Author: leaving traces

Wooh. Feeling a bit woozy, light-headed. Heavier on my base which seems ironic as my legs and feet were in the air. My digestive system had a chance to gurgle, make noise, space, release. I do feel very constricted when I’m sitting down, like I’m needing to hold everything together.

Interesting that this morning I was thinking about a need to heal my gut and the topic today was food and culture.

I love food. I really do. I need to learn the daily practice of loving my body just as much. I did some naked stretches in the mirror this morning and thought kindly of my reflection. I thought I looked pretty cute all stretched out, hands above my head, fingers interlaced, tilting from side to side.

My body yearns for lengthening, stretching out, reaching. Swimming is a true love for my body – my front stroke reaching forward while my back legs drag and kick behind. I am my tallest when I am swimming. i am hoping to begin to write love stories to my body – nourish it through the food it is craving – really deeply listen to it. I am thinking of this amazing wild strawberry slushie type of drink I had while attending a gathering at the Native Canadian Centre of Toronto. I was always so welcome there, in any form, it was such a beautiful place.

The times I have been in deep danger I have also been drunk. Either blackout drunk or mildly drunk and drugged. What pulled me out of this… well – the incidents happened, so I’m not sure I was able to pull myself out in time.. however… I’m still here… so I survived on some level. I’m not really sure which aspects of this I want to share or dive into. Maybe I can think of wading into the shallows of this… how can I dip my toes into recalling former trauma, abuse and assault? Is there a way this recalling can feel similar to my feet in the sand and my toes dipping into cool clear water? If the water is on the seashore, are there metaphors and imagery of seaweed, murky algae, fish and crabs hiding under the sand being kicked up by the waves? If the water is from a creek, is it rushing quickly passed my feet and up to my ankles? Does the pacing change? The volume of water? The sound? Is this water particularly cold, clear, ripply? Are there mini crayfish scuttling away from me to hide, or are they raising their claws and slowly approaching my toes – defending territory or otherwise?

I think I may need to use fiction and metaphor to share these moments so there is no deep dive, no shock-value to these stories. So maybe there is a transformation of trauma to a feeling of comfort, of cleansing, of cool calmness that can be washed past my feet and ankles – cleansing my connection to Earth, to center.

I need to use water as a vehicle to share these moments of deep danger in a way that also cleanses and heals.

The term “imagined memoir” stuck out for me from one of our last calls. This made me think of my grandmothers whom I have never met – they both died before I was born.

I went to visit my mom last Tuesday with the specific purpose of asking her stories about her life, her mother, her family life, upbringing, etc.

She was quite open and honest about her mom, which I had never heard before. It was really nice to be able to connect with her in a different way. She mentioned my grandmother’s hobbies such as bowling, bridge, dancing, and playing piano. She mentioned how her father sexually assaulted her and she thinks that’s what fuelled her alcoholism. She mentioned that my grandmother began binge-drinking when my mom was about ten years old. This would happen monthly – about one week of binge-drinking followed by vomiting and being locked in her room and then maybe one or two weeks of ‘normalcy’ and then the cycle repeated.

My mom mentioned my grandmother died of cancer – first breast and then it went into her spine. She mentioned she went to Japan as an airline stewardess and brought her mom back a pearl ring – one of the few nice things she had, she said.

When she was in the hospital she brought her a watch that fit her wrist – she began to cry as she said this. Her mother recognized that she was trying to help her and take care of her this whole time.

Bones. Marrow. Rigid and porous. Flexibility. Adaptability. DNA. The well of marrow springs up to form each unique self. White. Greyish yellow. Soft like an antler being born. Deer. Mule deer. I love the way they walk or saunter… there were four mule deer that sauntered with confidence and ease across the dirt parking lot last night while I was on the phone with my mother. I do love her, but.. no, not but.. yet – I do love her, yet she is always in a fight with someone about some thing. I am staying at her time-share in Osoyoos and she is constantly using her legal training to battle someone, some entity… she doesn’t understand why other people don’t want to take down ‘the man’ on their holidays. Why don’t the snowbirds read their contracts? Why doesn’t the OIB defend themselves? Why does no one else seem to be as agitated about this as I am?

