TV Told Me So

I choose to write tonight because I don't have the stomach, it seems, to ingest any more of the narratives that are being spun for my consumption this evening. Be they on Netflix or CBS or social media or any other CRTC approved incoming messaging system. I just don't.

My YouTube and internet research time these past four or five fortnights has soared and taken up the lion's share of my screen viewing, but the subject matter has hardly been relaxing or soothing. So my avoidance of the mainstream media covid frenzy or international intrigue plotlines have not been to avoid unease or discordant thought and emotion - in fact, it almost feels like I've traded one brand of frenetic and panicked uncertainty for another deeper and more insidious brand.

All in the name of truthseeking and spritual uplift. 

You see, I don't trust the news anymore.  Sure, there's plenty of truth and hard hitting traffic footage or feel good stories of people working their hardest to make community from within the cacophony, but I am firm in the belief that the corporate masters of the networks carefully create and disseminate messaging to keep us in rank and file manageability and the sugar hangover bliss of consumerist pursuits.  Just enough of a taste of liberty to flare our nostrils and twig the the depths of our visceral and vibrant genetic history and spark little bursts of hope and faith in the safety and sanctity of the societal fabric which, in theory, shields us from the ills of the world.

And though the pursuit of truth is not mine alone, and is surely shared by any eye that might read this little gurgitation, the ability to discern the real from the false is a challenging enterprise, what, with all the sources of information and knowledge now at our disposal.  And the simple fact that every word spoken into cellular tech or typed or overheard by the various microphones that surround us every day ("Siri, is that you?") is funnelled into incredibly complex systems of artificial intelligence to ensure they land softly in the world created for our consumption and don't impede whatever master plans those in positions of power might have in store for us.

Yeah, so my quarantine has been a whole lotta fun. lol

But truly, what am I am learning through these last couple months is the journey into my own consciousness and various layers of self, acquired through nature, nurture and such social programming gems as Sesame Street, A-Team, Winnie the Pooh, Kahlil Gibran, Call of Duty, etc.(my funny little way of saying "environmentally wrought egoic imaginings of identity"), is that this inner truthfinding attention is the most important work that I will do in my lifetime. 

The quiet that has ensued after turning off the TV eight weeks ago, and keeping my social media surfing and current event awareness to a fairly tiny fraction of my day's energies has been revelatory and invigorating.

My heart is opening and my spirit is beginning to sing in tones I've not heard before.

I am discovering that my inner sanctum of awareness is built with a sacred and unending love of all things, people, creatures great and small, both known and unknown.

It is not easy to remain in this state of awareness. 

Sometimes I stub my toe and curse to high heaven; sometimes I crave a visceral hit of something with a little more potency than a breath with careful attention focused inward - so I hit the chocolate fountain, the fridge, my portable garden, cigarette pack, etc..  and my Zen like awareness of the OneLove philosophy slips away. 

Never for long. Like the tide, it glides back into my frame of cognition and fills the empty spaces left in me from my straying ways... 

And so, this brings me to my reason for writing this piece:

I have been remarking how effortlessly, and in fact, how almost rehearsed or planned this Covid 19 global consciousness shift was perpetrated upon us and how simply and effortlessly we changed our ways and our thoughts and feelings to embrace the recommended responsible actions and accommodate a new thought and reality placed in our paths.

Now, with only weeks behind us, we are practiced hands at social distancing, (refusing to hug our loved ones in simpler language), staying home from work, being fearful of strangers, esp. ones with a cough, even wearing masks to conceal our unique features and become faceless threats to each others well being.

Wow.

In short, we have adopted a new way of seeing the world and established new ways of seeing ourselves in the world.  And all in a few short weeks.

We treat each other differently, and have changed our lives in so many ways because the little electronic boxes in our homes and in our hands told us we should.  They showed us bodies (well they showed you, cuz I never really looked), crowded hospital rooms, serious looking pie charts and graphs, microscopic photos of a scary looking microbe and every one of us became amateur, home trained epidiemiologists.

And now, as I tuck myself into bed, I want to leave you with one question:

What would happen if all the talking heads, the news reels, the CNNs, CBCs, social media information sites, politicians, academics - all the sources we've been conditioned to believe and trust and derive a sense of safety from - what if they ALL reported the truths that we all know to be true in our hearts?

 That love is the salve that might cure all the ills of the world.  That hope, love and faith, when used in proper dosages, can stem the decay from cancer; can reverse the damage inflicted by trauma and abuse; that the greatest gift we can give the world is action framed and originating from a place of self love.

"Good evening. I'm Anderson Cooper, and tonight the truth is finally laid bare:  Our connection to God and Mother Earth comes from inside our very own hearts.  And that if this truth is realized and worked at through millennia old practices like yoga or meditation or even prayer, can unite the world in more harmonious fashion, and create grace and space for each and every one of us.

"Joining us is Wolf Blitzer, on location at Mount Sinai hospital in NYC, where breakthrough new group vibrational alignment therapy is working to relieve huge numbers of patients ... " 

Etc., etc. 

I don't mean to sound glib or like a tinfoil hat loonytune.  But I can't just sail along on this 75000 km/hour ball of rock and water and hurtle through the cosmos with you lovelies any more and not call bullshit on the societal narrative that I've been corralled into believing.

Imagine if the world's media and governments got behind such enterprises as solving hunger and poverty, quit hoarding the wealth and resources among the elite, and worked on humanistic truths that every single one of us hold in our hearts. 

We stopped the world in a matter of days.

Because the TV told us to. 

