melding into a beautiful milky-teal colour. 

photo by Stephanie Kellett

Here the current was so strong that the red bodies had to swim single file amongst the shallows, over half-submerged rocks and other obstacles, sliding their tired bodies over them and through the air, exposing themselves to eager mouths. We paddled along side them as they entered the mouth of Chilko Lake at the north end. Watching them jump all around us, all day and all night, in joyous celebration of making it back home and receiving the gift of reprieve of still waters. Yet most still had to journey some or all of this 65 km lake to finally reach the spawning ground from which they were born, before they offering the rest of themselves up to become food for the world around them. The Eagles, Ravens and Gulls delight on their eyes as they float to the surface, the Grizzlies and Otters consume them whole as they arrive on the shore, and the Douglas Firs and Lodgepole Pine absorb the composted DNA into their makeup. Only the Humans do not eat them this year. They are the only species that is aware of the possible long-term consequences of consuming concentrated amounts of arsenic and lead. Even they though, believe on some level, that what doesn't feed you can be given back to life, in a good way. Being here with the Salmon and the Xeni Gwich'in, on this sacred lake, has shown me the medicine of the Salmon, and of those who consume it: to move through the challenges to follow your heart, then give thanks and give it all away.

The blog part of the Multi-Social-Media Shout-Out!

Hello to everyone who reads this blog. I recently ran a FundRazr campaign to raise some needed extra funds needed to attend a 10-day artist mentorship program in Wells, BC, Canada. I have heard about this mentorship for a few years now, and it sounds INCREDIBLE. I received a 50% scholarship to go, but rest of the tuition, travel costs, and the time I would be away and unable to work, were all stumbling blocks to making my dream a reality. Some friends suggested I start a crowd-funding campaign, and so I did. The results were amazing! Support poured in at such an amazing speed that I reached my goal within a few days. I feel very loved, supported and seen by many people in my past and current communities.

(The account is still active because it runs the set number of days you state at the beginning of the campaign, regardless of contributions. So, if you feel you too would like to donate above and beyond the goal amount, I would like to offer the same perks to you and let you know that the funds will go towards printing copies of Robert E. Livingood's and my second book, Kid's Story, which will be sent out to contributors.) 

I want to take a minute to personally and publicly thank all the people who came together to help make this fundraiser complete so incredibly quickly. I promised everyone who donated that they would get a multi-social-media shout-out, and I would like to fulfill that, starting first on Fundrazr and Facebook, and now here on my blog. A HUGE thank-you to Kori, Rob, Linda Rae, Grigg, Peggy, Sara, Shauna, Jodie, Shelly and Ian, Ellie, Mich, Heather, Thom, Manj, Erin, Sam, Jenn, Eliza, Seonaid, Neith, Trevor and Clare, Carolynne, Pete, Maiya, Radka, Brendan, Tarra, Simone, Bernice and an anonymous, but very "Nice Person".
THANK YOU! <3

https://fundrazr.com/campaigns/3mTz6/ab/93TaZe?fb_action_ids=10154308983125457&fb_action_types=fundrazr%253Astory_update

Rites of Passage (2012) part 3

     I wake up sickly. Dehydrated and toxic. Everything is stiff with a massive headache to boot. I manage to get up to pee and end up vomiting. The ceremony was more of a cleanse than I realized, and I didn't drink enough water. My body's purging became a day long endeavour, and sleep was a temporary and ineffective tactic. Late in the afternoon, my love brings me freshly caught fish. He risked his dryness to catch one, since the thin turquoise line had caused the waves to pick up by the time he took his boat out. His love, and that fish, soothed my withered self. I sank into his lap by the water's edge as he read to me from one of the novels we had brought with us. He made me tea as we watched the sun set. When the last of the brilliance sank behind the most perfect mountain, I am fifty percent recovered.

     I wake again as the last of dusk fades into dark. The fish has been good to me. I can feel my body responding to eating something from this purest of settings. I make my way to the campfire for the first time that day. Even fatigued and empty, I yearn for the last of the social time in this setting. Total darkness never really comes. Dusk and moon rise see to that. I am peacefully blown away.