As I drive passed the Nk’mip Cultural Center, I’m reminded of the comments that she made about how the ‘exhibit’ is never changing – how she, as an owner, who comes back repeatedly would like to see something different, something new. I can’t imagine how the poor soul at the desk dealt with these comments and suggestions from the old white woman who is bored by their creation story. Ugh.

She’s like a clumsy vigilante – fighting for the people while also placing herself on a higher footing – some would say a ‘saviour’ complex.

Her behaviour makes me think about intentionality, and ‘pure intentions’. This term was shared with me while I was working for a local First Nation on Vancouver Island. My mother always seems to need to get something out of the transaction for herself… “I brought them a blanket,” she told me (likely with the intention of trying to convince someone of her opinion),

“We don’t trade blankets here”, they said, “It’s not in our culture”.

I’m craving some Divine splendour. “Oh, how splendid” she said in a British accent, “you have Splenda.”

Belinda and Lucinda drank their aspartame tea and snickered at their Snickers bar while wearing sneakers that squeaked underfoot.

Under there, was bare. No underwear to share, poor yet happy, and free.

The breeze on the labia. How lovely. Skinny-dipping and the cool water swirling around all that makes us women. Swimming and flying and peacocking. I guess we would all peahen, not cock. Pea-henning all over town in our neutrals, earthy browns and layers of texture and pattern. Which witch is which? Camouflage in broad daylight – gosh – speaking of broads – I’m so glad I don’t hear that term anymore. That was a favourite term used by my dad. He was really confused when he had two daughters – how can a womanizer be a supportive dad to feminists? Lol.

We taught him well. He raised us in sports, more like if he had sons, I guess. Funny how we were sort of bro-ey. Ok, my mind is taking me all over the place – time to listen to and be led by my body. Quiet the mind and listen to the body. I can feel my right wrist – a bit constricted as it holds the pen. My right toes are tingling a bit and my lower back and left hip are aching – what are they telling me? Can I practice going beyond the superficial feelings and sensations in my body and go deeper – to organs, or the cellular level. Can we change our own DNA? If we heal, can we heal those before us?

Cargo boots. A military pack. Can I cheat and pull my parachute chord while I jump? I imagine trying to over-emphasize a backward-leaning run. Knees high, arms swinging – robotic and angle-y. Who am I kidding? I would need to train for this.. train jump… waaw waaw. Even if I followed her instructions, my sedentary body would be way out of its element. Heel-toe, heel-toe – mossy patch, jump! and chaos – the fastest tumbleweed you ever did see.

Also, why am I jumping from this train? Did I miss my stop? I’m sure the next stop isn’t that far. Am I fleeing for my life? If I’m fleeing for my life I need to start training. My partner told me of a crazy story about this well-rounded man who survived without any shoes, or food, or clothes for a few weeks up in the Arctic somewhere… they had no idea how he had stayed alive until they found him – so researchers did a study and found him alive.

Well – I guess I might survive a chilly train jump up North – if I survived the landing. I wonder if my butt will start to flatten out with all this sitting. Train. Moss. Body. Running. Running from or running to. I’m running to the stories of my ancestors, many who were running from persecution. Mennonites and plat-Deutsch run through my mother’s mother’s lineage. Here is born borscht and schneken and moos, banana cake, rallkeuke and zwieback – a two-headed bun.

Breathing in sunshine. Breathing out sunflower blooms. We live in a world where we can instant message someone in a war torn country. We live in a world where evil is so afraid, it commits acts against the most vulnerable, the most innocent. I’m realizing how much power artists have, writers have, poets have. To have the gift of staying in the light, of remaining peaceful while those commit acts of injustice. For each life taken, a star is born. Twinkling bright. In the Heavens. The sun the moon and the stars are with us, for we are these stars.