All I ask is that you listen to what your heart is telling you to do and try to still the waters of your mind to let that happen.

With love.
S.

A Vision To Which I Shall Give My All..

So lead me back

Turn south from that place

And close my eyes from my recent disgrace

'Cause you know my call

We'll share my all

Now children come and they will hear me roar

So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light

'Cause oh that gave me such a fright

But I will hold as long as you like

Just promise me we'll be alright

Mumford and Sons, Ghosts That We Knew 

I have so very much to be grateful for.  So very much.  My heart brims with love and hope and faith and passion; I have a place in my centre of being that is as still as its ever been throughout my life, though I may rattle around a bit here and there with some forceful opinion or sloppy attempt at reasoning or direction - and step on toes or clip heart's wings with anger and sadness or jealousies... I am human. 

We are in the throes of what is being called a global pandemic, and my research and exposure to the gory details and handwashing techniques or recommended mask usage and such is fairly weak.  I am choosing not to look to deeply into the abyss of sadness and fear and hopelessness, but that is because I am here - safe, relatively isolated and locked in the loving embrace of the fringes where the boreal forest meets the lonesome prairie.  And I am here mostly alone, save for a few brave souls who, like me, chose to participate in a program that has ignited our spirits and helped us to find light and hope where before there may have been despondency and decay, shame and shenanigans. 

And though I have allowed the light of spirit to walk with me, and have the blessed privilege of being able to allow her rightful place at my centre, through all the happy and lonesome moments of my rural isolation, there are those who are not so lucky.

I think of my beautiful buddha of a cousin who is charged with the task of tending house with my kokom, who turns 94 tomorrow...  or my ex partner who cares for my beautiful twins and their brother as well as her mother (with lupus) and brother (non verbal Down's syndrome) or my dearest friend who sits atop a meticulously disinfected mountaintop with her stunning octagenarian mother 💘 They are not as lucky as I in these moments...  

Their beloved charges are, if we are to believe what we've been told by our most trusted sources: government, media, schools, institutions, universities, United Nations, World Health Organization, etc., the most susceptible to the devastating and unnatural flu symptoms that have ended the lives of ?? many people worldwide, and likely expected to grow in the coming weeks. 

They are alone in these moments of doubt and fear, when the news shows (so I've heard) stacks of bodies and shortages of vehicles to move them in countries around the world; or stark and official looking emails hit inboxes with dull thuds extolling the drama of called States of Emergency, all in the attempt to curtail the savagery of a Wuhan, China-borne virus - Corona - which is latin for Crown, incidentally.  One of which sits atop the Queen's of England's head, and who, again incidentally, is the same age as my kokom.

( Who looks better by the way? )

I am powerless to help in the "snorting old man buffalo" (my Cree spirit name) fashion to which I have grown accustomed, and to which many of you who know me, have come to expect:  Me, charging into a situation, both guns blasting - one barrel loaded with self righteous indignation, usually backed with some version of confident knowledge, and the other one with elbow grease and tactless hardline rationalist humanism.

This superheroism that sometimes hits the mark with relieved accuracy, would in these cases, set of a series of alarms and klaxons and send my most deeply loved people scattering from my bombastic faith infused indignation and cause ripples of hurt and anger for a very long time.

And quite possibly, I could infect a pristine household containing vulnerable and cherished loved ones with this genetic aberration of a virus and could very well bring a beautiful life, or more, to a bitter and undeserved early end. 

Powerless... I am powerless, save for the realization that by leaving them alone, in their wise and loving and conscientious manners, to continue to scrub and cook and love and clean and sing and colour and clean some more, that they might just help bridge the gaps needed to carry our families through this blight to the emerging reality that lays in wait for us just ahead.

The power that I do now feel, however, is one that I wish to share with you at this time.  

This is the power of my faith that we are on a trajectory to a realized greatness that has never before been felt by humankind.  Maybe here and there throughout history when some fantastic but humble soul felt the truth of our absolute connectedness to all the energies of the universe - and made some great discovery or spiritual ascension and maybe changed the world in a small or great manner in that precious moment.

But here, in this space, this sacred container, I have been helped in finding out that the key to unlocking this ravishing mysterious alchemy lay solely in the power of our immense love.

Love. Pure unadulterated heartfelt and unconditional love of all things.  This uniting force is the light that we've all felt at one point or another, and is so sadly fleeting with all the distraction that this world serves to us daily, in every minute of every day of our lives. 

For the first time in my life, I actually feel whole.  Spirit, Mind, Emotion, Body - united as one; woven as a braid of sweetgrass; an invitation for all the energies of the universe to work through me and connect whatever soft little broken ends I might find, with the gifts I've been given to steward. 

For whatever reason, Earth and her caretakers, decided that "Sheldon is going to clean up and connect his 4-parts in a unity that he's never before experienced... Hell, maybe now's the time to launch a global pandemic, seeing how he's all Zen and shit for once." 

What. The. Actual. Fuck. 

Are you kidding me?  Well, no use wringing my hands and feeling sorry for myself, I happen to be imbued with a power I never even knew I held, and have secured a swath of freedom from drugs that I have never known heretofore.  And a deep connection to hope, faith and courage that no 12-step meeting ever stuck in my grimy lil pocket to take home with me. 

Energetics.  The awareness of my thoughts and feelings and beliefs and their impacts on the people in my life and the circles of love that exist around me.

I have levelled up, and it's about goldarn time.  I turned 49 in this place.  And I am building my strength and resolve to be able to respond to whatever might come after these strange days of isolation and empty toilet paper rolls.  My friend says "go ahead and save the world.  I have to save my mom." 

