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.

An Inquiry into... Something or: "Kaya wipinsiw"

(Kaya wipimsiw:  Cree "Don't throw yourself away.")

I haven't written for a while.  I keep meaning to and in fact, have acquired the perfect surroundings and circumstances from which to write. 

There is something that keeps niggling at me...  Gnawing at my heart.  Something that I know that I keep thinking I need to share.  I haven't been sure about the context or the appropriate situation to share it, but my thoughts keep coming back to this blog; this assemblage of lonely electrons, waiting for more poetic prodding and reorganizing to capture my thoughts, feelings and to share them with my world.

The Darkness

Some time ago, I was a practicing addict - actually more pro than practicing, but an addict nonetheless.  I was working for a Child and Family Services Agency, often sitting in case conferences with medical practitioners, youth workers, psychologists, child welfare workers, and other personnel, planning on how to reduce the risk of our charges getting introduced to street drugs.

Then, after offering my carefully moderated input (with a clear eye to keeping the facade intact), I would scurry away from the office and indulge in my own particular dysfunctional relationship with the very same substances.

Then my mom died.

I used while she was dying and I used after she died.  Then I realized I might die.  I felt so much like the gentle poplar fluff floating on the breeze, tossing to and fro, never knowing what end it might reach.

So I walked into my boss's office, sat down and said, "Bev, I need to go to treatment.  I need to heal and to grieve."

She said, "You can do that here.  We are your family.  You should have support."

I replied, "But I'm a sad joke.  I am using, sometimes even after high risk mitigation case conferences."

"Who better to have in those meetings than you, silly?"

I didn't know what to say to this.  She went on:

"You are doing important research.  We need you.  This is who we are.  We are broken, we are using, we are dying.  Learn what you can, research what you need to, then share with the community.  In leading your own way out of darkness, you can lead others."

I thought on this.  I thought mostly that she was nuts.  I agreed with her in some way, but I knew I was lost.  So I went to a place that used to be sacred to me but had been ripped asunder by bureaucrats and powermongers.  It was good. I healed some, wrote some, cried some, exercised some and made mental notes about how sad it was that wonderful barrels of apples could be spoiled by one or two rotten ones.

But in the end, I found my centre, reclaimed some power and sallied forth into the cold, hard world.

My boss didn't like the new me.  I was gentler, less abrasive.  My slightly hurtful zingers and sarcastic sense of humour had been replaced with this antiseptic, slightly phony spiritual groundedness - working with all in my power to keep my thoughts away from my lizard brain

^

amygdala - not to

be confused with

                                                                                 \/

and trying to project love, compassion, sensitivity, etc. into all that I did.  The old "fake it till you make it" school of thought.  When I told this to my supervisor, she said flatly, "well, I don't like it.  It's not you."

So much for faking it till I made it. I cashed in my chips as a $38K per year group home supervisor to run Komatsu 793 at Suncor for $1800 a week.  Ironically, cleaning up and staying sober rather well in Fort McMoney.

Fort Mac wasn't the problem.  It was the coming home that killed me.  The closer I would get to Edmonton, the harder my hands would grip the steering wheel, the old "white knuckle shuffle" I guess.  Sometimes I would call a sponsor.  More often than not, I would call my dealer by about Redwater.

Anyways, "The Darkness" this section is called, and indeed, darkness shall ye receive.

I write this today because I want to share some of my findings throughout the lo, 15-odd years of inner-city research I have conducted and how it might pertain to the missing, to the murdered and to the not-yet-missing-or-murdered-but-for-fuck-sakes-smarten-up-or-you-will-be-missing-or-murdered category.

This is The Darkness of which I speak.

It is the street.  The endlessly desperate and pleading street.  The same street that exists in every single town or city I've encountered across this nation - from Skidegate to Sheshatshiu, The one that claws at the weak or lonely or even bored and pulls them to her unrelenting bosom.  It is in that embrace that one can know The Darkness.

This street is sometimes a main highway, knifing through town with asphalt that is cobalt black at 4:00 in the morning, sometimes with snow skittering across the lanes and ditch grass, brown and crisp, chattering and whispering "come, lay here with meeeeeee.... yesssssssssssss."