We colour the roots of evil with fairy dust, sparkles, and love. Wisteria vines strangle out the thorns. Cover the graves of fallen soldiers. Not choosing sides. Elderflowers grow across borders.

I guess I have a longing for an interesting family history. I’d love to come from a long line of rebel women who were maybe part of the suffragist movement, maybe I have witch blood, and cast spells around evil men who cause so much harm to others.

I am now remembering my great-grandmother dressing my great-uncles up as girls when they were young – I will need to find that photo again. There is another black and white photo of a great uncle riding an ostrich. Which great-uncle was the one who would sit at the dinner table and scoop up his spaghetti and meatballs in his eyeglasses to make the kids laugh?

I miss large dinners. Around large dinner tables. We would always finish eating first as kids and then crawl under the table to tie or untie shoelaces. Sometimes we would poke toes and pull leg hairs and then ‘sneakily’ crawl to the other end of the table so we wouldn’t get caught.

I wish I had met and known my grandmothers. My mom and I have had a sparse relationship and I find grandparents add a lot of context – oh ya – my mom is that person’s kid. Sometimes I feel like I was my mother’s mother in a previous life. She calls me for advice on my sister – she is a blunderer and really sticks her foot in her mouth a lot.

I think she is a badass though – a sort of secret confused feminist who thought she was suppose to please her husband, raise kids, and manage a high-level job.

Hmm… fantasy – circus freaks in my family? There was a story I did in Grade 4 about a Ukrainian great-great-great-aunt/grandmother? Bonnets and floral embroidery – is that in my lineage? I feel like there was a small town where my ancestors fled in once South Russia – Lutheran church colonies persecuted those for being protestant and ‘ethnically cleansed’ the area. So my ancestors fled to Germany for safety.

There seems to be a lineage of neglect or perceived neglect in my mother’s lineage. She didn’t feel loved by her dad because he always had to take care of his alcoholic wife and then when his son was born – he was the favourite. My mom used to try to force us together as family – she thought it was important. We would go to my uncle’s house in White Rock with my cousin Lindsey. She was younger and kind of a dud. I never felt any uncly vibes from my uncle. Wait – did he buy a convertible sports car once when I was under seven years old and take me for a spin? Was that him? I’ll have to ask.

I never really felt a fondness for him or my aunt Barb. She was Lindsey’s mom – but there was his other daughter too – Carissa, from his first marriage. We were estranged from her until about 17/18 years ago. My mom had reached out to her and started to build the relationship.

Our family is very fragmented. Both of my grandmothers died before I was born – my great-grandma died when I was five. My dad’s dad died when I was six or seven. I never really had aunts or uncles…

My left leg felt longer. Dragging in the mud. The left side body – the Feminine side – the past. Louise Hay says we can heal ourselves from dis-ease. Maybe I am having a hard time letting go of the past. My right foot and heel felt more powerful, ready to propel forward. Ready for the next step. My left side and the springy force under my left heel felt worn out – thinner. Like an overstretched elastic – bound to break. Is that just because the carpet was more worn out under my left foot?

How can my right foot, calf, knee, hamstring, quad, thigh and hip take us forward with power when my left leg, toes, heel are limp, deadweight – stuck idly in reverse?

Are there dried twigs sticking out from my Achilles tendon and poking down, staked into the Earth?

I slept a lot this past week. Not at the ‘right’ times though. Up until 2am, sleeping until noon. Maybe the beginnings and endings of the colonial chapters in my life require more rest. Maybe I need to fall deep asleep to reawaken as a new, or partially new version of myself.

Trees. Roots. Earth’s soil. Moss. Pine needles and cedar bows that have fallen on the trail. I do know the softest ground – if I ever needed to rest out in the woods.

What else? My stomach is beginning to grumble – should have made breakfast during the break.

Trees and a tire swing. A story – my body twists around my spine veering to the right rather than straight ahead. Shackles are being broken – leaves are falling to the ground. Trees grow from the inside out, I believe. Flexibility – movement. A bear brings salmon guts up the trail from the creek to nourish and lubricate its bones.