Damn.  That's beautiful.  And I wish I wasn't outside of that disinfected circle and could wrap my arms around you Missy...  cuz That. Is. Love.  Pure and simple.  

But you see?  That is what happens when humans are pushed to their n'th degrees: We rise above petty. We grow like the grinch's heart.  BUT.. only when our attentions are focused on the wellbeing and safety of our loved ones.  Selfishness doesn't have any magic to it.  It is a heavy energy, draining and sucking the life out of your very bones.  

SELFLESSNESS.. aye!  That is the key.  

Though the New World Order Gang and their Bilderberg henchmen likely have something to do with this damn Covid bullshit, it matters naught.  We are here. We are in it. And we are able to meet the challenges with grace and beauty and attention to what matters here on this beautiful planet of ours.

Find your core.  Your strength. Your spirit.  Pray to your moms, dads, grammas, uncles, heroes - to Shiva, or Allah or Creator or Jah.. to all your ancestors. Recite the prayers you all have in your hearts.  Listen closely to that perfect child's heart that lives inside you still.  Feel it's beauty, its unnerved and immovable grace that connects to Mother Earth. 

Close your damn Facebook for a second; turn off the Netflix and just chill in the silent awareness THAT WE ARE POWERFUL BEYOND MEASURE. That no news reel or sound bite can dim the light that connects you to Source.  

You have not lost your way.  In the bottom of the dark space that your fear lays, is a softly burning ember of faith that will never leave you my dearest friend.  But you cannot reason it back to its precious brightness. 

You must surrender to your fear, and say, "temageenonan".. (i am just a pitiful human, and I can't carry this alone) ..  When you hold onto the shoreline and the river rages around you, your head slips below the surface, and the harder you fight, the deeper you sink.  

You must let go and surrender to the knowledge that we are stardust, we are golden, we are meant to be here, dancing on this earth in this way.  In all our stunned stunts and desperate manoevering, we are beautiful children of light, and we don't have all the answers. But the rivers of Life and Time all flow in beautiful harmony with love.  

And no matter what happens from here, we each one of us have the power to choose love, to choose grace, to choose wisdom, and to give of ourselves in beautiful ways - so much so that the scales might be tipped back in the direction of humanity's precious hours still left to live.  

Don't be the toilet paper stashing chicken shit that ignores the cries for help.

Be smart.  Wash your hands if you must.  Spray your disinfectants and build your fortresses of Lysol wipes.  Keep your distance.  Regulate and respect others' wishes in these trying times. 

But for God's sake, for all our sakes:  Be as loving as you can, because none of us know what's in store in the days ahead.  Pay attention to what's important to your heart.  Pray and be still; listen to your inner wisdom.  

We'll get through this.  

I can feel it. 

I love you all,
S. 

A Vision To Which I Might Give My All

November 16, 2019

3:13 a.m.

This is the moment that I understand finally the commitment needed to leave the drugs alone. 

She asked: “What is so wrong with the world that it doesn’t deserve your best?”

Nothing.

There is nothing wrong with the world. I love people.  I love helping people. I love the land, I love working on the land, being with nature. I don’t mind the institutions, so far as the people that populate them. 

It’s the systems that I despise.

The systems of greed, power, divisiveness, borders and hierarchies.  The inequities and imbalances that are centuries old. 

Our governments, schools, economies, infrastructure – these things all subtly serve some unseen power, that so coldly shuts out the average human and makes us all servants to this tilted labyrinth with unseen hands twisting the wheels.

These systems dehumanize us.  Make us small, weak, alone; pit us against each other in some infernal and eternal contest.  I am noticing that it is impossible, at least for me, to not sense the evil laugh at the bottom of my psyche – in the tiniest corner of my ear, when someone who is “just doing their job” inflicts soul hurt on another human; not my laugh either.  The one that underpins all the broken value covenants within Bizarro Rousseau’s Social Contract.

This is why I couldn’t go into business. 

The very principle of charging more for something that I received at a relatively inexpensive price, the “margin”, flies in the face of my understanding of relational economy… of a human economy. 

Maybe it’s just me, but this truly is my dilemma.  And I usually carry a sinking feeling after engaging in that world – the shiny lights, the bells and whistles; the glucose, the social angst and competitive mean streak many of us seem to have inherited and cherish so dearly – these things that conceal and mask the heinous underpinnings to so much of what we do in the world.

I use the word "heinous" though sometimes simply because it’s drudgery, meaningless; thankless.  We are actors on a stage that we didn’t build, that sometimes we don’t understand, and all the while we are ALL CHASING PLASTIC PICTURES OF THE QUEEN. 

What the actual fuck?

This is the Royalty, (at least on our shiny new Canadian plastibucks) who I’ve been led to understand, hail from Austria; descendants, it’s rumoured, of Vlad the Merry Old Impaler, that sits upon the throne that mostly fucked up the world’s earthloving brown, red and black races.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I got nothing against white folk and their ancestral backgrounds and unique gifts they’ve brought to the world.  But these fucking systems, which seem to have all trickled down from the biggest fucking bullies throughout time are the scourge of humanity and tickle the visceral virtual clitori of each one us of with their power, availability and proliferation of creature comforts and guiltless engagement in depravities that can potentially numb our souls. 

And the uberwealthy families who supposedly drive this train that is hurtling us towards planetary destruction. 

