Touchstone

-for Garnet Rogers

You say love is all that matters,
and holding someone near
turns blue walls into a bright sky,
fills the room with sounds of water falling
into the deep mineral spring
that slips through your hands

I say grace is your testimony,
it’s the way you’ve outlived grief, escaped
the black wings that fell
from the sky and pinned you to burning ground
it’s the silence you offer up
between words

Now you’re surrounded by laughter,
and the spot light
your voice is full of earth and dusk,
the clouds you breathed at sunset,
shimmer of brake lights you followed to arrive here,
stars you’ve mapped, in their home above the trees.

On the day you’re due home, your wife lights a lamp
and even though candles burn out, the wax stays warm –
sure sign you’re nearly there
Maybe she puts her hand on your pillow,
finds strands of red-gold hair,
thinks of you
parked on a roadside, resting
beneath trees, listening to tiny voices of leaves
and traffic sounds

I promise you that wherever you sleep, whatever you dream,
there will be no more than this –
you will be given nothing else
You have love, all that is.

Dust on the lampshade

Jeffrey Kane: The first question I’d like to ask you is, As you walk down the street, or as you eat your meal, or as you go to bed at night, do you see a spiritual dimension which pervades everyday existence?

Huston Smith: If I answer honestly and personally (it’s a personal question), the answer is some days I do, and some days I don’t. But let me say immediately that on the days that I don’t, I feel unwell, you might say. It is as if I have the spiritual flu—something like that. When you have the flu you feel rotten, and when you have the spiritual flu the world seems drained of meaning and purpose—humdrum and prosaic. But I’ve lived long enough to be able to say when those days roll ’round: okay, this is the yin and yang of life—ups and downs. This is one of those dark days of the ego. Most of the time, though, meaning and purpose are discernible, often to lyrical heights. Those moments are privileged; they are gifts. Even when my happiness isn’t at a rolling boil, I tend to know that there is a spiritual dimension to all things.

*****

I find that this exchange between Jeffrey Kane and the wise and wonderful Huston Smith is very beautiful, but it also fills me with sadness.

It makes me sad because I remember feeling that everyday life was infused with a spiritual dimension every day. But now I find that whole weeks go by where I don’t even think of it. It seems to me that the busy routine that mostly centres around work is the cause of this spiritual dimness.

When I was in university, I lived meaningfully every day, because I was always reading amazing books, conversing with people, volunteering, etc. I had no idea that this way of living would not be the norm once I finished school.

We tried living in an inexpensive house outside of town, hoping that it would be possible to work less and have more freedom. It turned out that the commute ate up most of the extra time and a lot of cash too – it’s expensive to travel such a long way every day.

Now, back in town, there are certainly many moments of joy – the sweet and wonderful things that Liam says and does, bike rides at Stoney Swamp, reading Huston Smith, writing, the occasional inspiring conversation – the house concerts we participated in, Sean’s music.

Just the same I am beginning to understand quite well those stories of people who quit their run of the mill jobs and take off into the wild blue yonder, whatever form that may take.

I wonder if you also see this coating of dust on the lampshade that turns the light into an almost-memory? We need to keep creating spaces that are alive with our humanity; open the window and let in the wind; blow the dust away.

Focal spaces

Originator No. 2, Carl Beam
Originator No. 2, Carl Beam

I like to write because it helps me to connect with focal spaces where I feel most alive and closest to God, in whatever form God takes. Writing about Aboriginal art deepens this experience, because I am writing about art, which is usually the product of connections with God and living things.

Writing about Aboriginal people and their art is a small way to heal the world; picking up the shards of broken things and putting them back together; fixing the splintered, warped perspective of mainstream interpretations of Native art. And how could it be otherwise, if a person writes about NDN art, but sees it from across the chasm of ignorance that separates that writer from their subject?

Focal spaces may envelope us in many times and places. Over food you made and shared, when riding your bike early in the morning before the city sounds have taken over; walking, dancing or standing in place, on a path where people have gone before over hundreds of years, and knowing it deep in your bones. Writing opens these spaces within me, and perhaps in you.

