The Buddha is a snail

A slow soul earth traveler

who carries divine beauty’s swirl

on his back. his only defense.

no matter how hard our hearts may have become

we can’t help but squirm when we hear

that crunch on a rainy evening.

this is how he opens us up to the preciousness

of all the silent creatures.

A New Drum

My hands rub the sinew, pulling it, twisting it straight, sewing it through the holes. The horsehide wet but still tough like beef jerky. I weave it in and out, through eleven parts of the drum, diving into the middle every time I’m crossing over to the other side.

I decided to make this drum on my own because it was calling. I have one already – one that was given to me and one that I’ve been trying to release somewhere, surrendering that relationship we were in that went sour and dissolved the heart of any goodness. Every time I would beat that drum I felt I called back his Spirit, getting rewoven in that tale of two anguished hearts.

This drum would be different, the one I made with my own two hands. I sanded down the hoop, smoothing out the rough edges of my past and the routes I took before standing in this spot here. Those tales of dating a Native man when I was 18 years old, his blood and his struggle still echoing in my heart. And the other Native man who showed airs of whiteness, the insensitivity of humiliating jokes and strokes became dominatingly sickening.  And the other Native man, homeless from his tribe yet persisting in standing for just causes – his persistence to right the wrongs of human injustice stood nobly on the forefront of his mind, not able to make room for healthy romances. Always wandering out of collective duty to do what he’s supposed to, drowning in an experience of the traveling life of hotel rooms and red wine, lingering alone at the bar on Friday evenings.   And the other Native man, Potawatomi. The man who didn’t know where he fit and so would go into inner fits of his own makings, claiming they were demons tormenting him and this was the way of shamans. When in truth, he couldn’t see the light of his own being, a lifetime of feeling unloved, bruised and beaten will do that to anyone who wasn’t looking.  His hat was his distinctive feature and the one last thing he had to hold onto.  Then the other man, faraway from home and his grandmother, who did well for feeding him seal before he was sent away to join the Army. He lost his son at too young of an age and was looking for comfort of any passing lady.   He held strong to the sensual order, Great Spirit he felt in the simple textures of wood, cedar smoke and humming respectful noddings. It was easy to feel the comfort of Spirit in his presence, even if only for a night.

This dance into the realm of Native spiritual journeys. Dreamcatchers, bad spirits, people who have been torn apart by life’s remorseful oppressions that send horror stories as shivers in the breasts of mothers who’ve only recently just started menstruating. People recovering from addictions and lost dreams, griefs of loved ones who’ve been torn apart by killing, rape or suicidal misgivings. Where has the Great Spirit gone in these parts? It seems, most times, She’s been missing from the protection of blessings.  Why so much pain in a group of people who have been trained to see Wisdom in every tree, leaf and rock?

This drum is my own making. It sings a new song. A fresh song. A woman’s song. My own song. Not a song of tragedy, fear, loss of power or hopelessness. It is a song of love, self-esteem, tenderness and endless creativity.  My drum shows me that I have a soft heart and one that has let go of the heartache of the past. This drum is fresh, new, willing to bring joy, awareness, a space of loving to be alive, instead of shriveled up and believing it is all pointless.  This drum will beat her own voice, one I’ve yet to acquaint with, a relationship we’re both entrusting with the other to bring sounds of crickets, grass swaying and deer hooves pattering. This drum will speak and heal all that needs uplifting, bellowing out to the world of Spirits to bring us back home to our callings. She does not know of anything called desperation and lostness. She is hope in its whole and simple form, fullness in her deep voice, gentleness in her deer skin.

My Orange Snowsuit

In the photo I’m wearing an orange snowsuit with a fur-lined hood. I’m standing in the middle of the snow, with my nose bright red from the nip of the cold. Smiling.

In the next picture my dad, sister and I are tobaggoning down the hill, on one of those wooden sleds like you see in old movies.  He’s happy. I’m happy. My sister’s happy. Mom must be the person who is taking the picture. This was her way, I can only imagine, of making everything feel good for the family. A chance to have dad at home with us kids instead of “working late” or going out for days saying he was at some mysterious coffee shop. On this day though, it all seemed so much fun. A normal family. One where we had a Dad who stayed home because he loved being with us. Because he had nowhere else he’d rather be. Because we all looked so good together.

This is the photo that I think of whenever I see you, Dad.  That part that holds you up as someone who knows how to play, laugh, make everything feel good for mom. She really wanted you at home, Dad. We all did.  I remember this image whenever we meet or speak on the phone. It’s there whenever I look at your eyes that have been vacant or driven by your other choices. Choices to stay at a distance. Choices to enjoy a different kind of happiness. A choice to gamble the money away. A choice to forget the tobaggon rides when you decided to be with other women. 