Supposedly drive the train he said… 

We are actually the ones pulling the levers and shovelling the coal.  But there are so many layers of separation and confusion, and we have become so preoccupied that the systems we inherit are the right ones for our world, that we cannot see the #onelove#onerace forest for the #selfish#greedy#mineallmine trees.

Sigh.

So, yeah: Back to the dope. 

The inequities and imbalances trickle down through the generations and our families and our unique positions on the twisted labyrinth, and land in our precious perfect childhood psyches as so much abuse, alcoholic/addicted inflicted pain, indifference, absent parents; even simple greed and “chasing the American Dream”, buying a bigger house, bigger TV, German car, etc, etc..  Or the familiar refrain “I will be so happy when _____”  

All these and so many more purposely misguided societal engineering blights (which service the creepy masters andmistresses who must be right fucked to allow this shit to go on) and substances, aberrant behaviours (suggestively shown on prime time and often slipped into our morning drive time or coffee) and congruent psychoses and coldly inhuman, fear based clubs which pander to the basest caveman power centres (Alberta separation anyone? Lol)

And we ALL find our various solaces, salvation and slipstream in the cornucopia of choices presented to us. 

And that little dark voice within.. Our Shadow..  well, sometimes that precious and devious scarred and scared core protector grabs fucking hold of some soul salve – be it  the VLT or Slots, booze, Methamphuckingphetamine, sexual obsessive behaviours, getting MORE money, shit, cars, whatever, going faster, being better, brighter, stronger – and in trying to define who we are, limpidly and desperately from adding shit OUTSIDE of us, Shadow takes us to the depths of depravity that the masters of this fucking roller coaster seem to have wanted for us all along.

"Fuckin' rights bros and brosettes! Stoodis...
Hit that bong, pop that top, tap that ass, spin to win and winner take all!"

The most relevant and important truth, is that everything we need for comfort and security is INSIDE of us. 

It grows and blooms in our hearts very much like God would, if we allowed that concept to live in all of us, equally.  Instead, people hoard their God and pretend he/she belongs to them alone. 

Nonsense. 

I have been trying to fill the holes in my heart with pot, booze, gambling, women, food, crack cocaine, sexual obsessiveness and other things that emanate from my beefy LIZARD BRAIN, due to the inevitability of the social program that I walked into all trustingly and lovingly and the availability of all those damn things and my “almost worn thin” .. nay, worn thin, shucking and jiving and multiply abused gifts and talents.

My God is love and she blooms everywhere I look.

Well, except box stores.. lol just think of all the exploitation and ripoffs that little piece of bric a brac took part in from Taiwan or Malaysia to Sherwood Park and the profits pretty much go the same old, Old, OOoold Money families that run the shiznit.

Well, I had about a fuckin nuff. 

My new friend said, “What is it about the world that makes you feel that it doesn’t deserve your best?”

All that shit I just spewed out after another slip.

But just now, at 3:10 a.m., I saw clearly my place in this world.  

It is as a builder of community. 

Of a new manner of living; as a teacher and a helper and a doer and mover and a shaker and a singer and a cook and a writer.  

As a spreader of heart love, and a lover and respecter of one Gaiagift of a Woman (yes, you love) and a father, son, cousin, uncle, nephew, grandson, friend,etc. who might earn the love and respect of the people who know him best, (and who he probably owes a few bucks to! :  ) IF ONLY HE MIGHT GET THROUGH THE DAY WITHOUT PICKING UP or falling prey to the beguiling temptations of Vlad the Impaler’s Amusement Park and losing my heart and soul again.

I will sleep now, with the realization that it will be my last slip if I can remember that I LOVE THIS FUCKING WORLD.  I LOVE ALL THE PEOPLE IN IT.  I LOVE MOTHER EARTH. I LOVE SHARING, GIVING, HELPING, LEADING, SINGING, WRITING, CREATING, and I want to help people with what’s left of the gifts I’ve squandered for so long.

I love you all.

S.

PS: In reading this through, I realize that the devil’s candy is still being metabolized in my poor weary brain and it’s making me wide eyed and panicked following along with the tone my fingers laid out on the keys.  

Know that the desperate need to frame the vision I had in my head – of building greenhouses on first nations, facilitating healing circles, picking up garbage, starting tree planting nurseries, teaching guitar, redeveloping our cultural resources in our younger generations, awakening the connections with mother earth and our children, youth, adults and elders; with me – just had to come out. high or not.

 I just saw hundreds of smiles and tears and just a giant upswell of love growing in our communities. 

Well, one community in particular.  One I have been working with, or trying to these last couple years.  I owe them an apology, and my best.  My very best. 

And all the other communities I’ve worked with throughout the years.  Man.  I got some miles to make, but they gonna be starting with some baby steps day by day.  I probably gonna be hitting this page on the regular; try and capture some of the feelings that I ain’t gwanna be smothering no mo.

We got lots of work to do and I can’t help if I’m hiding in the dark. 

But I ain’t going to no damn casino between shifts! I’m gonna live life on life’s terms, but it’s gonna be on my renewed awareness of what MY terms need to be.

I want to help show that it’s alright to have made mistakes; that we are all human, and that there is always hope. Say a prayer for all those people you mad at if you manage to read this far please.

My love.

Shelbert

Happy 4/21... or "The Day After the Party"

Well.  Happy birthday Queen Elizabeth. My kokom who is 92 wishes you a happy birthday and is glad you're now officially the same age as her.

Yesterday was 4/20 and this day, for many of my friends and family, symbolizes a day of celebration for the pot smoking counterculture; a counterculture that is now being welcomed into the fold of social democratic respectability, what with legalization and some of the hottest investment opportunities for 2018 being "green chip" stocks with MJ farming, dispensary and distribution concerns.