Sometimes it is a residential block, with a shady overhang of foliage that hides the users and abusers from sight, drowning out the shouts and obscenities with the endless hum of urban enterprise.

But always, it is Darkness.

And within that darkness, always, you will find them.  The women, the girls.  Usually alone, Seemingly unafraid.  Maybe they are unafraid.  Maybe they have danced with fear enough to know what real fear feels like, with its whiskey breath and dirty jeans from oil and diesel fumes and axle grease smell.

I can't know. I will never know until I am told. Until they tell their stories, one by one, and we are made to listen - through every gut-wrenching abuse and soul rending travesty - until we finally understand and find our way to do every goddamn thing we can to protect, prevent, educate, elucidate and illuminate the darkness that draws them in.

The Reaction

There is a code that becomes unraveled sometimes when you've spent enough time out there.  Or even by dipping a toe in enough times.  A code that is long and complex, sometimes cold and brusque, sometimes warm and loving beyond any love you've ever known.  But is one that speaks for itself.  It never needs explaining once you know it.  Until you do, you hear things like, "they mistake your kindness for weakness", or "she had it coming," or "well what can I do?  That's just the way it is."

My heart breaks every time I see them out there, walking, sometimes trying to look like they're going somewhere, sometimes even they are.  I don't know that place where a woman has to go to sell the comfort offered by her body.  I do know, however, that when I was in my darkest places, I would not have hesitated one SECOND to turn a trick for even a single hit, so I understand in a way.

When one has broken the code, it is then that the compassion and empathy can be unlocked.  I don't see the behaviours, most times: I see the pain and the layers of leathery protection that have been placed so precariously to cover the thin spots, the weak spots, the sensitivities that might betray the little girl that had her innocence taken, or that young wife that was beaten and berated enough to believe her abuser, or even the inter-generational modelling of multiple abuses and shit-eating that sometimes grammas teach mommies teach babygirls.

I have literally been in a crackhouse with three generations of streetwomen:  A grandmother, a mother and two daughters.  All teenage mothers at one time.  The grandmother proudly describing the first time she put the mother out to turn a trick.

This was the same night that the caretaker of the group (the oldest daughter, naturally) was trying to decorate a tiny, crooked Christmas tree with shaking, thin, bruised arms and 3-and-a-half inch heels and miniskirt, while the house was exploding with violence.

She said, with giant tears rolling down her face, "It's supposed to be Christmas.  And look, I'm crying.  I can't even remember the last time I cried."  She wasn't even sobbing, or crying - just emotionless while teaspoon after teaspoon of saltwater rolled down her face, leaving their trails on her dark, gaunt cheek.

Shakespeare talked in Henry V about the dark things that can happen when one is "in his ales and cups", so too when one is in his pipes and baggies.

But the lecherous manipulator that I've seen in others manifests differently in me when I used to use.  I did not yearn for this woman.  I instead longed to hold her - to comfort her; to take her away from this madness and let her cry and cry and eat and sleep and find her way back to that place where her darkness started - to reclaim that which was rightly hers.  I hope that the Christmas tree was the start of her journey back.  

I would hide out in these places, get what I sought, and want to be alone.  Quiet.  Away from the madness and violence and posturing and bullshit.  Just in the dark, me and my silent hell.

But always people would find me, seek me out. Tell me their stories.

"This isn't the life I wanted," they'd say, "I wanted to own my own truck and hotshot company like my uncle."  Or "I started school two years ago, but this shit kept taking me back out.  I don't think there's any hope anymore, so I might as well just use till I do the chicken."

And I would nod, and say, "There's still hope.  You can always go back," or some such offering, but all I wanted to do was get high, and run from my own compassion.

Like clockwork they would come.  Telling me their trials and hopes and dreams.  And me, sadly detached from my compassionate powerhouse core - wanly trying to lend them an ear and some dime store advice.

