Today, I found old letters from family members written long ago. These letters are like an echo, a voice from the past reminding me of those I love.
Their voices tell me what was happening then and remind me that those whose voices I no longer hear loved me.
Old letters are the closest you can get to a hug from someone who is no longer here. I hope you have some old letters to bring those echos and distant hugs back to you. ❤️
Cancer….why
So I asked
There was no answer, only silence
Again I asked
CANCER…why
Still no reply
In anger and frustration I yelled
CANCER….WHY
Still silence, no answers
I can only cry.
cancer….why
My tears fall. My heart is silently broken.
There are no answers, the fight begins and still I wonder why in the silence
Do you see the beauty of the snow as it sparkles in the moonlight?
Do you see the beauty of the falling rain in the evening?
Do you feel the peace in the midnight fog?
When you are surrounded by beauty and peace do you know it’s there?
The lake it calls me home. Waves breaking softly upon its shore. The birds singing in the trees near by. The warmth of the sun in the sky. The lake it calls me home.
The lake it calls me home, feeling peaceful in silence I sit. Meditating on the waves as they hit the shore; sounds all around of the water as it sings. Life is what the lake brings. The lake it calls me home.
The lake it calls me home, peaceful upon its shore; the birds and the animals that it brings. The lake is calling me home. Sunlight glistening brings me close to the peace and hope. Quiet as the lake sings. The lake is calling me home.
The going home snow, kewaytinok
Tell me about the going home snow, kewaytinok
The last snow before spring. One last moment to remind you to take a breath in the stillness of winter.
Tell me how the geese have returned and the birds sing. Kewaytinok
Tell me about life renewed.
Tell me about the going home snow and what it means.
Kewaytinok
I close my eyes and I feel the softness of the earth under my feet. My moccasins touching the soul of where my ancestors walked before me.
I breath in and listen to the quiet of the forest all around me. It’s quiet but noisy at the same time. I gear the birds and animals around me. I feel the peace and connection that my ancestors felt before me.
I open my eye and I see the beauty of this land. I see the clear water, I see the treas grown tall. I see the birds flying and the moose walking. I see the plants for healingand medicines and I know where I belong.
I feel the connection, so strong. I pray to my ancestors to ask Creator to help me and guide me. I pray that others see the beauty and blessing of our ancestors who walked this land. I pray so others may see their reflection and the beauty of the natural world.
In 1990 when I was 18 there was a stand off in Oka. I watched the news every night worried for the people who were fighting for their land. I watched as the government criminalized the Indigenous people. I watched as racism raised its ugly head and hate filled the hearts of many people. I ended up writing this poem about the warriors that were fighting.
Tall, brave, defiant stand the young warrior. Praised by his people for his valor, fighting for his cause.
Yet people once friends now label him an enemy. Insulting things that they do not understand. They call him names and laugh in scorn at the proud warrior
“What is this they fights for?” they ask. “A piece of land, what possible meaning could it have?” They suggest to give up; for they believe it is a lost cause.
Still he, the warrior, remains resistant, standing with gun in hand, ready, waiting for the tanks to lumber across the land, his ancestral home. The burial ground of his grandfathers. That is why he fights.
He fights for that final resting place, his historic homeland. He, the warrior is fighting for something that belonged to his forefathers. His land by right, snatched from the hands of his predecessors. Into a corner his ancestors were pushed; now his generation comes out fighting.
His people were forgotten, pushed away until now. For now his people have taken a stand, wanting to get back what is rightfully theirs.
I wrote this on August 28, 1990 during the Oka stand off. For those who were on the front lines and those that were there in spirit.
I paint as an expression of what I feel that I cannot always explain with words. Sometimes these paintings come to me very clearly as this one did. I had been thinking about how much my family has been impacted by residential schools, how colonization has affected us and how these things are passed on generationally.
This painting represents how imposing blue quills has been on my family. There is a lot of intergenerational trauma because of it. We had multiple generations of family members attend this s hool.
Flowers represent medicines to me. The flowers are growing over the photos and bringing healing and change. Medicine comes in many forms.
The photo of blue quills is large because it had a huge impact. It’s not covered because it will never go away.
The smudge and eagle feather are clearing away the pain through reconnection to culture. Culture is medicine.
Each one of the flowers represents someone in my family. The purple ones are my dad and his siblings. The yellow ones represent myself and my siblings that’s why there are 5 of them. The orange ones are my parents grandchildren. The pink dots represent all of my cousins. The berries represent change and new growth. The sage also represents growth through healing. There are two photos of my family members as youth when they would’ve been in Blue Quills Indian Residential school
The background colours are there because of how this painting came me. Red is understood to be connected to healing, it is also understood to be the only colour that spirits can see.
Overall the painting is like a prayer for healing, separating my family from the school and the impact it’s trauma created.
I wish I could speak my language. I know words but not conversations. I hear words I recognize but cannot understand. Some words come to me.
Pikiskwe – speak
Astum ota – come here
Awas – go away
Mitsoh – eat
I know words and sometimes I hear answers in my mind…
Tansi -namoyananto ekwa kiya
…but my mind says “I’m fine, how about you?”
Someone gives me something, my mind says ay-aye but I answer in English and say thank-you.
Kekeway oma? What is this?
I have lost my words. I have lost my conversations and now only in my mind I speak.
Silence,
It is deafening in its stillness and quiet
Kista?
Awina?
Neya.
I am silent.
I am mute.
What do I say?
These words are lost to me.
These words I should know.
Tapwe.
I should be able to speak but I am silenced.
The nuns and the priests they took away the language.
I heard it in my youth.
My father’s first language. He learned not to speak and to remain silent.
It is spoken to others, who also spoke…those not totally mute, not totally silenced but still they did not speak it to me. I am silenced.
Sometimes words want to come, not lots of words only some. Then fear takes hold and they go away.
I do not know enough language to get by.
I know a few words but still fear gets in the way so I remain mute.
Silenced.
The silence is deafening in its stillness and quiet.
Thanks to that school I am silent. I am mute.
Sakaw Iskwew 