Author: leaving traces

Size doesn’t matter. Practice matters.

I went to Mexico with my mom and sister once and we walked into this amazing shop where a ‘well-rounded’ man was beading. If you looked around the shop you would see floor to ceiling items beaded with some of the most colourful and intricate beads you can find. He was beading a necklace when we walked in. His fingers were as round as dinner sausages – like bratwurst – not a tiny English sausage you would eat for breakfast. It blew my mind how he could bead with such rhythm, dexterity, so smoothly and seemingly perfectly. My fingers were at least half the girth and I know I would fiddle around, drop beads, curse, shame myself, ask myself why I was doing this. Take a break and/or lose interest altogether.

I have no cultural ties to this work, so why would I do it? Besides trying to understand my own thoughts and feelings through a creative process… shouldn’t I do it because it draws me closer to something? Can I braid a trail of stories to my ancestors? What about walking paths of buried rivers? Will that connect me to my lineage and to myself? When my feet move do they plant down roots? I’m always cautious of stepping forward on a land that I’m not from, not a part of; an uninvited visitor to these lands.

Pre-cautious. Frozen. Over-giving. Invisible. Ancestors – timelines. Angels. Connection. Sigh.

My right hip-flexor is tensing. My thoracic spine curled and tense. It’s like my bones collapse around who I am. Fearful I’ll make a mistake. Fearful I’ll be too big. Too loud. Cast a large shadow.

Da da da dada da da da dah … was not the sound that would have been made by my body notes. Imagine a dark night, a ghost town barely remembered by tourists of days past. A tumble weed rolls passed – we’ve only stopped here to get gas and maybe sleep in our car on our way to the next town. In a window of a garage that hasn’t been open for car repairs in at least a decade, sits a small toy monkey with brass cymbals and a dismayed look upon its face. Now imagine winding this monkey up… it’s cold, damp, lonesome and quite a pity – what tune do you hear when this monkeys’ sounds are released… bump… baeehhh…reeeghh..grind..clunk.. whooomph..

*cut to next scene where head slumps over shoulders… eyes look up disheartened like my dog when the walk we took him on wasn’t long enough.. wasn’t fun enough… we didn’t ‘play’ enough with him.

These are the looks and notes of disappointment, disenchantment, displeasure, dis, dat, and de odder ting.. lol.

My ab did some work though – I feel like I have one dormant ab that forms a blobby circle around my belly and lower back – like a donut or inner tube. The air was pushed from here like when you lose tire pressure in winter. I will no longer body shame though – only tease to bring some light in – after all – there’s a saying that goes, “Every time we speak negatively to and about our bodies a straight, rich, white man gets richer”. I won’t support the patriarchy in this way.

That sad monkey, with slumped shoulders, rusty cymbals, and crunchy insides lifts his head ever so slightly so his gaze reaches mine…

“Really? Really self- aggrandizing white lady? Really?”

Someone is here. A kiss through the screen. Mascara runs like period blood down her inner thighs. Stopping at her calves before she notices. Was this the first time? Scratches on her back. A foggy memory on a clear night. Lusting eyes. Leering. Charming. Meditative. Gleening.

Sparkles on the tips of blades. A viking screams. The wolves howl. The riverbeds are still. Dusk falls. Questions are asked. They were there that night, but where were you? I didn’t know about protective shields. ‘No’ was a heavy word – a word for loners and nerds. Dorks who played Dungeons and Dragons. There is my dragon. Here to protect me. He/She/They leave a key hidden for me. To break free, free from this cage – not locked in the dungeon. Lillies. Carnations. Dew-soaked. Fragile and forever. Pansies always make it through winter. Stems may break under the snow, but new stems grow. Purple whiskers on brimming petals unfurl when the time is right. We are still here they wink. You may not have seen us. You may have forgotten. Out-of-sight-out-of-mind protects us. Everything we do or have had done to us is on purpose. Intentional. Seek power in the silence. Resist the limelight. Your powers are masked behind closed doors. Mine is shut; waiting.

Nope. Not today, Josh. What’s the male equivalent to Karen? Probably Brad or Dave.