Much like the hippies of the baby boom becoming accountants and lawyers and CEOs working for the same "man" that they sought to overturn in their vibrant and idealistic youth, the rebellious tip of the sword of pot smoking is now an acceptable part of modern society and will be regulated and taxed with the same fervour as her slightly embarrassing older uncle Al Cohol.

So now, rolling and smoking a doob will not so much be a statement of rebellion; of turning on, tuning in and dropping out, but rather of accepting the societally acceptable medicinal salve that the Cannabis Sativa plant can prove to be. "

For some...

For others, like me, the occasional use of pot in adolescence, soon became a daily ritual; a necessary and vitally important part of the day, and much as I'd like to continue to revile Mrs. Hazel Hart for those Grade 8 Health classes in the library at Harry Collinge C.H.S, in which I first heard that pot was a gateway drug, it was indeed the portal through which I passed into my 35 year career with drugs and alcohol and addiction.

I used first at 11 years old.  It was less about the weed as it was about the strawberry rolling papers that suddenly found themselves in my late mom's stash box beside the couch.

As a lifelong member of the tribe "Witigo" (which in my family parlance symbolizes someone who eats anything and everything) I couldn't resist the temptation to try and "twist one up" with these sweet little pink rollies and enjoy the fruits of the ornate and ceremonial stash box which was only opened after the kids were all in bed and mom and stepdad would rent a movie, puff one and chill. 

I remember the glassy eyes and the wan grins, and the way they would look at me differently; as though I were of a different species.  Like they suddenly felt uncomfortable talking to me.  It didn't resonate for me as "they are taking drugs"... More like the veil was removed and they were no longer parents but people - equals even.

The mantle of parent-child relations seemed less stringent when they were buzzed; they laughed at my jokes; seemed to accept my fastidious nerdishness and maybe even relinquished some power which I felt was owed me in our family unit. 

In short, I kind of liked them better when they was stoned.

How could this elixir of green smoke not be a welcome part of my own life?

So, one afternoon, I pinched a wee bud from the baggie, took four or five papers; even sticking one on my tongue to see if the taste was as sweet and strawberryish as the smell (it wasn't), and set to trying to make a smokeable joint that would work. 

I ended up with what looked like a wrapped pink candy; fat in the middle with these twisted little ends.  The proverbial "first pancake" of joint rolling which every wannabe stoner endures and then suffers the barbs and jabs from their friends about.

I then went out to the backyard, with melted snow now revealing emergent and missing toys, and around to the corner of the house with no windows so's I could smoke this funny little fat strawberry. 

To no effect.  It actually smoked pretty good, and I knew to hold it in from Cheech and Chong movies, but there was no magic unicorn or floaty euphoria which I was expecting. 

I remember being extremely disappointed and felt pretty stupid; like even I couldn't get stoned like everyone else; a feeling of alienation and isolated angst I had become used to already throughout my hectic but short little life thus far.

Fast forward a couple months to the early dismissal for Spring Break and a walk down Murder Hill from Overlander Jr. High in Hinton with one of my bestest all time friends who shall remain unnamed in this short story, in which he proffered a joint for me to smoke with him. 

I wasn't sure, and felt a little fear, but since the last one hadn't resulted in any cataclysmic repercussions, I walked and puffed with my funny friend. 

I didn't know then that THC, the active mildly hallucinogenic ingredient in pot was a cumulative substance and needed to build up substantial levels in body fat and muscle tissue in order to come to life.

By the time we reached Scout Hall, I was baked as a snake.  We parted company and I walked home, sure the entire town knew I was high and feeling every eye upon me.  Paranoia.  Big time.

I got home and went straight to my basement fortress of solitude and became more intimately acquainted with Simon and Garfunkel and Led Zeppelin. 

...

This dance with the Green Dragon became a pattern that played itself over and over again nearly every single day.  Whether it was hashish hot knives or a 14 gram vial of honey oil in my fourteenth summer, tie stick, red hair, or Toledo Window Box (with apologies to George Carlin), the green became my most trusted and devoted friend.

And I laughed at the numbnutses who figured I would end up strung out on Main and Hastings with a needle in my arm and pained regret in my soul from this harmless relationship with the Ganj.

I reconciled myself with the recognition that this past time would be a vital part of my life, indeed for the rest of it as well.

...

At 15 we moved to Edmonton and I felt no choice but to adopt a manner of living that would be on par with my checkered Vans wearing BMX riding friends, headbangers and punk rockers that became my new friends.  Even my brace faced, pink shaker knit sweater wearing, deck shoed preppy buds (ring any bells Patrick Troniak? lol).  Thus was born my relationship with alcohol.

My weed dependence was fully active at this point, and my daily use was almost a given. "Chronic" we call it, in deference to the daily use with which so many of us become accustomed, nay dependent on.

But the alcohol... Oh my goodness.  It gave this fairly confident, articulate shapeshifter a steroid boost of assholeness and knowitallishness.  I did so many things that I wish I could take back.  So many things.. (sigh).  But those are stories for another day. 😪😩

...

4:20, of course the universal time that chronic users around the world are apt to spark one up, speaks to me in deep sombre tones that inspire fear and panic at this time in my life for some reason. It's a kind of a code among the pot counterculture, or rather "was" for a long time.  I didn't hear about 4:20 until my teenage son explained it to me only about 8 or 9 years ago. 

But deeply in my heart - I knew about 4:20 before it was teensplained to this ol' fart.