What is reconciliation? In the country

I got lost in Indian country. Don’t know when exactly. Maybe a few weeks after the Oka Crisis ended and traditional people walked out of the treatment centre in Kanehsatake, holding up sacred masks. It could have been on a trip up north in the middle of winter, riding in a cold van, sipping my Haisla friend’s twist shandy, listening to him strum guitar. We got out along the way and looked up at the stars. They were so bright, as if they had been plugged into a socket on overload. I could feel the shock. Somebody picked me up out of the snow where I was lying, gazing skyward. Brushed off the ice. We got back in the van and drove north.

Once I went out to Kanehsatake and sat among the Pines by myself, a lone figure in a grove of trees planted by the ancestors of the Mohawk people. I buried a silver bracelet under a pine tree and said a prayer for the little forest. That was years ago. Surely an animal has made off with it by now. Then I walked a road for a long time, looking for my friend’s place. Somebody stopped, gave me a lift to Joe’s tiny house perched on a hill above hayfields. I was definitely in Indian country then, among fields shimmering in the sun, lush with summer. Since that day, Joe has passed on, his ashes scattered over Blue Mountain near his home. He was behind the barricades until the last day of the siege of Kanehsatake (the Oka Crisis). He walked out to the army’s perimeter, climbed into a waiting bus and was driven to prison.

Joe and other Mohawks who stayed behind the razor wire until the end were eventually released pending trial. We used to talk on the phone sometimes about how to raise funds for their defense. He warned me that his line was tapped by the RCMP, but we talked anyway, about fund-raising, the Lord of the Rings (a favourite book for us both), and how anxious he was—he didn’t want to come out of the house some days. On that blue-sky day when I visited, I sat with him on his front steps, drinking grape juice, and then watched the sun shimmer over the fields as he raked grass. Had dinner with him and his girlfriend in the yard, back of his place. As I sat in Joe’s yard, behind his little house, I didn’t know where that country came from. I can’t enter Indian country at will. Maybe it’s an illusion as deep as hayfields in summer. There might be only one country, growing through me, filled with electric shock and pine roots and the dust of old friends.

Photo of Joe David, taken in Kanehsatake, courtesy of Elizabeth Sacca

A way to temper isolation

I thought I would start this blog as a way to talk about the process of researching and writing my articles on Aboriginal art and artists. Right now I’m working on a really ambitious piece – I’m researching a piece on the late Mohawk artist Joe David, from Kanehsatake.

Joe David - Eastern Door web site

It’s been slow going. I got the idea from Diane Pugen, a prof at the Ontario College of Art and Design. We met at the Aboriginal Curatorial Collective’s annual conference, which took place in Ottawa last fall.

I thought it would be a good idea to write about Joe’s art, because this year marks 20 years since the Oka Crisis, and Joe, who was behind the barricades, was written about a lot, but mostly because of his “warrior” role, and not because of his art.

At first, I got just about nowhere, emailing and calling people who might have something to say about Joe David as an artist, or images of Joe’s art that I could look at. But during those six months I managed to locate six images of art, several books and articles written by, or about Joe.

Now I’m finally making progress, thanks in part to another conversation with Diane.  She suggested a number of people who will be very helpful to talk to. My first interview is tomorrow night with my friend Arthur Renwick, a Toronto-based Haisla artist and musician who used to hang out with Joe in Montreal back in the nineties.

I am relatively new to writing about art, and just getting to know the First Nations art community, so I feel pretty isolated most of the time as I work on these articles. I am not really sure of their value, and don’t have a master plan in terms of what I want to do, or where I want to go with them.

It just seems that my personality drives me to make things happen, either by creating something in writing, or by organizing events – as a student I was an activist and organized countless panel discussions and demonstrations. Now, I sometimes help put on house concerts with my husband and friends! Great fun.

When I first decided to write a series of articles I had planned to write profiles of successful Native people who are doing interesting things, and offer the pieces to a non-Native audience, in the hopes of making a small chink in the armour of ignorance that characterizes the mainstream attitude to Aboriginal peoples in Canada. Instead, I seem to be beginning to take part in the conversation about First Nations art from within that community, which is a very unexpected outcome.

I didn’t now I had anything to contribute in that way. But I guess when you love something, you usually have a unique perspective to bring to it.  Let me know what you think – how you feel when it comes to writing about something that requires a lot of time spent alone.