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.

So much to say, so little time...

Wow. 

I was going to blog a couple days ago about something neat I read about ADD and similar psychological-slash-physiological afflictions.  It was about how when something emotionally trying or threatening comes a-calling on the sensory horizon of those with ADD, the reticular formation, a particularly important part of our brainstem, is over-inhibited by the pre-frontal cortex.  This over-inhibition causes one to become tired, drowsy; yawning and needing a good solid nap.  This, it would seem, is a means by which our brain can protect us from those things that threaten; in this case, not a lion or tiger but emotion.

I always wondered why when I sang and played guitar, I would often end up yawning halfway through a song, becoming increasingly drowsy as I continued.  Of course, my playlist consists of the hurtin'est songs you could imagine. Like this, or this, or even this so I guess it's pretty easy to see why my play would trigger uncomfortable emotions.  

So this revelation had me pretty excited to write.  But life drew me into other areas of focus these last couple days.  Which is good, but then it gave me a whole new pile of revelations and discoveries that warranted more writing. 

A new endeavour which promises sweeping life changes - for the good - seems to be taking off.  I embarked on a small spiritual journey to solidify this project in my heart and being and more little epiphanies lay therein which, again, begged for more writing.

But the living of this script doesn't seem to lend itself to writing about it.  

Time has become precious.  

Apropos because I've wasted so much of it in recent years.

So to sit and reflect and wax poetic just hasn't been my focus of late.  I wanted to really set down on this current chapter of my life, and write.  To walk through the phases and changes that I experience as I truly walk closer and closer to a healthy lifestyle.  But as the days progress and time passes without me clouding things up with dope, the writing becomes less important and the living of life becomes more the focus.

I have crossed through several archways lately that I have historically shrunk from, hidden from and left uncrossed in the past.  These successes feel good.  

But life is not about these successes.  Because still I struggle.  It's not as though I have made the spiritual choice, the responsible choice the RIGHT choice and then sunned myself in the glory of the moment.

Instead, life has her own plans, and welcomes me to the other side, across the chasm of uncertainty, self-doubt and fear, and then drapes me in more fear, more uncertainty and doubt.  

But inside this cloud of doubt and fear lives this little glowing kernel of respect - self respect, that grows stronger with each responsible choice.

I kind of like it.

I could get used to this.

More to come.
xox.
S.

My son, my son...

The opening from a poem my mom wrote for me when I was about 10.

"..what have you done," it continues.  "To make me love you so?"

"Is it your eyes or is it your toe?"

And on and on she went, extolling my virtues and poking me in my self conscious ribs at the same time.

I had an incredibly powerful conversation/argument/discussion/reaching of an understanding with my oldest this morning.  He's a helluva guy.

"The prince" my mom called him when he was very small.

I am halfway through being 42 and still working to figure out who the fuck I am.  He is 17 and working hard to establish what that means for himself too.  We are so much the same, and he wants so much to not be me, but yet so much of me does he kinda wish for himself... (sigh)  Crazymaking..

He is all the depth of feeling and consideration and understanding that one could ever want for one's child, and he is the bombast, toughness and righteousness too.  I am as proud of him now as I was the moment I saw him, all chubby and plump and thick shock of straight black indian hair, soon to become ringlet curls...

I saw my wrong today and owned it.  He saw his and owned it too.  It was pretty awesome to be there, in that conversation, with that guy; that young man.  I gained immeasurable respect for him today.

Earlier, between rounds, I phoned his mom in exasperation, frustration, wondering if there was some secret that caused him to leave his home, to come to the city, to try his hand at this reinvention.

"Did he burn any bridges?  Were there any incidents?"...  Said I, all panicky and concerned.

"Not at all," said she.  "He's just a good kid trying to find his way on his own."

"By the way his grad ceremony will be on the 20th and you guys should come.  It'll be nice."

Warmed my heart.

This calm, practical woman who, thank GOD, was the one to raise him.  Who, with the help of her stalwart man, and a nice big NDN family, prepared this boy for the life that was to come.  I was in there somewhere, flitting in and out like a Disneyland Daddy, singing and charming and cooking and camping my way into his heart somehow...

But here we were today.  Man and young man:  One trying to help and shine light on the path and the other fighting like hell to turn out that light and stumble in the dark - On his own.

And he held his own.  And hung up on me when he should have.  And called back, even sooner than I would have done when I was 17.  And we worked through it.  And I love him.  Forever.  I will like him for always.  But, as long as you're living, Daniel.  My baby you'll be!

Round and Round...

The world is round.  So said my Hutterite friend last summer*.  So said I to my Polish friend last week.  Good things happen; bad things happen.  Things happen.  Things happen to us.  We make things happen.  When we struggle, things become difficult.  Generally, when we run with the rhythm of life, in the current of positive thought and deed, good happenings occur easily.

I'm trapped somewhere between the world of sinner and saint, closer to sinner by far, and in this lonesome stretch of highway, there seems to be a lull in the proceedings.  At least in the things that I "want" to fall into my world.  Like about $10 grand to dig my way out of the stressful hole that I slowly but methodically dug these past few months/years...

I'm online today, seeking out career changes, educational opportunities, even work opportunities...  Stressing over fines and bills and "stuff" and bullshit.  Worried about the future, when really..  Really, the only work I have before me today is to not pick up dope.

And to not worry about setting my net for jobs and income when I still have fish to clean from my last catch.
Everything will come when it is supposed to.  Just keep my side of the street clean.