For the ravages of the average day in this high schooler's life would hit me with sch force that I couldn't wait to get home, twist one up and "turn on, tune in and drop out." Usually with Sega Genesis NHL 91 or a little guitar picking, or even a game of Suicide Glowbug (also for another day).

Homework?  What was that.  Papers and assignments were meant to be written in the rotunda or "Pit" an hour before class.  Studying?  As if.

My life began as soon as my "suiting up and showing up" responsibilities were completed, with some degree of believability, and then "MY TIME" would begin.

And what was also inevitable, was the replacing of the suiting up and showing up with some days, weeks and even months to this green tinted "me time."

...

This pattern of self indulgent "me time" became synonymous with drug and alcohol use and binge using, and wove its way into my physiology, psychology and social circle.  Not to mention my earliest experiences with substance from my family exposure and pre-natal exposure which had me already "hard wired" for addictive patterns.

This wasn't from my mom using while I was in utero, but rather the chaos in her teenage life from being around alcoholism and its painful drama as it wreaked havoc on her closest loved ones. This chaos was felt in the oodles of cortisol - female stress hormone - which danced through my developing brain and helped create a reality in which chaos became the norm; providing me some kind of weary comfort with its many tentacled embrace.

... 

I have titled this short piece "4/21 Or 'The Day After the Party."   So let's get there shall we?

Today on the news was a piece about the Vancouver unlicensed 420 celebrations which occur every year on a spring time field in greater Van.  The thousands of stinky dreadlocked hippie kids and lawyers and shopkeepers and waiters and waitresses and students and on and on who swear by the ubiquitous stinky bud, all come out and puff together, sing together and make merry. 

In doing so, they destroy the emergent green field.  So much so that the park must remain closed until June. 

Seee?

The inocuous and peace loving herb inhaling crowds basically destroy a soft, tender spring time field of grass (which in Cree cultural thought, teaches us kindness - again, story for another day) and shuts it down so nobody can use it for months.

420:  A celebration of individualism, togetherness and peaceful "collaborative chilling." 421: The Day After...  a mess.

This speaks to me with deep meaning.

Had I known that me developing my dependence on weed for 30+ years would stunt my emotional development, healing from trauma, and interfere with my motivation, focus and ambition, I may well have steered clear.  But nobody told me that would happen. 

If only Dr. Gabor Mate could have taught Grade 8 Health class.

Moreso, that this pattern of dependency would weave its way into my very being and shape my version of "normal" in such a way that regular, chronic drug use, i.e. "escape from reality" would become my only manner of living; and that these patterns would cost me and the loved ones in my life so very dearly.

...

I don't want to say that moderate use of Mary Jane will turn everyone into a bullshitting, juking and jiving crackhead like it did with me, but there are many of us who know that substance in its many forms has become the bane of our existence and that to dance with the devil, even once, might very well turn into a Dance Macabre in which we pawn our souls yet again for another taste... 

I could write for hours more on these subjects, and I daresay I certainly will, because I believe it is a big part of my healing process.

But I want this to be online and readable before it gets too late today.

Society is now telling us that chronic is "alright" and that Uncle Jerry can even invest some of his wealth into some of the new grow ops and become a wealthy dealer by association. 

Does this mean it's safe now?  It's ok to smoke daily because there's a hemp product shop or glass shop on every corner, selling bongs and dabs and on and on..? 

That's up to you.

But I can say with all honesty that the snaky feeling in my shoulders that happens when I'm twigged to want to use "SOMETHING" .. ANYTHING.."  this all grew from the emo musical kid who cried with Paul Simon and Jackson Browne and became intimately acquainted with a guitar and fiery Jimmy Page riffs while blazing in the basement.

Much of this experience was beautiful, but the PATTERN...  the pattern.  That is where the problem lies.  The inability to face life on life's terms, and to escape with regularity.  This was steeped into my bones and tissue and blood.

And the substances have changed, the innocence has been replaced with insidiousness and my heart yearns for simple and true with all its shit and shine combined.

...

It is my sincere and solemn belief that the powers that be:  Coca Cola, BMO, World Bank, United Nations, Trump, McDonalds, Costco, Walmart, Home Depot, etc.. and the families that run them, the ones that profit from nearly every move made in nearly every corner of the world with nearly every transaction - these are the powers that want us to celebrate 420 every day.

"They" want us to go to jobs that we mostly hate, doing shit that doesn't really get at the root of what's needed, and then salve our weary souls with fructose or shopping or.. the now nearly legal Green Dragon that might just be laced with fentanil, at 420 when we get home. 

They want us to be numb; to ignore our deepest loves and truths, and to just "exist" in a society that doesn't accurately reflect the truths of the world.

But they want us to be able to get up, rinse and repeat, and keep on shopping, smoking and remaining oblivious to our deepest soul truths and the ridiculousness of the societal concept that we are born into and spend our lives trying to master, only to realize on our death beds how much time we've wasted chasing lies.

...

One day or day one?  You decide.

For me, 4/21 2018 is Day One. 

For me, for you and for all my fellow humans.  I pledge today to do my best to remember that the moments like 420 must always be followed by 421, and that sometimes the mess takes a lot longer to clean up than we thought.

With love,
S.

On Healing...

Many things have changed since last sat at this keyboard.

For one, I'm sitting at my kitchen table, surrounded by family: Wife, son, mother-in-law.  Sunday conversations rippling nicely across this oak table.  Kids coming and going from this place - this warm place - as the winds blow chilly outside and so many are not so blessed as I.

