Oh wow. That's fantastic.

Come on in and watch the fire, it contains funny things.

Like this chick who really likes Fedor.

Ok slow the brain down.

Come on into the den and let me ramble on for a bit about a few things, this and that and the other. Try not to get to close to the fire as it may be a little hot under these circumstances.

I have just finished reading This Is Not a Peace Pipe: Towards a Critical Indigenous Philosophy by Dale Turner. The object of the book is to place a new understanding on how Aboriginal people in Canadian society might best become a part of the process when dealing with Aboriginal rights in Canada in regard to both the treaties and self-government. The guy has some pretty neat ideas about the overall landscape and what might be done to improve it but damn it he pisses me off on a couple of very important points.

First off, it is not until the end of the book that he genuinely makes a case about the essence of First Nations thought in regards to spirituality. Since both are intrinsically tied it bothers me that he would leave it to so small of a point. And maybe this is my misunderstanding of it so perhaps I'll have to talk to a few of my professors and some of the elders to see if maybe I'm off my nut but it boils down to a fairly simple point.

Native thought is holistic. It infuses the idea that all things are important to the overall health of the individual and the community around the individual. It is a individual out concept yet paradoxically the overall health of the community is of a greater importance than any one individual. I have done a little bit of writing on my own concept of egalitarianism and how this is tied to First Nations philosophy so it frustrates me to see this point ignored.

The second part that boggles my mind is Turner does a great job of deconstructing what he calls White Paper liberalism and European philosophies in regards to it's colonial treatment of First Nations people, but then he goes on to use those EXACT same ideas to separate up his 'work load' of what is needed to defend First Nations rights in Canada. He has a concept known as word warriors and these would be individuals who are First Nations who engage the dominant society both from within as accepted intellectuals in the legal and philosophical realms but also from without as distinctly aboriginal people. I like this idea however he goes on to qualify it question who can legitimately do this work.

He also seems to defend the segregation of First Nations and non-First Nations when it comes to the understanding of First Nation philosophy. He calls it 'Crazy Horse' segregation as a way to keep the philosophy pure and protected from the dominant culture's colonialism.

Well bad news for you Turner but that is A) against the overall philosophy that I understand of First Nations, and B) a left over thought process from colonial impact. The reason for the keeping of knowledge away from the white folks was because they were abusing it to get the better of us and then enacted laws that made it illegal to BE a First Nations person. Those laws were repealed and now these things can be open and inf act are mostly supported by the government so that they may regain their overall strength and impact within the communities. Because they work. To fall back on that is to succumb to the colonial mindset rather than to embrace his idea of 'indigenity.'

So at this point it appears his boiling it down to a chess match where we match intellectual wits and see who can come out on top, while also bemoaning the fact that he fails to see how it might work because the folks that control the end result are still non-First Nations. The overall argument left me feeling that he's spoiling for a fight yet is too chicken to get his hands dirty with a little brawl.

I do believe that for my final project for this class I am going to engage this book on the idea of spirituality and the holistic approach of First Nations. Of course, where do I start with the research on THAT one.

I might consider it genocide.

Come on in, the snow is just starting to collect in tiny cold corners on the ground about the den and the fire is stoked high. I love winter and I love snow. It's gorgeous to watch the sparkle of the ice crystals as they lay on the ground on a really cold night. However what I want to talk about isn't so nice.

So something tragic happened. A promising young artist was killed by two coyotes on a hiking trail in Nova Scotia. I am so sorry for this woman and her family and friends. The loss of life is never pleasant and I grieve for this loss. However I am also frightened for the loss that will begin now that this has happened.

If you read the article there is already one listed loss, a coyote shot that most likely was not a part of the attack. Add to that the focus of the article which implies people feel generally scared because of the intrusion of these coyotes into their lives. I disagree wholeheartedly with this assessment because it places the blame of the attack on the coyotes rather than taking a wider view as to the behavior of these animals and why the attack happened in the first place.

Don't get me wrong, I don't feel that this woman was supposed to die or I feel more sympathy for the loss of the coyote. Yes I share an affinity for these animals. But I am a human and am saddened by the loss.

What bothers me is this is exactly the kind of talk that gears up a community to kill animals indiscriminately without understanding the nature of the situation. I would lay money that something else was done previously to this that caused the need for these animals to attack something they don't normally recognize as food, instead as a much larger and more dangerous predator.

I will postulate that some form of animal that is seen as a nuisance has been actively targeted by the human community and killed off, and that this same animal was most likely a food source for the coyotes. A similar thing happened around here in Saskatchewan a few years back when the gopher and rabbit bounties were reinstated due to an explosion in their population. Rather than allowing the natural predators a chance to hunt these animals, they were destroyed and suddenly we had coyotes showing up in cities looking for food. Poisoning and hunting these animals doesn't just kill them but a great number of other animals in the area, increasing the need for food for the predators.

Not to simplify, I understand at this point there will mostly be a requirement for the thinning of the coyote population but it would not have been necessary had the natural hunting cycles been left alone to do their own work. My point is that it didn't have to happen, nor did this girl have to die had the human members of that community not seen themselves as somehow separate from the ecosystem and interfered overly with it to the point that the coyotes were forced to seek whatever food source available.

Now instead of a system that would check itself, we will now needlessly slaughter a great deal of the animals. Most likely due to the fear this killing will go well beyond the necessary means and lead to an explosion of certain types of rodents, which in turn will lead to dealing with that population by more direct interference ... do you see the cycle now?

