Deep lagoons…
… I began to have the first intimations that there was in Nature,
much more than met the eye,
something that existed in the back of it…
I did not know what that something was,
I didn’t even expect ever to know,
but nevertheless I strained every day to catch a glimpse of it…
I thought that if I could see it,
maybe I would understand it,
and that understanding would show me how to live…
— in The Perfection of the Morning by Sharon Butala…
Last night I was watering my front garden,
after riding back home along False Creek,
from a few hours of glazing plates,
and bowls…
I heard two men talking up the side-walk,
on the other side of the street…
One man as dark as a Masai warrior wondered to his friend,
Is it okay for a black man like me,
to wear a hat that says,
‘Native Pride’???
His quiet friend wasn’t sure that it was…
He thought that the action might be considered inappropriate,
and the intent may be misunderstood…
The man pondered further,
But if I really love and respect Native culture,
isn’t it okay???
Isn’t it just like wearing an American flag on my shirt???
The conversation slipped into the darkness,
as the two walked on…
I wanted to follow and put forward my own questions…
Like is it okay for me,
as a white woman,
to knit a pink rasta hat???
This morning as I was spraying clean my garbage,
and greenwaste bins,
pouring cloudy water down the storm drain,
a man warned me,
This alley isn’t safe right now…
I asked him why…
He said,
pointing in the distance,
I just saw a coy-oot down there…
I noticed he was wearing a hat emblazoned with Native Pride…
I told him about what I’d heard the night before…
I asked him what he thought and felt about the question…
He took his hat off and looked at it,
closely…
He said,
I’m a white man,
but my kids are all native,
from Sechelt…
They gave me this hat,
and that’s why I wear it…
So I guess it’s okay…
He put his hat back on,
and kept walking,
on his way…
Avoiding the alley,
and its dangers…
Calling back to say,
And ma’am,
you have a great day!!!
Into the water we push the boat from shore... (photo: Starshine)
Open sesame…
The Penan are so profoundly different…
They have no writing,
so their total vocabulary at any one time is the knowledge of the best storyteller…
There is one word for ‘he’,
‘she’,
and ‘it’,
but six for ‘we’…
There are at least eight words for sago,
because it is the plant that allows them to survive…
Sharing is an obligation,
so there is no word for ‘thank-you’…
They can name hundreds of trees but there is no word for ‘forest’…
Their universe is divided between tana’ lihep —
‘land of the shade’,
tana’ lalun —
‘land of abundance’,
and tana’ tasa’—
‘land that has been destroyed’…
— in Light at the Edge of the World by Wade Davis…
After a house day,
I went twilight riding,
around Stanley Park’s sea wall…
Navigating the circumference,
with unending gratitude for this city,
where I live…
And the sweat off the backs,
of the people who built it,
and those who made their home here,
for the centuries before…
Herons stood still,
waiting,
in waves,
as the big red fire stoked sun,
slipped,
behind island mountains…
Bats flipped,
and flew,
in the thick,
of no-see-ums…
Skunk and I,
crossed paths,
on English Bay…
A giant screen,
standing in a field,
told a story,
in word,
pictures,…
A version,
in straight line history,
composed,
of constructed,
image packages…
The grass I lay on,
was wet,
with tears…
The air heavy,
with ghosts,
who have no name,
for us now…
Heavy with time,
when my people,
met underground,
in groups,
larger than four…
Forbidden
and punished,
for speaking,
your language…
Coming back,
to be here again…
How would you,
choose,
to show up,
for another round???
Would you say,
with hidden eyes,
YOU want to know,
what I think,
then find,
a way,
for your white washed,
theories,
to talk,
on the same page,
with the picture feelings,
of horse…
I daydreamed on the bank again...
Lava life…
In contrast to the Siamese,
the stickleback,
at mating time,
glows not only when it sees an opponent,
or a female,
but does so as long as it is in the vicinity of its nest,
in its own chosen territory…
The basic principle of his fighting is,
My home is my castle…
In both species,
it is the male,
and not the female,
that undertakes the building of the nest,
and the care of the young…
The future father only begins to think of love,
when the cradle for the expected children is ready…
— in King Solomon’s Ring by Konrad Z. Lorenz
When I was first on my own,
everyone seemed hell bent on setting me up with any single man they could scratch up from under a rock…
Under the guise of why don’t you come over with the girls,
we’ll make you dinner,
I could smell the incongruency of intent as soon as I walked in the door…
And I could feel his barrel of anxiety like a ticking time bomb,
in my stomach,
from a distance…
Like that’s what I needed to add to my plate,
when my own bowl of noodles was already spilling with past due date left overs…
I was peripherally aware of the hands of karma keeping me together with the father of my daughters,
and the hands of spirit now holding me in place for the purpose of light,
have got my full attention…
Looking back on it now I can’t believe the things I heard from so called friends,
and mature people…
One of the favorite bits of information that scared me then,
and makes me laugh now is,
Little Buddy,
all a guy wants is to get his car out of the garage…
I noticed that her date was so full of wanting that he had to stop at the bar,
to get half-cut with liquid courage,
every single night he drove over to her house,
to get his hands on an engine full of carbon monoxide…
This barfly didn’t stop his antics after they rushed into marriage,
and reproduced…
Why is it that animals don’t require getting loaded for the natural,
and mutual,
expression of desire???
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know about seeing double,
and the naked truth of the morning after…
My adult opinion is that if you’re in for a journey worth remembering,
you want a different kind of intoxication…
And if you’re in the right place at the right time,
things just take care of themselves…
Inspiration can’t be stopped…
But you have to open,
clear,
and willing to wait for it…
On Saturday I could hear some mariachi music in the distance…
So I headed out with a satchel of knitting,
and an iced chai latte,
in search…
On my way to the music,
I bumped into a neighbour who had moved to Saskatchewan,
when she was carrying her second child,
fourteen years after her first,
to be closer to the in-laws…
She returned to these stomping grounds,
to continue her work in supporting people who are hard to house…
When I’m hanging lights in the tree out front,
she rushes by on her newfangled I Phone,
saying things like,
That information you have about the wiring of this new generation of children is something we parents need to know…
I’m coming over for tea so you can download it…
I have to tell her,
That particular file is still integrating,
and the data is not classifiable…
But on this Saturday,
seeing me by myself,
and not putting two and two together,
she asked,
Where are your girls???
I noticed that I didn’t flinch,
and was able to answer her question without a frog at my throat…
She responded with,
I‘d like some time on my own,
but I don’t know what I’d do with it…
I can’t seem to settle down when my children aren’t around…
I told her I had to bootcamp to learn how to sit,
empty out,
and incubate…
That this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done for myself,
and every day is a struggle not to seek out distraction…
I knew that her man was away on tour,
and as she introduced me to his mother visiting from the prairies,
as a very old neighbour of ours,
I said,
The first time I met your son was when he painted my house twelve years ago,
before he became a big star…
My neighbour,
his partner,
laughed,
and said,
rather seriously,
He may be going back to painting houses…
He’s tired of being away on the road…
Now all he wants to do is to be at home…
Grab your things, I've come to take you home... (drawing and photo: Little Gem)
Canuck'd 