I look at this photo in my mind and see a man who could have had so much more. But perhaps this is the vacancy in my own heart. Not yours. For you probably haven’t noticed that there’s something missing. You.

You will never know the longing that the three of us have had for you. Hoping you would change. Hoping you would realize we are valuable. Hoping you would understand that our Love is important. You were wanted in our arms. We needed you, not just to make a house, but we needed you to be with us. We needed to get to know each other. Because we actually did have fun with you. We saw how much you loved being with kids. We saw how you actually cared to make us laugh and to make a world that was filled with dreams and fantasies, lifting us up to a different plane of seeing it all so very lightly.

We’ve held a space for you all these years – even though we’ve come to an exasperated resolve that there is no use but some memory of your heartbeat that made us whole.  Which peeks out every so often when we meet for a meal. This man, my father, sits across from me with stories of his many forays of the seedy-side of humanity. A man who seems to have been searching for freedom by playing games all of his life. A man who continues to leave us through his many ideas of the next get-rich-quick scheme in his mind.  

This man who will still say “I love you, kid”, and make my heart melt away all the hurt and pain, even if only for a moment.

My Wild Self

She lives in a treehouse. Her name is Heather.

While she lays on the hardwood floorboards, she listens to the river wash through each crevice in the trees. Her imagination soars without holding on too tightly to outcomes or adventures that have to be proven.

She is someone who wants to be known yet she is just as content if no one asks. She finds herself interesting, the world around her fascinating, perpetually in a state of curiously watching for the next new dandelion seed floating by or the branch of a tree bobbing on top of the mild rapids. She excitedly pursues where the high winds blowing through her mind will lead her next. 

She is filled with new beginnings and things yet to be uncovered in the heart. She lives in the blooms of unusual and delicate flowers.

She has many stories of how she came to be and stories that unfold who she will become. Her thoughts are her creation and liberation, even though she has tried many times to escape them or throw them into the Universal Fire, handing over the chaos to someone else, somewhere else, who she’s thought could handle them much better.

She dreams of a romantic and precious life. She strives to bring heaven to earth by caressing each petal or brushing her hair gently at just the right angle.  She doesn’t push herself too hard, knowing she has all the time in the world, yet she has a message that pounds in the middle of her chest, hoping some are sensitive enough to listen.

She knows at the core that an art-full life holds much sweetness in that humming. She remembers the journeys of her joys--captures them, weaves them, allows them to become part of her Creation. She says it is possible to have a sense of humour, to be daring, quirky and bold at the same time.

She does not need to save the world through her voice. Rather she creates magic in her every day showing that Life can be filled with wonder by perpetually birthing inspiration.

Bill the Belabourer

I wrote this piece as part of a writing workshop. We were asked to write the anti-thesis of our wild, creative self. I discovered that my "doubter" is a socially-conscious conformist named "Bill the Belabourer". Here are his words about my choice to write creatively...

There is a self in me who doesn’t want me to be me. He tells me my pursuits are boring. I have nothing of true interest to share and no one will want to listen to it anyways. Besides, no one will be able to relate with my words and they will end up in a vacuum of wasted time and energy. I've named this part of me Bill the Belabourer and he works actively for good causes.

He says “you’re inferior – your life is almost over, you have to earn a living and secure your income. Who the heck are you to be pursuing writing while people are suffering with obligations of bills and blowing kids’ noses. What a snobby and arrogant profession you’ve chosen – believing you somehow know better or have better things to say than someone else – who are you to make your voice soooo important to actually write it and make other people endure your words? And all the trees you’re hurting by writing 1^st drafts, 2^nd drafts, 3^rd drafts, 4^th drafts – how so very self-indulgent of you in this world of environmental degradation. You have so many other more important things to do for humanity – why bother doing something like write – do you really think it’s going to go anywhere? 

If you don’t win any prizes or make a big name for yourself than you have done nothing of a contribution and rather you are just being a selfish, insular slob who conveniently drops out of society.  Imagine that! You actually believe you can be happy, fulfilled, creative and not have to suffer like the rest of us! Well I’m going to protest that and make you join our collective cause of mutual misery. How dare you laugh and smile around others who have been tortured, brutalized, maimed and forgotten! Instead you’re throwing away your privilege of living in a free country and doing something flighty and flippant like “writing poetry”.  Good grief! At least just sign a petition now and then. Please? Or better yet, why don’t you write about political issues instead of this mamsy-pansy, head-in- the clouds stuff. Now that’s what I call doing something with your words. What do you say, eh? I got a good contact with the Labour Board Communications department. Come on…let's get you going down the right direction...”