I have been in much worse places than this.  Sometimes, in the cold, dark anxious places hidden in my mind and ingrained in my heart, the actual concrete decision to leave the light and enter the darkness seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

For much of the last two years, I have been away from this home; dancing with hungry ghosts, flirting with the purchased souls of the dysfunctional Crown-Indigenous relationship, hiding in my room, away from the world, away from even myself.

Not all the time mind you.  Maybe even only 10% of the time.  90% of the time, I would be present, or at least as present as my varying condition would allow, or repentant, or heartbroken, or lonely and driven, or any combination of a number of the emotions and/or blankness that float to the surface when one is trying to heal.

This ratio is maybe what perpetuates the delusion that "I'm ok".. or "It's not that bad."

Nine steps forward.

One step back.

At least it would seem that way.  But that's not how healing works. The back step is a big one.  Like the route from the 44 to the 20 in the picture.

Funny.  That's my age. And that's about right: Right from old man to immature, unaccountable 20 year old should I choose to look that snake in the eye and tell him I ain't afraid of his poison.

The pride and hubris that comes from lying to one's self for so long and having enough "wins" to perpetuate those lies are hard co-conspirators to shed.

Healing is the key.  This is the process that brings us to the ladder rungs that can lead us out of the darkness.  It is perpetual, easily tasted, but fleeting as the quark; for when you "know" it is there, it is there:  Strong, measurable, reassuring.  But when you look at it, to magnify this reassurance, it is gone; dancing away on a wavelength half the breadth of a sigh.

Now clean; now committed; now present; more so than ever.  My present condition is the sum of all the 90% decisions that fed my spirit, honoured myself, family and world.  The world has indeed come up to meet me with bells on.  I was led to a path of humility and honesty this past year.  It just so happened I was equipped for this moment.  All my learnings, failures, stumbles and precious moments brought me the tools I have put to work.

I tell you though:  I am a helluva piece of work. Many outdated, unnecessary concepts of self ingrained into the structure.

Case in point:  Today, my love has to tell me, "Sheldon:  I will tell you something ground shaking and that will change your life.   You are NOT a garbage can."

This of course is the sense that grows from childhood poverty and food scarcity; the sense that I have to eat everything I see when I see it; that to scrape a plate that contains any edible food is tantamount to burning hope.

One silent tear rolls clumsily down my right cheek at this dawning realization.  And at once, a chorus of "garbage guts" - one of my childhood nicknames - resonates in the lonely auditorium in my mind.

It is in the moments between the decisions that healing takes root; helps to shape our ever changing psyche.  "Neuroplasticity" they say in English circles.  The brain is always capable of change.

Sometimes what it likes is not what it needs.  We need to be aware of these deceptions and challenge ourselves to "know" better.  Both figuratively AND literally.  We can "know" better.  We need to train ourselves.  To "know" is not a static recall from our mind's eye.  It is action.

It is memory, awareness, emotion, experience, fear, hope and a host of other emotional triggers and responses superimposed over our internal physical dopamine responses at critical moments in our history.

If we want change, we must "know" change.

I didn't lose 30 lbs in 2014 from wishing and hoping.  I lost it by waking up nearly every morning and remembering what it would take to change my body's shape; by dragging my increasingly sore ass out of the bed, doing some stretches and calisthenics to get the motor running and the blood moving, and then to the gym, where I focused on cardio and mild strength training.

I then used a mental fitbit and calorie counter all day long, working to expend energy every chance I got and remembering not to ingest more fuel than was absolutely needed to survive and not feel dizzy and nauseous.  This I had to do to undo all those years of being gluttonous with both food and alcohol.

I knew this in my every cell what I had to do.  This is active knowing.

In Cree we say "mahmtoonicigan":  Mahm-toon-each-i-gan.  Knowing.  Or using the mind.

But we must also acknowledge our heart:  "Mitahiy."  Mit-a-hey.  Rather your heart: "Kitihiy ochi."

These two require our utmost efforts sometimes to remain connected, but truly, it does get easier over time.

It is my sincere belief that we are all equipped with precisely what we need to be the best selves we can be.  Sometimes we need to strip ourselves down to our roughest, our dirtiest, our most ashamed cores in order to awaken the internal, prescient and powerful knowledge - which I believe is our connection to Creator or the Universe.

Sometimes we believe lies and deceptions and social constructs and other humans, thinking they are privileged with secrets and truths that we don't know, and follow along, tumbling through archway after archway of what we believe are achievements and stepping stones to happiness, only to find that we lost our selves along the way and must strip ourselves back to our true selves and engage in different more honest ways.

Our mind and our hearts are tool enough but they require the support, guidance and direction of the spirit.  

My late mom used to say that mind was how we saw ourselves, body was how others saw us and spirit is who we truly were.

I miss that old lady.

On this day, I am proud.  Proud to be who I am and proud of the relationships in my life; though many require further healing, I am proud still to know this.

I am proud of my children, each perfect in their own blessed and unique way.  In healing and learning from my deepening and growing relationships with each one, I am learning the miraculous lesson of unconditional love.

I am proud of my partner and my family, who have both stood by me for so long, patiently waiting for me to "know" that life can be better.

Do not be afraid to move through your self imposed limitations; your broken hearts, your fears and your deceptive comforts.

The world is waiting with an open heart.  Just like this.


S.


If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,

Like this.

When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,

Like this.

If anyone wants to know what "spirit" is,
or what "God’s fragrance" means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.

Like this.

When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.

Like this.

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.

Like this. Like this.

When someone asks what it means
to "die for love," point
here.