My heart beats harder at this realization.  The tears well up.  They call this "surrender"...A ti me rindo.  "To you I rend."

Letting go of the panicky hustle I have conditioned myself to do and just doing what's in front of me.

(sigh)...

Ok..  For now this will have to do.

Right now I have hungry kids in front of me!
xox.
S.






*Piscescree Blogspot - "It's Always Something," April 2013

First Things First...

I have to write.  I just have to.  At least I think I do.  It's because I think all the fucking time.  Too much.  What was, what could have been, what should have been, what will be...  blah, blah, blah... My brain creates visions, and then it makes connections between them and the next thing.  On and on.  

And in doing all this thinking, I am expending some degree of energy.  Very little energy, but some energy nonetheless.  And my brain, drug addled and self obsessed though it may be, perceives this endless brainbabble  as actually doing the thing I am thinking about.

I sense that this hearkens back to my childhood when a trip to Disneyland was out of the fucking question, or even a video game console or some such thing. My mind would create such strong imagery - experiencing the world through PBS and Encyclopedia Brittanica.  I would build these complex universes - like a post apocalyptic preteen mountain lifestyle where the nukes would fly and I would have time to commit a B & E at the Pioneer sporting goods store next to the Bakery and IGA on the hill (Hintonites know of which I speak) and take to the wilderness with plenty of guns, ammo, snare wire and dehydrated stroganoff.

There was a certain solace in knowing that I could succeed in this world - a world of bears and deer, trout and weather and solitude.  That perhaps one of the sweet girls I admired at Mountainview Elementary or Overlander Junior High would see my survival talents and come live in my cabin and we would procreate and eat wondrous meals and hibernate away from the nuclear winter that was sure to come.  

This was a far better reality than the one I was experiencing.  I did not feel worthy of anything special or nice or wondrous.  Much of this came from me not wanting to impose anything further on my mom, who, bless her heart, did the level best she could with what she had at the time.  So my "not asking for anything" was a little bit that I could do to be small and less of a burden.

I lived instead in my mind.  In the books that I spent hours with.  

This kind of escapist thought became my reprieve. 

It has now become my deepest weakness.

These thoughts continue.  Imagining what I will do, and doing nothing of the sort.  The thoughts include several things that are related to my achieving my own self respect.  Things like working on the relationships with my sons, long absent from my life; strengthening my financial situation, staying sober, etc.  All the wreckage from 30 years of pretty much being high, drunk, self obsessed or draped in lies. 

I picture the time spent on these precious tasks, see the sun and rain and all the details in between, and the rainbow at the end, all in a matter of seconds, and my feelings seem to evolve as though I've actually done it.

This is fucked.

Fucked because I imagine all these character building exercises and imagine that I've become the character that they've built.

Then carry this zhǐlǎohǔ or  紙老虎 or paper tiger of personality shift around like a plastic dollar store police badge of accomplishment.

I can't continue this any longer.  I am 42 not 12.  I can not keep building escapist cabins in the bush and feeling like I'm Grizzly Adams when I am trapped in a suburban crackhead nightmare of bullshittery and strained talents.

I paint pictures that are pretty black and white, but the reality is that there are moments of clarity, moments of truth that I do walk through.  Too few though. 

I need more.  

I have a feeling that these incessant thoughts need to be exposed and shown the light of day lest they continue to commit perjury in the psychic court of my life.

Perhaps they can live here in this little homely blog.  

...

I speak of these things today because I have been spending a lot of time writing the next chapter of my life in my mind.  Imagining my way out of this nonsense and into the next phase of wellness, growth, sobriety, career fulfillment, etc...   It has become a bit of a din, (or is that djinn?)

This transitional thinking hedges on being a "plan for recovery and healing" but mostly it is a creatively visualized reality that resonates like my nuclear hermit plan from my childhood.  Real tween the ears but nowhere else.

As such, I sense myself going through the mock changes, see the physical changes in my appearance from working out every day, sense the integrity and honesty taking root in my consciousness, my sense of self becoming humble, kind, real and firmly ensconced in a sustainable home we've built ourselves, with me in the garden, or polishing solar panels, fit and brown and handsome as all get out. 

So I paint a picture out of the madness into a sane and respectable life, look at it for a few minutes, commit to "do the work."  Maybe even put in a few days towards the goalposts...  Then, quietly, like a thief in the night, my penchant for the silky stroke of the pipe comes stealing into my thoughts.  

Poof.

Gone.

Back to the drawing board, square one, whatever you want to call it.

I have been recently obsessing about my current situation, financial, spiritual, career wise, all of the above.  Trying to duct tape and band aid and shuck and jive my way to the path to enlightenment and truth, sobriety and respect.

Looking at consolidation loans, career changes, geographical changes, whatever. Madly trying to fix what I've broke;  what has been broken for so long.

Fuck it.

I have all the tools right here right now.  Within my arms' reach; within the scope of my imaginings and the frame of my doings.  I just need to get out of my own way.

"I suffer from figureitoutism," says a dear friend of mine.  

Me too Al.

Let the brain exercise here on the keys when it starts to get noisy in there...  When I start conjecturing and posturing and reaping the spoils of my imagined efforts.  

Just do what's in front of you says I to me.  First things first, the rest will come when it's sposed to.

Unless God went and left when I was out chasing my tail.  Though I'm pretty sure the Universal Love that I call God doesn't leave.  Never.  I just turn away every now and again perhaps because I don't feel worth the love that flows so freely.

Anyways, that's a story for another day.

xox
S.