The Reaction I am referring to in this section is the one that I sometimes see, sometimes even from people who are supposed to be working with our weak and high risk people; sometimes even from those high profile advocacy groups who access hundreds of thousands of dollars in the name of the missing or the murdered.

The one that will live with me forever is the time I was working for a fairly well known women's advocacy group.  I had been doing some communications work - graphic design, writing, etc.  One day I answered the phone and got into a wonderful conversation with a Mohawk woman who was seized by Child Welfare, adopted out stateside, then, not finding true acceptance (mostly of the "self" variety) in her adopted home, found solace in "her cups" and baggies, etc...  Ended up coming back to Canada, and on the street.  Worked sex trade to support her habits and got infected with HIV.  

Through this tumultuous journey, she discovered the amazing culture of the bloodline into which she was born.  She then began connecting with teachers, elders, spiritual advisors - anyone who could help her unlock who she was.  It was as though the universe was placing people and opportunities in her path, exactly when and where she was supposed to be, meeting exactly the people she needed to meet right when she needed to meet them.

It all culminated with tearful acceptance from her blood relatives and a homecoming of intensely beautiful spiritual depth.

She now wanted to find out anything she could about initiatives that supported, advised, guided Aboriginal women.

I was beside myself with excitement on her behalf.  What a wondrous tale of hope and heart and just plain everything that is good with the world.

"Of COURSE we'll work with you.  I will connect you with the women that work here, I'm sure they would love to hear your story and work with you in any way."

That afternoon was a scheduled board meeting.  Initiative updates and planning and board directives and the like.

Toward the end I remembered the jewel of a conversation I'd had that morning.

"Oh, I just remembered," says I, "I had the most amazing discussion with a young lady from..."

And I shared the tale with pride, knowing that this connection would be celebrated and supported and help to build our grassroots connections even stronger.

"...and now she wants to just be a part of whatever it is you guys are doing here, and spread the word and be an emissary on the ground out there, so yeah:  It's been a good morning!" I said, almost breathless from my excitement and glibly awaiting the kudos and praise for bringing our message to the people.

Silence.

Then looks at one another.  Then a sort of awkward shuffling toward the buffet lunch table by some of the participants; I was being coolly dismissed by them without comment.  

"Sheldon, how can we be sure that is the kind of person we want associated with our organization?  You need to be more careful when taking calls."

"WHAT THE FUCK!??" I screamed in my mind.  "HOW THE FUCK can you write proposals for hundreds of thousands, nay, millions of dollars with the words "Missing and Murdered" in their titles and NOT WANT TO DROP EVERYTHING and help this damn woman be an emissary of light for the power of culture, of healing and of all things good?"

Here was a woman who had been ripped from the bosom of her homeland, systematically stripped of her cultural identity, exposed to all the evils of sin and excess, lost her identity, her hopes and her dreams, infected with the virus that causes AIDS, and then...

...only then did she dig deep, marshalling the resources to meet Creator halfway, and meet her He did, instilling hope where before there was only darkness and opportunities where there were only dead ends.

A goddamn inspiration says I.

But not someone they wanted to associate with.

Well, I never.  

I will say this:  This organization was the first, at least in my mind, to start the rallying cry which now even has its own hashtag #MMIW and may well get an inquiry after all.  Maybe their job was to broach the subject at the government and policy makers' tables, and not.. um.. get their hands dirty.

This Reaction is not limited to organizations.  We do it everyday in our urban world and even in our communities.  We drive by them on the highway, or walk by them on the street, sometimes meeting their eyes - maybe to chide, deride; sometimes maybe to offer a polite smile of kindness and a sad sort of pity.  We even sometimes pass right by without even a thought to their story - their pains and trials and broken hearts.

We leave them there to the johns - to the predators and to the police to deal with.

This is the black mark we need to wear on our collective conscience.

The Choice

What do we then do to change the numbers, to reverse our trends?  Our aboriginal population is growing at a tremendous rate, placing enormous strain on our institutions and resources.  So many of our people are young, in their teens or childhood, and with the economic pressures placed on our communities, so many are drawn to the cities and towns with their families - far too often consisting of a single mom (I was going to write "only a single mom" but there is no such thing as "only a single mom"...  They are powerful and demanding of our respect as no other in our society) and more than one child.