     Up at the first light, we are packed into our kayaks and on the water by 7:30am. I am still weak, but ready. At first the paddling leaves me exhausted. Within an hour, it's as though I've entered in to a wondrous meditation. I can sit tall, keep stride, and my thoughts are so quiet and clear.

     I fantasize about living here. What would it be like to live in a dream forever? Never have to rush around, just fish, and hunt.

     Everywhere I look is beautiful. I can't get over the beauty and how diverse it can be. It's practising being perfect, and it is.

     It's noon when we reach our landing site. The weather on the water worked in our favour this time. It's loud here at the campground. Anything is loud after our week's excursion, but the campground is also getting ready to host the participants of a rodeo. And this rodeo is one in which the riders capture wild horses and ride them down steep ridges to the water's edge. It seems everything is extreme and wild here.

     We sneak off to one of the sandy ridges bordering the campground. The top harbours a plateau that looks out over the lake that we spent our morning on. And there they are.

     The beauties. The mountains.

     I was getting homesick for them already. No time for not enjoying. I have to drink in as much as I can. What if I don't come back?

Rites of Passage (2012) part 2

     The sun just poked through a heavy mass of dark, thick clouds. It's so raw and so very sweet on this lake. The warmth is so appreciated, soaked up on a cellular level, but it's warm regardless of the sun appearing, as though the ground and air hold the heat longer than other landscapes I've found myself in. The water is now a bluer shade of green, but the thin line of turquoise still delineates the mountains from the weather on the water.

     Three mountain ranges converge on the shores of this lake. Glaciers meet both sand dunes dispersed amongst pine forests and coastal rainforest. Glacial melt-off slowly seeps into warm waters as the sun begins its ascent. Wild horses, grizzlies, wolves, cougars, lynx, caribou, moose, and salmon all dwell here together. It's a very pristine and important place, and it's one of the last.

     The first night out we made love. The moon was waxing, and we were still at the head of the lake at the authorized campground. Off in our tent, tucked off in the trees, bodies weary from spending all day in the cramped back cab of a pickup, our fingers and toes caressed and entangled one another. His touch smoothing out all of our wrinkles, mine attempting to fill in all the holes. Comforting and cradling, and calling each other home.

     Every evening after we were privy to the longest sunsets I had ever seen. They would last for three hours, and would span the colour spectrum from blue to hot pink and deep red. And just as certain, as we watched the day's final light fade into grey, we would turn around to see the full moon raise her moon face over Mount Stupendous for us to have light again. And in the space between the light disappearing only to be reflected back to us, the loons would call. I love that sound. Wooden flute-like and eery. I've only ever heard them when everything else is silent.

    That Wednesday, our fifth day out, we held a ceremony. It was the perfect day. The bluest of skies, a slight breeze, and warm, not hot. I woke feeling extremely content. The sun trickled down through the trees in front of our tent. Dreamy-like. Ethereal. The perfect tone to walk the rest of the day to. This morning I only sip coffee interspersed with sips of cactus. Ten small gulps, and I'm in. I've committed. The sun is warm despite the cool wind. We all lean on large, warm trees on the tumbled pebble beach. We have all drunk, and we have all gagged and cringed. It's an awful acrid taste. A fundamental property of the plant that keeps the juice sacred. Medicine. The next twelve hours will have our inhibitions, fears, and focus all compartmentalized, slotted just off to the side, so that we are left, unguarded, to unabashedly and authentically experience life.

     All day we played on the dry finger that lay behind our camp. There the Douglas firs held the trees. They were huge, these Firs, and their arms often supported up to three large wind-fallen trees. Mother Teresa's, or womanizers, either is sweet to envision. We slowly followed animal trails and slowly drank in the silence. I felt dehydrated of this way of being. Thirsty for spirit and connection to the wild. Then we found a grizzly bed, a depression scooped out by God's claws and lined with soft pine needles. It was large enough for either of us to curl up in, and we did. My love first, then I. You could see the lake from the bed, and knew that God had had that in mind when making it. Lying there, in the hollow, listening to the turquoise water, gazing at the weather on the surface of the lake, I felt him.