And now I must also point out that my own belief is that these animals are just as important as we are in the overall cycle of living. They are a nation unto themselves and deserve the same respect as we might address another group of humans living in another country or culture. And while there would be an issue if these were two groups of humans killing each other, it doesn't require a genocide, instead a restorative action would be far more responsible, especially if that action would recognize how our own interference was what initially caused this issue. We as a nation must learn to temper our own actions when they directly affect another. Even if that nation is something completely different from our own perceptions.

The City That Rhymes With Fun!

Come on in, the rain is providing such beautiful music and smells. I've got some munchies, mostly veggies and such but it's good fare. Come and sit with me a while, so I can tell you about my favorite place in the world.

I love my home town. I was born and raised here and all things considered, will most likely die here. I love it's streets and buildings, I love the feel of it, the smell, the sounds. I've lived right in the core of it and couldn't think of a nicer sound than all that traffic in the middle of the night. Love it.

I love the people of this city. They are genuinely friendly people. Very rarely do I run into some one who is going out of their way to be miserable to a stranger. Well unless it's someone in the service industry but I think that's becoming the norm everywhere.

I love that I have just about every single creature comfort and type of culture available to me without sacrificing that 'small town feel' people talk about here. And in case you were wondering, there is very little you can't get here, and even then, you could probably fanangle it anyways.

I've never had a desire to live elsewhere. Well, maybe the valley but that's because it just feels like an extension of this beautiful place. With a lower sea level. I love this city and always will.

It's not just because I was born here, trust me there are enough folks who hate here to show you that being born here doesn't engender a strong home feeling. It is everything about it that makes it so special to me.

In line with that are my own personal goals which really focus on making this place a better and better place. I volunteer for many different things so I can help make this place a more enjoyable home for all. my own education goals have me staying here to attempt my own little world changing movement.

It's not that I don't like to travel, I've travelled lots, I love road trips. I like anything that gets me someplace else and will let me experience new things. I just don't feel the need to travel to make me appreciate my home because I already do. I've never understood the 'see the world' mentality when it comes to 'broadening my horizons.' I'm quite aware of the fact that there is a huge world out there beyond my home, I just know I can't change all of that without first changing this. So why worry about it until it becomes important?

And no this doesn't mean I'm not critical of my home, I have many things I dislike about this place, like the whole no alcohol while lookin' at nekkid people thing. That's just so stupid. It means of course that we can't afford to get any quality nekkid people and end up with ... well I like the dancing that the nekkid people do. Not much of that here. Sucks.

Mebbe if I ever move out to the valley I'll start an underground drinkin' and watchin' nekkid people place. Of course I'll probably end up getting boot stomped into dust by our government but y'know it'd be a fun ride.

Sorry that was a digression, more on point, I recognize those things that need to improve in my city. I don't just casually accept them out of blind love, instead work to better them. I love this place so it deserves my best.

I'm so happy my kids get to grow up here, and experience what I have. Of course it will be different for them but hopefully they'll come to recognize and appreciate the beauty here. Then again, to each their own and if they find another place to call home I wish them the best.

I know this seems like a long winded bit of fluff, but it comes with a serious set of questions. What do you think of your home? Does it thrill you? Do you love it and feel connected to it? Would being someplace else really provide those things or is it in fact you who needs to recognize what is already in front of you? Everything is what you make it folks. You get what you give. Next time you feel like you don't belong somewhere, maybe it's because you never tried to live there. So live.

"The Windigo" Speaks

Come on in and forgive the cold, I've been thinking about a creature of ice and snow, so it tends to affect the den. Grab a blanket and get close to the fire. First off I'd like you to go and read Louise Erdrich's poem "The Windigo" and then you can sit down and read another little point of view on the poem. For those that have never heard of Louise Erdrich, a websearch does wonders, but she is also one of my favoriete authors, I still reread her book Love Medicine about once a year.

Louise Erdrich’s ‘Windigo’ uses strong domestic imagery and subtle tones to flesh out the political ideas contained within the title. A surface reading of Erdrich’s poem coasts one through an intersection of day to day lives, yet they hover with an ominous tone. It is the understanding of the Windigo myth and its own intersection into the political and cultural differences of First Nations and European society that the subtle and alarming nature of the poem become more than a story and instead you see the persona of a social commentator emerge. Erdrich’s statement, thought quiet and an undercurrent to the narrative, is no less filled with anger and strength than a bold statement that dominates the plot.

To start with is a further understanding of what a Windigo is. While the description at the beginning of the poem gives us a brief introduction of what one is and how it is defeated it is the creation of the Windigo that is also important. It requires an evil act that turns a human’s soul cold, causing the body to collect the ice and snow that transforms a man into a cannibal. Essential to this cannibalism is the Windigo’s hunger, it is never full, and that is unmentioned. Instead it is that subtle subtext unannounced which adds to the quiet voice that is part of the persona built within the poem.

Adding to the Windigo’s unmentioned hunger is the historical significance of the moniker used in reference to the coming of European settlers. While not a universal descriptor across the North American First Nations, those that were some of the first to encounter the coming Europeans were the tribes who lived among the great lakes, which the Chippewa were among, used the name Windigo to describe the actions of the Europeans. Europeans appeared to have an unending hunger for resources, coupled with their pale skin, which caused many observers to make unfavorable comparisons between the mythical figure and the settlers.