Our migrating populations tend to occupy jobs at the lower end of the economic scale and educational attainment.  These socioeconomic realities can far too often become a funnel directly into high risk, street lifestyles.  

This is the critical moment that our society needs to flex its brawny and comforting arms and wrap our at-risk youth in opportunity, support, guidance, mentorship and real, practicable options.

It is with pride that I creep some of my Facebook friends' pages.  I know their stories.  One of my friends was led to the street by her family, to help bring home the bacon so they could all put it on a pipe.  Now she is more than gainfully employed, well on her way to becoming a journeyman (journeyperson?) in a trade.

She will be a statistic, but one that we need to celebrate and applaud and reward with all that we can.  Pulled from the maw of a grim and painful end by her own revulsion of the life she was leading and by some policies that actually work.

The Choice:  Community

We are our brothers' keeper, but most importantly, we are our sisters' keeper.  It is our job, not as aboriginal people, but as human beings, to care for our most vulnerable.  As aboriginal people, our responsibility should become more clear.  We need to intervene; to talk, to ask, to say, "no, I will not let you throw your life away."

Kaya wipinsiw.

An inquiry could be a good thing.  But for me, I know why we have missing and murdered aboriginal women, and I think, if we all looked at our own choices, at our own actions, our own experiences, we could all offer our own answers to this complex question.

An inquiry will likely pick the scabs of social policy inadequacies, of shortsighted community planning, funding shortfalls in vital areas or paint clearly the picture of the lack of horizontal planning that helps heal, empower and equip our women to walk proudly, safely and with honour.

What it may not answer is "why?"

Why do so many of our girls, many of whom have fairly comfortable homes in their communities, choose the brash, unprotected existence in the towns and cities that surround them?

There are two sisters I know here in this small northern boreal Alberta town where I live.  I know the eldest one from a treatment centre I attended some time ago (again, all part of my research) and reconnected with her in the most excruciating way.

A couple weeks ago, I was out having a smoke behind the restaurant where I work a few evenings a week.  I see some movement out of the corner of my eye and a figure sort of shuffles around the edge of the building, eyes to the ground. I recognize her instantly.  She is tall and attractive, with the high, proud cheekbones of her Dene people.

She looks up, surprised to see someone out back by the garbage cans.  There is an initial look of surprise, and then she recognizes me too.

Her breath catches in her throat.  Her eyes widen.  And then, in an instant, she is crying, running away, back around the corner, ashamed.

I remember her from when she came into the rehabilitation centre.  She was loud and brash and tough talking, misusing swear words and vernacular in an almost child like way.  Over the weeks there, she softened, quieted.  She talked about losing her mother.  She spoke frankly and with little flourish, but always with significance and deep meaning. 

Then, as can be the case with peeling onions and healing, it all became too much.  She found something to focus some negativity on, played the victim, then packed her bags and self terminated.

"How?" you may ask.

How else:  She packed her duffel bag, threw on her sneakers and hoodie, and started hiking it to the highway - all 7 miles of February wintry road 'tween the two. (Staff eventually went to pick her up, thinking she would return, but she wanted out and back to her "life")

But in that time in that healing place, I remembered listening to her.  About her fears and her children (now in care) and her mother (dead from drinking) and her role as oldest of her sibs (I can relate).  I saw her vulnerability.  I saw her inability to reconcile the brutish experiences she had as a child with those she learned she was supposed to have had.  I remembered thinking that she needed some help assembling a meaningful life from the cards she had been dealt; some intervention, mentoring and support from someone kindred who had done the same.

12-step is a good way, but you gotta have 12-steppers and willing participants to make that dance work.  "What are you willing to do today to stay sober?" my most beloved sponsor would say.

She had her mom's house, which she said was homey and inviting, but still so sad.  If she had an invitation to hope and to light in her home community, maybe she would stay there, find something to hold onto and come out of The Darkness.

This, to me is the key.