Something is wrong with you for thinking there is something wrong with me. I’ve tied up my boots’ straps just as you have. I’ve buttoned all the buttons on my overcoat. I shat out a PhD while you tilled the fields. My education sows the seeds of your future. My laces are taught with the lining of my uterus. Like sinew: long-lasting, weather-resistant – the perfect choice.

Do your loins cause you to speak without thought? If women’s tongues connect to their brain and heart, I’d assume yours is connected to your ass.

I’m so fucking tired of the male gaze… of arrogance, entitlement, and dollops of hollow self-confidence. I’m still waiting for my graphic tee that reads, “Walk with the confidence of a mediocre white man”.

Look at us – look at all we are doing – crafting castles of yarn, felt, twigs and Earth. All for you to visit, to tread upon, to leave your mark.

She blows up her belly and swallows him whole. He was born too soon, his thoughts unformed, premature, back into the belly you go – turn to 425 – cook until done.

Brown tousled hair. Green eyes. A knowing. Unthreatened and invincible. No ladder to climb – just a few steps if he’s lucky. Glowing and gloating. Floating on the shoulders of his forefathers. The grandmothers are mountains – they look on in stillness, smiling. Sending their thoughts of wisdom on the wind.

A frog in his path. He sinks in the mud. The wind picks up the leaves and ruffles his hair. If only he could see, and one day know the truths. You small sprite, covered in mud. We sent that frog. We placed the mud. We shook the leaves from the trees.

Rib cage. Bird cage. Caged animals. Flesh and bones. Eagles soaring. Wings clipped. Blood hits the pavement. Stepped on by strangers. Chewed gum spit on the sidewalk – where the curb meets the road. These streets are wet. It’s dark. The light is unnatural. Glistening. Paintings. Cinema. Men in hats. Frosted windows. Finger prints on window panes. A child was here. Red pleather diner booth. Checkered floors. Turquoise something. Rocket lights. A jukebox. Secrets and lies. Sideways glances. Dances with Wolves. Footprints in the snow – then they stop. No cliff. No bush to hide in. A rabbit disappears while shaking in plain sight. Eyes are black dots. Do what brings you joy. Bullshit is everywhere. Goodness is everywhere. Struggle is everywhere. A garbage bag vacuum sealed over lips. The bag blows open – I see a foot… a paw. It’s on the highway. This is true. Bare naked. Baring teeth. Barbed words. Incompetent specialists. Mist turns to snow. To fog. To lose and forget. Altered landscapes. Hidden behind the fog. Truth and reality change before our eyes. Smiling faces – lean into joy. Sun shines on glistening snow. Brussel sprouts form on river banks. Counting piles of coins. Scrooge McDucks. Swimming in a sea of gold. Pearlescent halos – auras – chords, light gobstoppers of protection mirror your bullshit back to you. I am protected. I am strong. I am safe. I have support – braless wonder. Buds pushing up through the snow – cracking on the surface. Amethyst. Obsidian. A friend. Good food and a party. Wondering what a wonderful life is about?

Socks on feet. Shoes by the door.

This is so beautiful. I can see Donovan’s new muse coming along as he has done quite well painting views through windows.

How beautiful this was. How generous an offering. Sharing a somewhat intimate moment with “the World” – other strangers who presumably have windows.

This is like zoom with no protagonist. The setting is the main character. The muffled sounds can be interpreted rather than fully known. It’s exciting to see a new object enter the screen – just like the championship moment of the yule log channel when the fire is stoked or new logs are added.

Turkey. USA. Greece. USA. All windows. All people living their lives. All with nothing in common. All with one thing in common. A window. A willingness to share.

Why is everyone so incompetent? Can’t they see I’ve left my corporate status-quo job behind to live a dream I never even knew I had until everything went to shit and I landed in Paris?

Don’t they know that in my dream there was no room or even thoughts of barriers, obstacles, pet peeves, Smiley Susans and Do-Gooder Debbies? Didn’t they know that to live out a dream is to vaguely and foggily go through the motions – not remembering all of the details?

I used to go to boulangeries and patisseries (love how there are two business models for breads and pastries) at 5am – it was the best hangover food ever. There I was, 20 year old Anglo-Canadian in Dieppe, “finding myself” by getting sloshed with the locals – all friends of a pizza-shop owner… I think I stayed in a hostel and then a room above the shop. Moroccan and Algerian men were my ‘crew’. I had a new marriage proposal almost daily.