Between the unmentioned aspects of the Windigo legend and its historical context Erdrich has placed a poetic narrative that starts to take on a much darker and powerful nature besides the home and hearth imagery employed. Only one last historical piece is left unturned to fully complete the stalking, hungry tone of the words. Canada’s history is not the only that used assimilation schools to tear at the fabric of First Nation culture. In the United States of America Industrial Schools, boarding schools similar to our own residential schools, were created to take children who were coming close to working age to indoctrinate skills and social values. The aim was to give these people who could get no other job skills in jobs that no one else would want. Mine work, industrial factories, and chemical orientated manual labour were all the focuses of these schools and like the residential schools of Canada they were the cause of societal disintegration within American First Nation families and reserves.

Although the poem makes no explicit mention of any of these facts, and only glosses over the myth of the Windigo, it is these facts that combine to give Erdrich such a powerful social voice. “You knew I was coming for you,” (1) speaks the narrator, a construct like the Windigo; a society much more powerful and ruthless in its goals. In fact who the narrator is now insignificant and the sense it is now what the narrator is that matters. Erdrich here does not speak from the point of view of who she is, in fact she has fully stepped outside of her own life and experience to occupy the nebulous ‘other’ who that has oppressed and targeted her people and society.

Once the point of view of the narrator is made clear due to the significance of what a Windigo is the shocked and stilted use of language and form become yet another hint at how these unmentioned actions have caused rifts within the First Nations and the narrator. There is still an overall rigid form, like a loose framework that it all fits into: five stanzas of five lines each, with a small exception. The fourth stanza is only four lines. Here the narrator has “stole […] off” (16) with the young target of line one. In terms of a culture colliding here we have the first three stanzas establishing the stalking of another, and when they finally intersect the rules are broken, only four lines. Deeply imbedded in this stanza are the various other breaks throughout the history of interaction between European/American culture and First Nations. Like the agreements, treaties, proclamations, and simple basic human decency that have been ignored, warped or destroyed, this stanza too rings with that same violation. The beast runs off with its captive through the woods, destroying all he passes due to the wintry aura “until they stood, naked, spread like the cleaned spines of fish.” (19) These images are no different than the agreements that have been ignored or broken.

This form is taken a step further in the language of each stanza. It harkens to memories of home yet takes disjointed images and pulls them together within the eyes of a stalking beast. The first stanza takes a simple piece of home cookery, “the kettle”, and has it “jump[ing] into the fire.” (2) The action of heating water, instead of being an action of solace to make a tea to comfort or warm a body is instead now a hellish act of sacrifice. This same image of burning, a paradox to a creature of ice, follows in the second lines of stanzas one to four. The food is scolded to warm it, the copper is burned in the raw wood, and steam rolls from the arms of the beast. Like the paradox the burn of cold is virtually identical to the touch as heat is. Each leaves destroyed flesh, withers the body through cellular destruction. Like the body of culture of the First Nations, the introduction of the beast has withered and destroyed its overall cohesiveness.
Erdrich introduces a strong element of the malaise of First Nations people. Line 10, spoken from the beast as it eyes its victim, is italicized, and brought out to stand alone as a statement that speaks both from the Windigo and the soul of the people. Just as the two cultures are locked together so is the beast locked to the soul of the victim. Paradox plays a role again in the passive yet active nature of the statement as the child is told to both hide and lie still. Hide from it but lie still, work to stay away from the beast, yet it will still find you. These are elements that are strong points of a dominated culture, as the First Nations have taken years to start to re-assert their own culture and take the reigns of their destiny again. That Erdrich brings this line into contrast with the rest of the poem by italicizing it strengthens and asserts this idea within the context of the previously stated parameters. Simply put, she is shouting by whispering a small yet powerful truth.

The final stanza densely packs itself into five lines that hold a significant amount of commentary, both from the narrator and the underlying social commentary Erdrich is laying into the poem. Five lines again, but broken and disjointed. A disconnect not just in the language but the subject matter. The young victim is taken, and in turn takes. The child is taught the nature of greed, of unrelenting hunger, and slakes itself on the very flesh of the Windigo, shoveling its hands full of the flesh of another. A new lifestyle is shown to the child of simple domestic pleasures. Just as the First Nations culture was taken, repackaged, and sold out again, here too the youth are taken, re-educated, turned into the other.

The beast runs all night, carrying the child along as it feasts. Night to morning the child is taken. From one day to the dawn of another. Standard for most uses of dawn as re-birth but the narrator tells us that the morning “broke the cold earth,” (22) and while it can be suggested that this could be a hint at the child’s own actions reflecting the legend told in the poems introduction, instead the emphasis should not be placed on the breaking or the cold but instead what is broken. The dawn, the rebirth, broke the cold earth. It broke the foundation. The earth was sundered; the basis for life, the wellspring of future generations, the repository of natural history, the one thing we all share, the common element that might cause reconciliation is broken. The past has been rent and a pit lies across the path from now to then. The rebirth of the stolen child has no connection to the past it once knew and now continues on without a past.
And as such, the beast returns the child, lies down this broken and changed thing, no longer a part of what it once was and now no longer a part of the world it was shown. It is home, and lay down like “a river shaking in the sun.” (24) This last line seems so problematic and out of joint with the rest of the narrative it requires special consideration. To this point all mention of water has been in one of its transition states. Boiling water, ice and snow, and steam; we have not been given an image of water doing what it does naturally. Yet the water shakes. It trembles and this too is an image at war with a river. No river ever shakes, it flows, winds, bends, hurtles, speeds, slows, mires, but never has a river shaken. However, water does shake given the right circumstances. We just don’t call a shaking river a river anymore. If water were to shake in the sun it would be falling, perhaps off a broken piece of land: a waterfall. The land has been broken by the rebirth, and the flow of this newly born thing now hurtles off into the space, shaking and dispersing itself over air and the rocks below, shaking itself apart as it must now deal with the rift between past and present.