     And there was more. On and on we explored. Following this trail, then that. Keeping our heightened silence. Celebrating it. We find a sweet fox den, and then caribou tracks, then moose. We listened to the short-wave broadcasts all around us; we knew which trail to follow, and which to respectfully turn away from. We experienced being watched and followed. I'm not sure I've ever felt like such an animal. Never felt so much like myself.

Rites of Passage (2012) part 1

      There's a thin line of turquoise separating the mountains from the water. It spills out from the mouth of the glacier river to the south. As the sun traverses across the sky, the line grows in distance and girth. Slowly the deep blue lake lightens in hue as the two colours melt into each other in the most soothing way, only to begin again in the early of tomorrow.

I get irritated so easily these days. I can't seem to step outside of my life... I can't seem to allow for a different, more peaceful perception of my world either... and it's getting harder and harder to snap out of it.

I've been a bit of a monster all day. My thoughts are harsh thoughts and are harsher still amidst the dream-like tranquility of our backdrop. My love and I engage in the subtle dance of avoidance. Attempts at reconciliation have made it worse, the day stretches on past normal day lengths, and we both wish the whole trip won't be like this.  Silent prayers are cast into the dreamscape, drifting on the southern glacier breeze, bouncing off the three mountain ranges that converge on this Salmon fed lake.  The prayers hold an urgency, as though we both understand that this may be the last chance that we are both able to give the other...

The Douglas Firs are huge here. There, on a rocky, grass-lined bluff, the trees and the ancestors of this land sit. Like a single stalk of fireweed amidst a bone-dry forest, they hold space here, waiting.

Waiting peacefully for the others to remember. To join them in the peace and quiet. And 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. They know it's our birthright.

I am a thirty year-old child. On the outside I can manage life, and take care of my needs, but on the inside, I am stuck somewhere around the age of twelve. I never went through a rite of passage. I don't even know what that means, or what it might look like.

Most stories seem to be of young boys who attempt week-long sojourns, alone, to fast and hopefully vision-quest. For what, I never really understood. Bu what they discovered and realized would be brought back with them to their tribe, and because of this, they would be given new responsibilities and roles. I never had a delineation point. Some event in my life must have caused essentially the opposite to happen, for me to stagnate emotionally, while my body and mind continued to develop, and relatively no new responsibilities or roles were asked of me.  

In fact, thoughts of being alone, in the wild, for even a day, terrify me. Thoughts of being on a dirt road at night terrify me. Or did. Fear is so constricting. I can feel the power of it; like invisible shackles. Self-induced, and self-maintained, it keeps us from moving forward, or from even being able to dream larger than our environment. So what then? What will I make myself endure to finally see through it?

     That question sends a river up my spine.

“Our culture no longer goes through any rite of passage. We are all allowed to be children in adult bodies.” My lover sees how damaged we all are. He understands that children who raise children slowly weed out the maturity and wisdom of the role known as elder. We no longer know how to access this role in ourselves, or access them. Perhaps clear cuts cause the same repercussions on the maturity and wisdom of the forests....  

Sometimes I wonder what this year is about. It is 2012, the year of prophesied apocalypse. But what if the proclaimed apocalypse is simply a rite of passage for the planet and its inhabitants? Will we pass into a new experience of life as we know it? One full of beauty, magic, and love unfathomable by our recent Western minds? Or will we instead choose to clutch to the known security of humanity's youth; disgracing ourselves and our lineage as we dye our hair blonde, smear on self-tanner, and continue to roller-blade with our fourteen year friends?

We Are the Weavers

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?

There ain't no way to fix it.

Sometimes your heart breaks so bad

that everything on the inside,

spills out to the outside.

Like all your cells stack up on top of each other 

to form a Great Wall of China,

or a Hoover Dam,

and try and stop all the blood from escaping

out of your forehead.

All your words turn frozen.

Not even the Sabertooths

or a hairdryer,

can set 'em free.

And even though you have lots of string,

and are good at knittin' and stitchin',

the hole in your heart stays empty,

beating less strong than before,

and when you listen closely,

you can hear air whistling' right through it.

When your heart's broke that bad,

there ain't no way to fix it.