So there I was – barking like a dragon at 5am after a night of dancing – demanding I be taken to the back door of the bakery at 5am to devour the freshest, warmest, ooey and gooey-ist of chocolate croissants you can ever imagine… what a sight?!

Noticeably – these marriage proposals came at the beginning of the night – not while the pumpkin carriage disappeared and the entitled, bossy dragon-lady emerged from the depths of her mascara-stained eyes. They must have really wanted to escape their current lives to run away with me back to Canada.

If paperwork and legalese weren’t so serious – I probably could have had five plus husbands by now – all of them receiving their ticket to perceived freedom.

I wanted to chop my head off and let it roll away. Like the ‘Missing Piece’ by Shel Silverstein. Good-Bye head. Roll away, wherever you like – I’ll allow you to keep the ears and lips for steering and breaking – I’m guessing if you rolled downhill and there was a small obstacle you could make a “smoochie” face pursing your lips at just the right time to jump over the pebble, or snake, or used bandaid.

While you’re out – take all your baggage with you – I hope you get going fast enough that centrifugal force will pull at your shit – leaving pieces of your junk strewn far and wide. Leaving a trail of your nonsense – so if my heart, my back, my neck missed you, we could come find you.

We would be better off when we found you because your shit would be gone… and we would not pick it up on our mission to find you.

I imagine once we found you, you’d be snuggled on a grassy knoll somewhere or in a meadow of wildflowers. You’d have made a friend, or little sidekick, just a little cutie… like when ‘Horton Hears a Who’ from Dr. Seuss’ imagination.

I see you more as a flower though, or a bee, or one tuft of dandelion seed blowing in the wind beside you.

It’s sunny where you are. You would be calm, rested, and content. An easy smile on your lips.

No heart, shoulders and spine to weigh you down. I wonder if you would welcome me when I approached, or would you kiss your pebble kickstand to the side and be on your way.

Meanwhile… my neck is cold and gushing blood. You’ve left quite a gory mess behind you.

We are drawn to movement. I guess I believe an eagle lives here because there is a tuft of eagle down blowing slightly on a stick.

I hear chickadees or other little birds chirping nearby. The eagle is so mighty they won’t pay a sneak visit even while the eagle is away.

My partner is an Eagle. He is from Eagle Clan. Our son is Raven, from Raven Clan. Haida society and culture is matrilineal so the names and clan crests are passed down through the mother’s side. Korbin’s mom is not me – she is a Haida Raven. I am the stepmom. I’ve been helping to raise Korbin since he was 10 – almost 6 years ago. He is wonderful. I don’t feel I need to adopt the “bonus mom” turn of phrase as I see nothing wrong with being a step-parent.

Eagle down is one of the most sacred cultural “items” in Haida culture.

When Chief’s dance – they put Eagle down in their frontlets – frontlets are sort of like headdresses but they are worn more like a band around the forehead with an ornate animal crest on the front.

As the dancer moves, the Eagle down floats out so beautifully, so gentle – falling purposefully among the audience members or witnesses. Eagle down protects all those who it touches.

Raspberries. Pineapples. Tropical Fruit. An alligator, mosquito and penguin walk into a bar….

I see a large tropical fruit hat on a beautiful Caribbean dancer. I see an alligator leaping straight out of silty water with a raspberry bellybutton. I am imagining a fruit cocktail, a Hawaiian pizza, a cornucopia. This is not near here. This is someplace on Instagram reels or TikTok. This place is “exotic” – foreign to me and my lived experience.

I fed raw chicken to Cayman’s once. In Costa Rica. They are “small” alligators.

I wonder if sturgeons are the pacifist crocodile… or maybe that’s manatees? What if each relation to another mammal is like all of the parts of us? Alligator is fierce and cranky. Manatee is a bit of a ‘dodo’ but kind and care-free. The sturgeon would say so much if it could… like “stop picking me up for your dumb photos”, and “I’m so unimpressed with humans”. Maybe sturgeons have ESP with other water creatures – so they can make requests to frogs, snakes, whales and barracudas. The sturgeon “ESP’s” to the jellyfish to sting that motherfucker over there. He’s ‘caught-and-released’ me on four separate occasions. Just give him a good sting on his foot – close to where he finds me. That should teach him.