The last stanza builds these densely packed issues one on another until the discord falls back into a meaningful image yet even then that too is a disconnect. Bringing the images back to the cultural and historical a person without a past, without knowledge of their culture will no longer be a part of that culture, yet the culture, the Windigo, that remade the child into this new thing will not accept it as a part of their culture either. There is now a state of perpetual change within the new person, a constant war between a culture that it no longer understands and a culture that it cannot belong too. The Windigo has succeeded in his action, and the subtext has succeeded in pointing out the paradox and impossibility of the action ever truly succeeding.

“The Windigo” uses powerful thrusts as Erdrich lets the monster tell its tale. Lying beneath that persona lies Erdrich’s own message, and she builds strong bonds between each image that lie scattered after the path of destruction the beast creates as it plows its way into the home and hearth of First Nations families. With the cultural understanding lying within the title itself, and building from a subtle hint as to the nature of the Windigo the poem builds itself not as a narrative of the people being harmed but from the monster’s point of view. Erdrich here leaves her subtle trap and her own touch of the cultural perspective. Each is a part of the other and what happens to one will happen to the other. Each becomes a cannibal of sorts that must feed continuously off the other. The monster takes the child but only succeeds in making another monster which it must now contend or compete with. By understanding the monster we understand both the actions that led to the current state of First Nations in relation to the dominant culture but also why those actions are not an isolated matter that can be ignored but instead are a relevant and dangerous situation that lies in wait to create even more unending cannibals.

Sweat Lodge

Come on into the Den. Excuse the heat and steam, but just thinking about this even makes me relive it. The sweat lodge cerimony I was a part of was such a major point in my life it really does come all flooding back when I think of it.

A small amount of background is required to properly place a context on some of the details below. First is that while I am a Status Indian, I often refer to myself instead as a half-breed, as my mother is of European decent. Even then I may not be considered a half breed as my father had green eyes and there is some European ancestry on that side of my family. Next, my father had committed suicide when I was six years old, and due to some disagreements between my mother and my father’s side of the family I had not had any contact with my Native relatives for a considerable amount of time. My mother had run into my Uncle Brian, also a participant in the ritual, and had started a dialogue that allowed some interaction, including having affidavits signed that allowed me to apply for my Status Card through Bill C-31 as my father was never included on my birth certificate. At the time of the ritual I had run somewhat adrift in my life, had worked in a number of different jobs and was unable to find a direction. I was suffering from depression and was at times suicidal.

While working at a job that was partly retail, my Uncle Brian came in and I mentioned how great it was to see him, as I had a lot of questions and was feeling very low. He suggested I come out to the reserve that weekend as they would be holding a Sweat Lodge. I jumped at the chance for several reasons, some for my own curiosity and some for my personal health. I was told to fast the 24 hours before the ritual and to arrive at 6 am. I was so nervous I didn’t sleep the night before and headed out early, arriving well before dawn, so I finally slept a few minutes in the car, before the house woke up and invited me in.

Sitting around the kitchen table in my Uncle Glen’s house, I had some of the ritual actions explained to me. To begin I would have to first cleanse myself, which started with the fasting. During the cleansing, which included a smudge, I was to take a small amount of tobacco and while placing my hand on the trunk of a birch tree and facing east first, I was to circle around the tree, sprinkling the tobacco as I went around the tree in a clockwise rotation. As I was doing this I was to recite a prayer to the Grandfathers, the name of the heated rocks used during the lodge, of what I was hoping to learn or accomplish during the sweat. It took me a long time to figure out that prayer. I stood with my hand on the tree for a long while, staring off into the dark morning sky before the question entered my mind simply. Why did my dad kill himself? With that I walked around the tree, with that prayer in mind, asking the Grandfathers to help me because I truly needed it and wanted nothing else but to know.

Once that was done, I helped my Uncle Brian get the fire going for the rocks. We piled up the rocks in a particular formation, and then surrounded the rocks with birch wood in another particular fashion. Since it was important for me to know since I was not learning the ritual at the time I am not sure why they were done that way. A tobacco offering was made before the fire was lit, with my Uncle reciting a prayer in Salteaux, ending the prayer with a noise like ‘ho’. He explained that was their version of Amen and I should feel free to use it to end any of the prayers I took part in during the ritual.

It is important to note that between my hunger and the cold I was already starting to feel different. I was excited to be taking part in something that I hoped would help me but also had a sense of things become slow, an almost suspension of time. I was removed from the general flow of the world and partaking in something that would create a new phase of my life. While I could not articulate that at the time, reflection on the entire ritual afterward I was able to realize that there was an intense sense of anticipation that was very much akin to the moments before my first child’s birth. I was about to embark on something that would alter me so fundamentally that it would change my world view entirely.

While the fire was starting to warm up, my uncle showed me the lodge. It stood at about six feet high, with one opening facing east. It was made of birch saplings, but I wasn’t able to see the pattern in how they were constructed, covered by many tarps. From the top hung an Eagle feather, which my Uncle Brian explained was a gift from the Sioux who had taught them the ritual.