This girl, and now her little sister, spend most of their days haunting the streets of our town, looking for a few bucks for an

She tells me she doesn't hook but that her sister, who "is more of a hippie than me" does, but only once in a while.

It'll be cold soon.  Real cold.  This is just "South of 60°" so we don't mess around.  This tends to decrease the numbers of denizens on the street.  What we do, as a community, for our broken and slowly breaking, will speak volumes on our place in history.

The oldest profession in the world.

Right.

Ever since man created money, he's found a way to exploit it, get what he wants.

And I have played my part in this terrible tragedy just by being a past participant in street drug culture.  I have played my part by walking past, without a thought. I have contributed to missing and murdered women by not working with everything within my power to create safe havens, hopeful paths and healthy options for those who live on the fringes and front lines.

But each day, as the grim and sad story continues to play out, we must find it within ourselves to ensure our girls and our women are able to find their place in the light and not the dirty, broken Darkness.

It is because when they are at those difficult crossroads, when choices seem limited and few,  that they must be equipped with the means and the options to chart courses to lives that are full of hope and beauty.

Our most sacred, blessed creation is woman.  We must help her to believe this too.

Coming Home to my Community...

Wow.  Good morning.  The universe responds sometimes with such power and clarity that I giggle sometimes at the clear face of its love.

Part I: The Hawk

Today I sit at the doorstep of the rest of my life.  The room I am just leaving is my life until now.  This room has not been all bad, nor has it been all good.  There have been many wonderful gifts that I've been given, many I've indeed given as well, but much that I've taken.  Taken without asking, taken despite being told "no," and taken gently, but taken nonetheless.

I have grown weary of being a taker.

I have chosen to end a relationship of 15 years this past month.  A relationship that has taken much from me, and in turn has caused me to take as much as I could from the people around me, the ones that love me.  This relationship did not feed my spirit nor connect me with the universe around me.  It isolated, caused fear and pain, guilt and shame and wreaked havoc on my relationship with myself, Creator and my family and community.

Community.

I just returned from a trip to the mountains. Two days of love, light and hope.  Even a little ceremony mixed in for good measure.  My spirit was fed, cleansed, embraced and supported.  Now I am home.

Before I left, I wrote on these electronic pages that I would be meeting someone there.  A hawk.  A hawk from the city who had been striving to keep his hawkness for many years. A hawk who has injured some, maybe through thought, action and deed, but never me.  A hawk who has also done very well and helped many people.

I have chosen for many years to not fly in the same circles as this particular hawk. But now, now that I am cleaning my soul, choosing to give instead of take, and walk with pride and authenticity, I have gravitated to some of those circles.

Last week I wrote that the hawk from the city needs, every once in a while, to return to his home, to the verdant fields and grasses waving in the breeze, to the land of the bouncing vole and the timid mouse.  To reconnect, recharge and connect with his centre.  I bore witness to these actions from my hawk friend.

Hawks tend to fly more often than not, so his steps along the mountain, and through the rushing stream were careful and slow.  Fear lined his face as he made his way through the trail.  But he did it...  We did it. We did it together, emerging from the bush stronger for our experience.

As we walked, I had asked him about the things I'd heard that disparaged him, not in a pointed way, but in a gentle way, inviting explanation.  I received this explanation and acquired understanding from his perspective.  Along the way, a beautiful, gentle teacher who happened to be along for the journey, opened her heart and shared wisdom that was hers and straight from the land and from our ancestors.  It was law, as designated and laid down by our Creator.

I saw my friend continue walking and telling his story - one of intrigue and mistrust and misplaced human values, while this gentle teacher behind us, with her truths that emanated from her heart and from the hearts of our shared ancestries, was silenced by my hawk friend and the political bullshit that we were talking about.  I really just wanted to stop and turn, and in fact I did, to learn more of this beautiful teaching that, despite being Indian all my life, I had never heard before.

Maybe he'd heard those teachings before, maybe he is well versed in natural law.  But all I know is that in that setting, in that verdant mountain beauty, to talk of another's errant choices and mistakes and to cast aspersions on the very process that one has spent so much time creating, and to cast blame on others while shining the light of innocence on one's self is a lot like giving Creator the finger - especially while a gentle truth from our ancestry is being shared by a young lady whose gentle truths helped inspire a global movement.