If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.

This tall.

The soul sometimes leaves the body, then returns.
When someone doesn’t believe that,
walk back into my house.

Like this.

When lovers moan,
they’re telling our story.

Like this.

I am a sky where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze says a secret.

Like this.

When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.

Like this.

How did Joseph’s scent come to Jacob?
Huuuuu.

How did Jacob’s sight return?
Huuuu.

A little wind cleans the eyes.

Like this.
When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he’ll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us 

Like this.” 
― Rumi

The littlest things...

I haven't written on these pages in a long while.  So much has happened.  The long and the short of it is that I decided not to write about it - I decided to live it and remember it. 

There's a part that lives in the back of my head that has always questioned my need for validation.  Always.  Even when I was little.  I used to get accolades for just being me, and I got used to it I guess.  And the ol' scrapping young parents and abandoning daddy routine kind of lends itself to people pleasing and approval seeking.

Plus I was raised in a musical family and demonstrated a bit of talent at an early age.  

This all sort of culminated in this super people pleasing, approval seeking, hyper sensitive, hyper vigilant little smart musical guy. 

And here I am today.

Deciding that the need to share my growth is not about validation; that it's instead about demonstrating that miracles do happen and they're not barn-burners usually.  They're little beautiful experiences that shape who we are.

Not much has changed though since "a long day ago" as my youngest would say.   I'm still a sucker for attention:  A bit loud, a bit of a show boat, always the performer and the quipper of terrible and sometimes hurtful jibes and jokes; I mean well.  Really, I do. 

But now I'm more painfully aware of my dark tendencies. The ones that try to convince me to leave the A-Game outside the park for a while and bring the bullshit B or C game instead.  It took four trips to rehab, three or four failed relationships, a couple of sons who had to live without their daddy full time, and an incredibly wonderful, patient, loving, wise, intelligent, heartfelt woman who, for God knows why, loves me still. 

And reams of paper, electronic ramblings, some meaningful some bullshit, songs sung around a fire or a kitchen table or even onstage, meetings with indigenous leadership, liars, drunks and the holiest of the holy (sometimes in one day),  trips across the land and back again;  I rubbed shoulders with Ministers, PMs, religious leaders, teachers, doctors, lawyers, drunks, addicts, oilmen, foresters, environmentalists, actors, musicians, Chiefs, the insane, the mundane and incredibly odd, unique and otherwise beautiful. 

I've stayed in Hyatt Regencies, Westin's, Drakes and Hobo Motels from coast to shining coast.  I've slept in tarp homes, on piles of dirty clothes in musty rodent and insect infested basements, under trees, on benches, in cars and in the matrimonial beds of far too many.  

I've flown, sailed, rowed, walked through so many shoes, ran and ran; sometimes I've sat; sometimes I've stood.  And I've driven over a million kilometers, mostly looking over my shoulder at the real and the imagined or to a horizon beautiful, but unreachable and sadistic.

I've been inspired, devastated, broken, elated, bah humbug, terse, unkind, violent, black as the night, and bright as the sun's great uncle.  I've been every colour that the wheel of emotion can muster and I've been some that aren't even perceptible to the human condition, for the most part.

All the while, it's been the little things that have kept me going.

Those moments in the sun, when the light passes through the birch and aspen just right, and the warmth fills you with a joy that only the universe in her majesty can know.

Or the way the first splashes of the sweat lodge slowly make their way to one's shoulders and warm the Vishudda and Anahata.

The first kiss, or sometimes even the 900th, the way it tickles the lips and makes a smile break and the tongue tingle when you least expect it.

Life is the majestic dance of the harmonious bond of electrons, elements and ephemeral.

And oh, I have missed so much of it.  Chasing my tail, breaking my stride, stumbling and bumbling, making up, making out, faking it and covering my tracks and my ass and still, always, maintaining (albeit weakly) the illusion that I was something special. 

Yeesh.  

But today, I am here.

Bringing the A-Game.  One day at a time, and praying for rain.

So, after a wonderfully humble and special

ceremony last night, four kilometers from my son's childhood homes and the site of my two broken attempts at the miracle of father-son relationship (thank God we're moving through it and thank God for the amazing, poignant resilience of children), I passed the night in a place that has been both a salvation and a bane to me; one of the most challenging trigger locations that I absolutely can't avoid because where there is pain, fear and self loathing, there sometimes lives love, unconditional and sublime, a warm bed, and fridge full of food (um, and a nearly 90 year old kokom).

Then today, a visit with my two favourite women in the world, some berry picking in the light rain in the middle of what I used to think was an inhospitable wilderness of Wonder Bread, and then this: 

This was the warmest and most welcoming feeling this universe has ever afforded me, made better because the sisikwan belonged to my late mother, Asiniwaciskwiw...  Lorraine (Deits) Sinclair.  And that little girl there, Mya Grace, is the first girl to make it sing and dance since mom passed.  And little does Mya know that she reminds me so much of my mom with her stubborn streak, competitive nature, daredevil ways and gentle but powerful soul.

And that little boy there, John, carries the name of his late grandfather, John Brown, who worked hard and raised the beautiful family that gave me Theresa Lynn and earned the respect of all the people that he helped with his dedication - people whose very dedication I admire today.

Five minutes on the way home for lunch.  A moment in time, and in the truck.  Hopefully soon in ceremony or in the arbour, but a beautiful moment nonetheless;  and an affirmation that we are not our pasts and that we are all capable of change and deserving of the best things that life can offer.

Ekosi. 

xox
S.