Once the fire was going strong, and another prayer of thanks was uttered by my Uncle, both of us ending with a ho, we returned to the house. There was small talk around the table between me and my family. Partaking in the ritual would be my Uncles Glen, Brian, and Butch, and my Aunt Marsha. When I asked if there was an issue with mixed sexes during rituals such as this I was told that in times past they were partaken of separately but since so few knew any forms of rituals for cleansing like the Sweat Lodge it wasn’t practical to continue them segregated. The only restriction would be when a woman was having her period, which wasn’t an issue for my Aunt Marsha as she had already passed menopause. Strangely this was the only talk of the ritual; mainly we discussed Uncle Glen’s participation in the Echo Dam issue, and my Uncle Butch’s use of herbal medicines that were being rediscovered. I was fascinated by it all and was nearly hyper aware of my surroundings, I could see my relatives watching me and seeming to assess where I was in the process.

Without much preamble, my Uncle Glen said “Time to start, come out in a few minutes, me and Brian will set things up.” When they had both left, my Aunt Marsha explained to me that Uncle Glen was nearly deaf and wouldn’t wear his hearing aids during the ritual, so I had to speak up when I was spoken to. They both explained the order we would enter in. My Uncle Glen would already be inside, sitting on the north side, and when we entered we were to circle around from east to him in a clockwise manner, first Marsha, then me, then Butch, and finally Brian would enter and close up the door. They explained the opening prayer, which we would all participate in, and then move from door to Glen to have any questions or specific healings answered. This meant that from first to enter they would be the last to be answered. Before we went out Aunt Marsha put a huge pot on the stove to start cooking to be eaten afterwards.

Once outside I noticed the sun just barely beginning to crest the horizon, the wind had died to nothing, and all around me there were smells and sounds I hadn’t noticed previously. I was unable to see too well, as I had left my glasses inside, yet I didn’t feel the need to see detail, the sounds and smells were enough. We were each to once again smudge ourselves with the smoke from sweetgrass and sage, and pray silently for the blessing of the Grandfathers. Once Marsha climbed through the hole I joined her and moved around, sitting down cross legged. Inside I could still see a bit due to the door being open. There was a pit dug in the middle, more than a foot deep, and at least a foot and a half in diameter. Glen had arranged a small pot with water and a dipper by him, and several small plastic bags filled with various plant life which he was crumbling between his fingers into the water. Once Butch was inside, Brian started to lower red hot rocks, the Grandfathers, from the fire into the pit in the middle of the lodge. As he did so, Glen sprinkled the rocks with various items, and by the smell I guessed they were cedar and sage. While each performed these parts of the ritual, they also prayed in both English and Salteaux, asking the grandfathers to take our prayers to the Creator, and he who sits beside and wears the crown.

Once Brian entered the door was closed and it was entirely dark, I could see no light and could already feel the temperature rising. The ground was still a bit cold beneath the blanket but not uncomfortably so. Glen started a prayer in English that asked a number of spirits for their blessing and ended b thanking the Grandfathers for all they had done for us and to lend us their wisdom once again. Every couple of lines he would slowly pour a small amount of water onto the rocks and a warm full smell gently filled the space of the lodge. I breathed in deeply, and let the heat and moisture fill the space, listening with everything I could. I kept my eyes open, and let them soak in the darkness of the lodge. After a few minutes of deep breathing Glen started the opening prayer, which we all recited together. After the ‘ho’ of the prayer, Glen instructed us all to concentrate on our bodies and what we would experience in the lodge, that we must all keep our minds and spirits open to the input the spirits would give us, and rather than try to judge what we might be experiencing to instead let those things happen and let the meanings come as they would. During this I continued to breath very deeply, noticing the heat in the lodge was rapidly climbing and already a thin sheen of sweat was covering my skin. My nose was filled with the scent of what was on the rocks and already I was starting to see elements of the darkness that had differences, each patch of darkness had its own texture and manner of being, each seemed to take on new dimensions.

Once the different types of darkness set in Glen spoke again, asking Brian if there was something he was specifically looking for, a brief discussion of ritual inspiration happened, and they agreed to talk later and share what each saw as they meditated. Next Butch was asked what he was asking for and he expressed his desire to find a plant that would help with diabetes, something that runs in our family and both he and I are suffers of. Glen gave some directions to a place to meditate and that the spirits would send him an answer. The descriptions of this may be brief but each of these things took quite a while. I’m not sure how long as time was meaningless once inside, but there were long pauses between as each participant and the ritual leader took their time to let the spirits in the lodge talk to them.

At this time Glen called a small break to allow everyone to stretch their legs and to let the lodge cool a little bit. We all stepped out into the winter air and I was amazed as I watched the steam rise slowly from us all and the patterns I saw in them. Brian asked me how I was doing and all I could do was smile goofily and nod. I felt completely in tune with everything yet utterly unable to express anything. He patted me on the shoulder, and as we smudged again to re-enter the lodge, I could feel where Brian had touched me and it grew warm. The heat radiated out and I slid in feeling incredibly comfortable and happy.

While it should have been my turn Glen said that it would be best to leave me to last, that he felt it would be better for all involved if we dealt with Marsha first. I was a bit disappointed, but far too comfortable to do much more than nods and then finally realize he could not hear my nod and say “Ok.”