Part II:  Community

Community the word came to us from the French  communité which came to them from the Latin communitas (com = with + munas = gift).  To share gifts.  To share our gifts.  This is what it's all about.

My trip to the mountains saw the coming together of people from many places and walks of life, backgrounds and colours.  Although there was a high number of brothers and sisters from the white race, each of the four races of mankind was represented, due in part to the three colours that dance harmoniously in my blood!) and a single representative from Japan.  Even still, the community that gathered there was not based on race:  It was and is based on love.  On generosity of spirit and deed and on a common vision of a healthier planet and societies based on love, tolerance and understanding.  And on those issues, our racial lines and separation of colour blur into a common shade of spirit.  

"First we are spirit..." said my late mom once at a gathering that was threatening to erupt into flames of hatred and jealousy and anger.

"...then we are man or woman, then we are our race, then we are our communities and families... but first, we are spirit."

The words and ideas and hopes and dreams of a better tomorrow danced around the flames of our sacred fire and among the tendrils of smoke from our smudge and as we shared our hearts and the gifts of our minds and broke bread together, we became spirit.

I met many incredible people.

I met a woman who danced with a wolf in order to protect her beloved pet and in that dance, shared maternal protective instinct that the mother wolf likely recognized and respected.

I met another woman who brings her heart day in and day out helping people in a world that is often thankless and cold - who sat next to me on the way to the mountain while I cried for a child who had to grow up too quickly.

I met a man who made much money helping others make money and save money and invest money and hide money and who now devotes his time to helping people on their journeys and engaging in spiritual improvement..

I met many healers; I met people with the gift of song, with the gift of beauty, with the gift of perseverance... With many gifts. 

I met a woman who has become the change she wants to see in the world - by gently severing her ties that bind her to the worship of legal tender and instead, invests her energies into those things based on spiritual capital or real capital - like food, shelter, love, hope, and so forth.

I met a man who, despite being playful like a child, has seen the enemy and his ways, knows them inside and out, and who can see the light that shines on the other side of a crumbled Wall Street.

What joy there is in being part of a community that gives. That feels.  That sings together. That prays together.  That loves together. 

I heard so many stories in such a short time.  I was sad to leave. 

Part III: Connection and Re-connection

These two days since have rattled me to the core.  I tried yesterday to contact some of the participants for continuation of our discussions.  No emails back yet, no returned calls.  Despite the feeling that my life hinges in the balance of these discussions, I am having to surrender this fear and this frustration.  It is hard.  We are all busy.  

We talked in the circle of how do we sustain this; how do we keep from feeling isolated and alone after we leave here; how do we continue this work in our homes and communities with the strength of the circle?

And now we all sit in our homes and communities, maybe some wondering as me, maybe some grieving as me.

I called a family member yesterday; one who has worked closely with hawks.  I retold the story I'd heard in the mountains. The one of best intentions gone awry.  The one that showed no culpability or responsibility for the permutations and political realignments that have plagued our community.  The one that cast blame on situations and individuals and inescapable truths.

My relative said, "Bullshit."

"He lied to your face."

This hurts.  But what can I do?  

Have a little faith.

I want to work in our community - to help others.  To achieve a level of comfort for my family and to help others accomplish the same for theirs.  There are institutions that have been built with the hope and the vision and the theoretical tools to do these things.

They sit right now, unused and in need of repair - of realignment, of restaffing.  Maybe when the time comes, I will be needed there.  Maybe they will resist a bear like me in the arena of hawks and wolves and foxes and frogs. Maybe they'll welcome me with open arms.  Like most human endeavour, I'm sure it'll be a little of both if the time does indeed come.  

I brought home one task for our circle which will lead to closer connection.  Today I will complete this task and I'm certain I will feel the embrace of the circle again.