I can not remember what occurred with Marsha, the feelings in the lodge were intensifying and I was having a hard time focusing. Small sparks of light were swirling and the heat had made even the earth beneath us warm. I kept seeing a symbol appear in different patches of darkness that looked like a perfect right parenthesis. I thought it was weird but again I followed what Glen told me and tried not to assign any meaning to it. I felt my heartbeat and could feel the movement of the blood beneath my skin and I became hyper-aware of everything my body was doing. With slight concentration it felt like I could make individual strands of muscle tense and release and with just a thought of physical activity my heart rate increased. The patches of darkness that took on different textures now appeared to breathe; in fact the whole lodge seemed to breathe. Life was emanating from every tiny aspect of everything around me.

Finally Glen turned his voice to me and spoke slowly without any preamble, “I know what your prayer was, the Grandfathers have already told me you want to know why. Why isn’t always a useful question Richard. Instead I want to tell you what I see. You stand on a path but you have gotten no further down it than when you were a child. Your feet are covered in blood, in fact it pools around them it is so thick. You can’t see it but this is your fault not your fathers. Why would you pray for him when you need the help?” He paused and poured a small amount of water on the fire before continuing, “You see yourself of two worlds and you think you need to make a choice. Are you White or Indian? Why choose.” As he spoke the heat in the lodge was becoming hotter and hotter. The sparks of light were more numerous and moving with far greater speed. I had to turn around and look, there was a great yellow smear behind me in the darkness and it was very disappointed in me.

“Your feet are covered in blood Richard. You know you are not responsible for your father, but you let it rule your decisions. He is not gone, he cannot move on. He is watching your brother’s children. He is needed there and it is rare if ever you will see him. We, your family, and we the world, and the spirits know how strong you are. You can do what others won’t or can’t. You don’t need him, you have others who watch you. But you need to make a decision. You need to accept who you are.” At this point I was bawling and scared. Not because of what I saw but because of what was expected of me; because of the change that was required. Find me one person who is not afraid of change. Things started to fall into place and I sobbed out the one question I was always afraid to ask, “But didn’t he love me?”

“More than anyone else.” Glen’s voice didn’t sound right, and I have no idea how he heard me because my question was whispered. “You were his pride of all things. He thought of you when he killed himself. He knew he would hurt you if he stayed. He was nothing but a shell and even you know that.” Every time that Glen would say what the spirits knew it shook me. I had not talked to Glen for over a decade. I always got the impression he did not care much for the half-breed kid. Yet here he was saying things I’d said, in the exact way I’d said them. My dad was a shell, cored out from alcohol like too many of my family.

I continued to sob but everything he said felt true. The yellow presence behind me showered me with annoyance that I would ever doubt that my dad loved me. The heat in the lodge was making everyone pant. The steam seemed to breath in and out of us by itself and every so often one of my relatives would bark out a ‘ho.’

“So here is the choice Richard. Are you White or Indian? Do you follow the White world and ignore your Indian side, or do you become an Indian and ignore your White side.” While he spoke I heard the undertone of derision. The question was stupid. The question was all wrong. The question was mocking me. “You are both Richard, stop making stupid choices.” I just about fell over, my whole body shaking as I sobbed as all the pain of near three decades of guilt and doubt started to pour out of me. Hands touched my shoulders. Later Marsha and Butch would tell me that neither had touched me during the lodge, it was too hot and I was radiating as much heat as the rocks.

“Why do you doubt yourself? Why do you refuse yourself? Open yourself to all things that are yourself Richard, you know what they are.” It suddenly hit me who was behind me, another Aunt, yet one of very devout Christian faith, yet here she was to talk to me. Well to throw intense emotions at me. She threw every single emotion at me so strongly I shook even harder before it dawned on me what I was to do. I’m emotional yet I walked around like a stoic cut off from all extremes.

Glen started gasping and said “Is anyone else feeling like it’s hotter in here than it’s ever been before?” Everyone agreed, except me, I sobbed. I kept sobbing as I exited. Once I stepped out, and I saw the sun hanging above a tree I just stared. We let the cool air touch us, and the amount of steam coming off was enough to make a little localized fog around us. We smudged again and finished the ritual.

Glen spoke again, “We have surely been visited today, the spirits came and each of you has been touched. Take this next while to merely think on what you have experienced, and the spirits will give you one last vision for you to take with you from here.” That perfect right parenthesis appeared again, except rather than a small little flash now it was like something burned onto my retina from a flash bulb.

When we exited the last time I felt drained, but not exhausted. I felt different, new and rejuvenated. I did not know what to think exactly but I knew I did not think like I previously had. When told to come in to eat I tried to beg off, I felt the need to just think. I was told I couldn’t leave till I ate, so I went in and found out I was not just hungry but ravenous. I ate four huge bowls of stew and a half dozen buns slathered in butter. We all talked about the ritual and our final visions. When I mentioned the perfect right parenthesis Butch exclaimed “I saw that too, but it is a moon phase! That will be your holy day.” To this day it is. I tend to fast on it and sacrifice my meals to the spirits so they might continue to speak to me.

When I finally got home after the ritual I was exhausted and immediately fell asleep for most of the day and night. I had dreams that were more vivid than before, although I have always dreamed lucidly. My mind worked out many things that I saw and felt in the lodge, not all of them recounted here for they were me alone.

Strangely I had a very hard time with the writing of this paper and a small amount of fear. Not because I feel I was sharing anything I should not, or because of sharing things that others may judge me for. Instead it was reliving an experience that meant so much to me and had such a huge impact. Despite the length of time since that ritual I am still deeply affected and moved. I can recall certain things with perfect clarity and will continue to do so for the rest of my life. I learned a lot from that one simple ceremony.

The most important thing I learned was I am not meant to be either White or Indian but both and to live as me, a man of passion who will do those things others will not or cannot. I will bring about what I know and can do and from there I was able to find out who I am which has led me to what I am to do. I am a carrier of stories and visions, dreams and signs from spirits and these things are just as important as the knowledge I must learn to do what is ultimately my goal: To teach new ways between both White and Indian. I am a facilitator and teacher, and someone who will with time grow to the potential the spirits saw. For now I am happy to share and speak, to learn and be filled with many types of knowledge. I am impatient but can wait.

Racism, Saskatchewan Style.

Come on into the den, I've got some lovely food stolen from a lunch at The University. The big wigs are meeting and eating. So I sit here and ponder on a funny story that popped back into my head while watching this and seeing a few faces from the past.



See I worked at this call center a while back in the City That Rhymes with Fun, and we were outsourced to a cellular provider in the States, which got bought by another cellular provider, so we had to switch billing systems. So they sent up a contingent of folks from Texas and while at home they wouldn't be minorities, here in Saskabush, they stuck out. See it was six folks, made up of a black woman and a black man, a white woman, and two Latino men and one Latina woman. Hope I used those terms right. Anyhow, here on the Prairies, they were certainly ... different.

So one day a question pops up that I couldn't answer. See I was first wave and from the help desk so I had to know more at a quicker pace than the standard agent, and I still missed a few, thus our friends from Texas. So the black man walks by and me and the agent ask him the question, which is irrelevant, but he says 'Oh yeah see I'm an expert on the ID system, not the billing system, you want to ask about that one,' and we go 'Who?'

He points over at one of the Latino men and says 'The Ponytail Guy.' And there is a bit of laughter at that as one agent who wants to know the answer as well goes 'That's funny, that's what we call him too!' So our expert on the ID system says 'Oh well I just assume you guys refer to me as the Black Guy.'

Suddenly the laughter stops. Twelve white assholes pucker up so hard, I can actually hear chairs groan in protest. Everyone has a look on their face like 'You're black?! Really?! I never would have known!' I start laughing and the Black Guy goes 'What did I say?' and I'm still laughing.

Through my near tear filled laughter, I say 'Wow dude, you just made twelve white folks incredibly uncomfortable.' The Black Guy looks confused, so I explain: 'Here in Saskatchewan, we're not racist, we just ignore it like it never happened. Which leads to moments like this. Y'know, like the joke, there's no more race, we're all green. Now you dark green fuckers to the back of the bus!' He starts laughing 'Oh shit dude, I so gotta take that one home with me!' and the white folks start laughing in that nervous 'Ha ha ha ha' forced laugh of the incredibly uncomfortable.

I had a beer with the folks from Texas later and explained that because of the incredible whiteness and the guilt involved with the incredible racism that has occurred in Canada, like their own home country, that it has been swept under the carpet and ignored and most folks try to ignore the whole idea of racism. They thought it was pretty hilarious and we laughed and laughed. Strangely, the white guy from Texas didn't join us for the beer, but he was a real prissy fucker anyways so whatever.

The sad part is that this is still racism folks, it's just a form called systemic racism. Rather than openly discriminating against those of a minority, instead it is ignored, despite the fact that the system is still set up to benefit the dominant culture over the minority. It's not so much an improvement as it is just a different kind of racism.

Think about it; when you describe someone, do you start with the most visibly definable characteristic, that being the colour of the skin? No, we go over everything else before going to that most telling of descriptors. It amuses me to no end.

I have similar stories but I'd rather hear yours, go on, share a story of this type of systemic racism that you've seen. I dare ya!

So stuck on this damn song.

Come on in, I hope you like the music, because it's going to keep playing. I've been totally hooked on a song since seeing it on Season 8 of Scrubs and just can't stop listening to it. While not written by Mr. Gabriel, it is indeed much better than the original and so wonderful. Well like I've said before, I'm a romantic, and sometimes a bit girlie. Enjoy.

"The Book of Love" Sung by Peter Gabriel.

Sing along, you'll just feel good.

Ritual

Come on in, and enjoy the fog. It stuck around from last night and this morning. I love the glow the fog takes on from different light sources. It feels close and comforting. The air seems to sit heavier on everything and the sounds become muted and somehow seem to travel in strange ways. It also makes me thoughtful.

So for those that don't know I work in a hardware store that supplies a little bit of everything and raw iron and steel. And we get the occasional strange request. Such as the jittery woman looking for 'razor blades and surgical tubing' and the numerous folks making beer bongs, the folks altering other types of bongs, and of course stills. The most recent made my brain pop out a bit.

I got some folks into body modification who were asking for rope, stainless steel rod, hooks, and flat bar. When those items didn't click in my brain I asked 'For?' and they said 'Oh uhm ... we're doing a suspension...' expecting me to go 'Ew' instead I said 'Cool, describe how you're setting it up and I'll see what I've got that will work for you.'

The funny part was they were going to do things that sounded awfully similar to the Sun (Thirst) Dance. I asked 'Is there a convention or gathering or something going on that you're doing this for?' and the girl with the corset like pierced back said 'No, well we're doing it with a group of about 20 or so, and we're pitching in for supplies but we're doing it because we want to experience the high.'