Part IV:  Conclusion - Coming Home

Sometimes in our families and our communities, we yearn for acceptance and love.  Or maybe we think it's love, when really it's just approval.  Anyways, we jump and dance, and smile and sing and do everything we can to get that pat on the head, that validation and the feelings of safety and security that come from that.

We spend all our time looking in one place, and in doing so, we miss the love that the universe shares with us from all the other places and sources in our lives.  We become so focused on the one that we miss the many.  We can't feel the beauty and inspiration of the forest for the one or two trees that block our view.

I sat and prayed in the tub this morning.  Revelation is gift I usually receive when I do this.  (I'm a Pisces which is a beautiful set of character traits that derive their power from water)

Pisces:  We are mutable but framed in love, inspiration, heart and creativity and love of food.  Well, that last one, maybe not so much...

Anyways, the revelation that greeted me is that community is many things.  Part of my struggle is that I am working to change my stars as they say, and create a life that is based on sustainability, heart work, love and protecting and celebrating culture, diversity and the earth.

There are not too many jobs out there with these things as a combined description.  So I must do it myself, but within the context of my community.

I have on my Facebook a job description that says "CEO, Living Earth Inc."...  This is a vestige of an idea from some months ago that started out great, but after consulting a non-Aboriginal, driven and ambitious business consultant, thought better of doing something, as he said, "...with a lot of risk and not much reward."

I concurred, not realizing that our concept of reward was very different.

Yesterday I get a message from a media representative wanting to interview me for "my role as CEO of Living Earth Inc."...

Oops.

Holy Shit!  I have to get to work now...  

I will start here at home.  I don't have to dance with the hawks and the menagerie in the city to the west of me right now.  That will happen soon enough.  And I will dance with sure steps, strong and with the rhythm of the earth.  But for now, I will start here.  

I live in Sherwood Park, which I say with a little pride whenever people ask where I live.  What I don't always say is that I live in a co-op in Sherwood Park, renting, not with a $500K mortgage (which is from the Latin "mortus" for death, and "gage" from Old Germanic for "pledge."  mortgage = Death pledge)  I really don't think I want one of those.

If Sherwood Park is sometimes perceived as the elite, as the Joneses that we strive to keep up with, surely our Davidson Creek Co-Op might be perceived as being on the other side of the tracks.

But the Co-op sometimes doesn't feel like one.  Petty differences, grievances, many of them our own; suspicion, fear, uncertainties...  These are things that I feel sometimes when I regard my own home here in the park.  Now I have some acquaintances, and all the kids love me, but really.  I mean, my neighbour and I shared a beer for the first time last week in 6.5 years of living here.  Six and a half years!  Funny.

That's actually a story for another day.

But I want to work at building community here.  Sharing our gifts in the truest sense.

Start here. Not running to some poor First Nation and trying some out of the box social science experiment - right here at home.  I told my wife I wanted to go to the next community meeting and she said "why?", with more than a little trepidation in her eyes.  She knows I like to volunteer and take things on, and seek approval and... and, and...  so on and so on.   She knows that historically I have done this, in many circles, begin to move too fast, and then implode in a fit of bad decisions, procrastination, self effacing thoughts and ultimately to addictive behaviours.

Not this time my love. Not this time.

In my bath today, I was thinking about this guy who I admire.  He's kind of a hawk too I think.  But he started by rolling up his sleeves and stepping into one of the toughest neighbourhoods in the world and began building community.  His work was heart inspired and tireless.  And he brought it.  Day after day, he brought it.

He put on his rubber boots and walked through shit and backlash, through suspicion and racist ideals, and still he brought it.

He wasn't perfect, and still isn't, but he's in the world's most powerful chair, making decisions that shape our very lives, and it all started by building community.

So I will put on my moccasins (or rubber boots) and walk as tenderly and authentically as I can, and ask for help along the way.  I will try not to cast aspersions on another or commit violence against another, and I will not always be successful (even today I took out my anxiety and frustration from my current financial state on someone I love dearly, even before the sun had really risen - Sorry S.).  I will atone when I must and work my hardest to be kinder and more open to suggestions and criticism in the future.

Progress, not perfection.