I started thinking about it, because there is this part of me that sometimes questions the co-opting of First Nations rituals but the more I thought about it, the more I realized they were using the ritual exactly as it was meant to be. They hoped to engender a closer bond within their community through a shared experience that was spiritual in nature. They may have secularized it with the phrase 'getting high' but even those experiences I've had of getting high with friends creates a bond amongst those doing it.

It fascinated me because here is one group that is subjugated by the dominant culture, and another sub-culture sees a ritual they use for community building and they imitate it. Sure it's placed into a different context so that culture can own it but the ritual is essentially the same.

It amazed me because both cultures are expressing their needs for the exact same thing, community in the face of a dominant culture that is oppressing them, in the exact same way.

Sit a bit

Come on in, the weather has become incredibly nice, so nice all the skins have been pulled back and a wonderful breeze is streaming through. I went and picked up a nice bunch of veggies, so feel free to munch a bit. The den has gotten a bit musty though, what with the lack of use...

Sorry bout that, that being the lack of use of the den, but football season always folds into the start of the school year, which usually brings some kind of illness, and then I just don't seem to have the time to write fun stuff. But I do believe I'd like to attempt more regular writings. Fun stuff written for my amusement tends to be more fun and jump starts other writing as well.

Speaking of fun writing, my First Nations Religion and Spirituality class is turning into quite a fantastic class. The professor has a rather informal style and welcomes almost any related subject to be discussed. The classroom periods feel more like free exchange rather than a lecture and I'm loving it. And my first paper should be a real doozy. Once it's done I do believe it will end up in the den.

I was really worried about the class, what with my own slightly wacky religious views, but hey it's been nothing to worry about. That and it's amazing that the class seems to have a lot of personalities that come forward and really push the level of knowledge. That is a rarity, believe me.

So here's to an attempt to write every day if possible. We'll see how it works out or if I'll just wuss out after a week. :)

Sickness and strife.

Come on in, I've got a lot of blankets around cuz I'm sick so I'm fairly bundled up. And of course, I saw some snow today. Lots of people apparently dislike the snow, me I've been missing it. There is something magical about being bundled up and staring out across a field of snow. Or watching the sky release millions and billions of flakes down on the earth. I dig it.

So I'm pretty sure I got the bacon fever, and then due to my wussy immune system it turned into a sinus infection. And antibiotics make me sleepy. It's ridiculous. And of course the fun part is the inability to read, cuz my eyes are itching and focusing for too long makes me go all wiggy. And I haven't even mentioned the unnaturally green coloured snot coming out of my nose. Oh wait, I just did.

But here's the kicker, here's the part that crushed me on Tuesday. My doctor is retiring at the end of November. He is one of the coolest people I've ever met and I'm so happy he has been my doctor. And while I'm thrilled he is able to retire and enjoy his life I'm sad to see him go as my health expert.

You see, as I've probably mentioned somewhere, I'm diabetic. And this means I'm s'posed to go to about a dozen different specialists. I've met ONE out of those dozens that I didn't want to beat with a large blunt object. They're almost all self-important pricks who need an attitude adjustment. Reason why I think all you folks who find House just so wonderful to be completely freakin' loopy. I've had my fill of asshole docs, and no never have they been entertaining.

Anyways, not the point. My doctor has taken it upon himself to consult with those specialists and allows me to go through him for all my needs unless specific equipment is required. With him retiring, I don't know if someone will do that for me. And I appreciated it.

But that's not even one of the best things he's done for me. When I was at my worst for depression, he helped me try a lot of things, not just medications, to try to get me back on an even keel. When we finally found the one that worked, I was so happy, and it was his trying, plus his statement that if I got any worse, just go to the hospital, get checked in and he'd be there as soon as he could to get me stable. You all think 'Bah, he's not gonna just show up for something like that.' Well let me tell you the one thing that really proved it.

I got hospitalized a few years back for pancreatis. Pancreatitis? I dunno. My pancreas stopped working, so they starved me for a week and kept me hospitalized until my systems started working again. Was fun. (Side bar: the oncology ward in the Pasqua is pretty nice, not that any of the unfortunates there got to enjoy it, wow that was a nice/frightening place) I had been hospitalized for one day, scared witless because the doctor was positive I was going to die, and asked if I wanted to, and then shipped from the General to the Pasqua. And the 'Riders lost. Sucked.

Anyways, one day and I get a visitor, my doctor. He asked me questions, sat with me for about an hour as we talked about what I was and wasn't doing. He gave me advice on what and how to change and who to talk to. He spent a lot of time just making sure I not just wanted to get better but had all the tools to do so. He showed up the very next day to make sure I wanted to live. He knew my history, he knew my issues. He gave a shit and that helped a lot.

He's been my doctor for 33 years. Since I was a year old. Can you get that shit? 33 years. Only person who's know me longer and as well is my mom. And maybe the doc knows a few things mom don't.

So this is to you Doc. The kind of doctor who never pumped my girls full of antibiotics. The kind of doctor who embraced alternative medicine, and worked for your overall health. The kind of doctor who, when told 'It hurts when I do this' would say 'Well don't do that.' The doctor who's helped keep me alive for 12 years. I'm going to miss you and wish you the best in all your future plans and enjoyments. If every doctor acted like you, maybe we wouldn't even have to deal with House-like assholes, and we'd all be a lot healthier. Thank you.