We are all children of God, and, as such, are all sacred.  We must embrace that sacredness and celebrate our similarities and work to find common ground among our differences.

Ekosi,

With love,
S.

Epilogue:  The Hawk

The hawk is my teacher.  This reprise (from the French "reprendre" = to take back) or theme is a significant one.  The hawk is a messenger.  He tells us when there is healing happening.  Where he circles and flies, there is healing afoot.  I love the hawk as I love all my brothers and sisters.  

Our ways are different but the same.  They complement each other.  The bear with the hawkish ways or the hawk with bear-like traits.  And all the clans in between.  We dance together. We are all one in the same:  Spirit first, then hearts, which are stronger when broken, then bodies that must be fed, clothed and housed.  

No one's work is perfect, but we are stronger together and our chance at perfection lies in the possibility of accepting our neighbour as equally and unequivocally as we accept ourselves and respecting their right to express themselves and feel an integral part of an open, honest and healing community.

xox.

S.

Treating myself thusly

Henry David Thoreau, who left the world we tend to think is the "real world", for a couple of years to live at Walden Pond, kinda figured it out.  He rose even before sunrise, tended his wild gardens, observed his neighbours - the mice and the gannets and the deer and the white cherry and so on and so on - and drew correct conclusions about exactly what was the "real world" after all.

He wrote: "The finest qualities of our nature, like the bloom on fruit, can be preserved only by the most delicate handling.  Yet we do not treat ourselves, nor one another, thus tenderly."

True that my homies would say.

Today is about the 20th day or so that I have been clean from crack cocaine.  It feels like my twisted, painful dance with that shit has reached its final turn.

My body feels great.  My lungs clear and full with no cigarette shmegma crawling up my bronchi.  My muscles ache from being used occasionally - the good ache, that is - and my digestive system is responding well to this transition to more vegetables, whole grains and less meat.

Life is good.

I feel this amazing bloom occurring within my frame of reference, from behind my eyes and as the silent witness to my own actions.  I am touched to no end by this flower of truth and beauty that is become a part of my life.

To ensure it does not wither or go to seed is my task now.

Last weekend my wife and I were fighting a bit.  Nothing too serious.  Just echoes of guilt and resentment from my behaviours of so many years and mistrust at my continued efforts.  I left.  Saturday morning, I packed up my fishing rod and knife and leftover pizza, even some leftover bait minnows I had in the freezer, and I left.

I went to the land that has been the source of so much anxiety these last few weeks.  Land that my late mom walked and rediscovered her beauty and spiritual connection to the earth.  Land that my friend and colleague wants to turn into a discovery centre, a cultural centre.  Land with with I have started planting roots and laying hopes upon.

I sat there with the osprey, the red tailed hawk, the chipmunk, the goldeye, the squirrel and the ducks... even with a four foot garter snake who crossed the river to hunt in the fallen tree beside which I sat.

Nearly eight hours I sat there, smudge pot burning strongly, echoes of my mom, who once sat at that same spot, bouncing off the walls of the river valley.

I sat there and reclaimed my centre.

I didn't run and hide, I didn't prescribe instant gratification from a little baggie...  I sat and caught nothing for nearly 8 hours.

This filled me with pride and love and I came home, much to the surprise of my family, and was the better man for my choice.

Today I am going to the mountains, to sit in a circle of progressive thinkers...  and of politicians and of new agey lovers of the world.

I am a little closer to the centre of my being, to my connection to God than I've been for a long time, and I pray today that I conduct myself with respect, love and forgiveness so as to not cloud the possibilities of this gathering with petty jealousies and the like.

There is a man who will be there who has injured and hurt people in my circle.  He has worked very hard to establish a strong following, and a solid perch in this city from where he can build an empire.  He wrote once about a red tailed hawk, how even in the city it still was a red tailed hawk.  It didn't need to be in the bush to retain its hawkness.

I agree.

But I also think, that every once in a while, one has to come down from the glass pyramid to be among the grasses and trees, chase a mouse or two and feel the wind in his wings to remember what it truly means to be a hawk.

Ekosi.
S.