Re-Discovering the Doctrine of Discovery

 

In the last days of February, the weather has kept me inside more than usual and so I have been taking the opportunity to learn.  Books, videos, YouTube, on-line courses and audio books have allowed me to hear from all kinds of people.  One of these teachers came in the form of Professor of Indigenous Law at the University of Victoria, Larry Borrows in Demystifying the Doctrine of Discovery.  This wonderful 2 hour webinar was cohosted by Conservation Through Reconciliation Partnership and West Coast Environmental Law and included Elder Larry McDermott and Indigenous lawyers Aimée Craft, Larry Innes and Rayanna Seymour-Hourie.

Borrows started off with a short history of the Doctrine of Discovery. As far back as the Middle Ages during the Crusades, the Pope gave justifications for Christian leaders to take land from Muslims because they were not Christian.  In other words, if Christians “discovered” land where there were no Christians, then they could take control of it.  This doctrine continued through the time of the  Portuguese and Spanish “discoveries” of the “Americas” so that they could take any land that was “empty” (Terra Nullius) of Christians.  Later, the British kings took up this idea as well.  So, from about 1000 -1600 AD there was this prevalent idea of superiority of Christian nations and the inferiority of anyone else. 

Borrows and the other lawyers explained how this idea is still finding its way through Canadian law to this day as the courts speak of the Crown's assumed right to title of the land now called Canada.  In fact, they go on to say, even in the absence of a treaty Indigenous peoples have to prove that the crown doesn’t own land in order to get title instead of the other way around to this day.  And so this notion of superiority is still alive and well.

You may wonder why I am writing about this ancient doctrine at this time.  Well I learned about this doctrine of superiority that enabled land grabs just before I learned about Russia’s invasion of Ukraine this week.  There is no question that it is wrong to simply take land away from people and occupy their territory.  Almost everyone would agree.   And yet, this is exactly what the country of Canada is founded on.  

So why are Canadians horrified at this current invasion and not so interested in the one that their ancestors took part in a few hundred years ago?  Perhaps, sensibilities have changed and we are more aware of what is going on everywhere in the world.  We can see live images and imagine what it is like to be there.  And of course this is happening now, not in the past.  Unless you are Indigenous and then it is happening now.

Here in Canada, it is hard for non-Indigenous people to grasp that the same story happened here not so long ago.  Millions of Indigenous people died from disease, starvation and other means as the Europeans flooded in, creating laws to take land, limit the freedom of Indigenous people and take away their children in efforts of assimilation.  The systems in place perpetuate these wrongs to this day.  the Indian Act still controls the lives of Indigenous people here in Canada.

This is a challenging task.  Watching something which is so horrifying on media and empathizing not only with the people of Ukraine but also with those people on whose territory we live isn’t easy.  But, there is much healing to be done.  And who will do it if we don't?  The structures that condone this kind of action can only be undone in the hearts of people.  We can’t wait for those “at the top” to change their minds.

Someone sent me this YouTube video in which Martha Beck gives a very clear metaphor of what this healing might look like.    See what you think. 

       

 

Timeless Winter Moments of Mindfulness

 

We pulled out of the driveway quickly one February morning because the sidewalk snow plow was moving towards us at a fair clip and we didn’t want to jump the snowdrift that it would leave.  This sturdy little machine was being used to widen the sidewalk and it’s auger cut into the three foot bank sending snow flying out of the chute.  Escaping just in time, we crested the hill and were passed by a man on a snowmobile.  I guessed that he was heading out onto the ice to do some ice fishing.  Snowmobiles drive on the roads in this tiny village just like cars and trucks and at the beach, they easily drive onto the white expanse of the frozen bay. 

Next, we passed a man carrying four Tim Horton’s cups in a cardboard tray.  He looked old enough to live at the Senior’s residence that we had just passed.  He was walking on the road instead of the icy sidewalk which is also quite common since the roads are sanded..  The Horton’s was about a five minute walk from where he was.  I wondered who he was bringing hot coffee or tea or chocolate to.  I wondered if this was part of his morning ritual.  I chuckled at the very common winter scenes that I had just passed.  It was like a Tim Horton’s TV commercial playing out before my eyes.

We passed the post office with masked people lined up outside, waiting to get their mail.  Just two people at a time were allowed in and the people waited patiently, making small talk as they did.  And then we were on the highway heading towards the Wildlife Centre to cross country ski.  The weather was finally warm enough to ski and we wanted to get out early enough before the rising temperatures made the snow sticky.  December was too warm for good snow and January was too cold to ski so this was my first time out skiing this winter. 

My legs and arms remembered what to do and we set out on the trail.  There was a fine snow falling that melted instantly on my face.  My skis had trouble gliding and I could feel them sticking to the snow.  Our best efforts had not resulted in great snow but we continued on nevertheless.  The trick was to stay in motion.  If we stopped, then the snow would stick in great clods like mud to boots.  All my attention was on the feel of the glide of my skis.  My attention was on feeling the intersection between the bottom of my skis and the snow.  Every now and then, I could glide easily and then like putting the brakes on, I would hit a sticky patch and then I had to push myself along with muscles and poles. 

We came to a part of the forest where a lot of Chickadees live.  These bold little birds will eat sunflower seeds right out of your hand.  I could hear them calling softly at first and then with more volume.  They fluttered along beside us insistently calling.  “I hear you, but we can’t stop,” I apologized.  We continued along the two and a half kilometer trail getting warmer and warmer.  My total focus was on the feel of my skis and the sound of my measured breath.  Every now and then, I would look up and greet the trees and then turn my attention back to the snow, my muscles and breath. 

It wasn’t until I was back at the car and cooling down that I realized that the whole ski was a kind of mindfulness exercise.  In addition to this, I realized that I was using distance perception to gather information about the snow through the feelings in my body.  My thoughts were interrupted as we drive out of the parking lot and a sensor began beeping.  I got out of the car, opened up the back hatch, slammed it shut and got back into the car.  The beeping continued so I repeated the task, this time pushing my skis a little further into the car.  This time the beeping stopped.  I realized that we listen to and interact with all kinds of things all the time, snow conditions, car sensors, chickadees, our own bodies, blood and breath as well as the people in our lives.  Often I do this on auto-pilot but today I was aware of the dynamic of the web that we are all a part of.

Later that week, the temperature was too cold to ski but perfect for walking through the forest on the crunchy well packed snow.  The sky was a cloudless blue and the sun shone brightly through the trees.  We came to a grove of Eastern Hemlocks on the forest trail.  They always bid me to stop and visit and so I did their bidding. 

I faced the sun and felt it’s February rays warm my skyward angled face.  There had been a small snowfall the night before which now adorned the trees, green coniferous and bare brown deciduous alike.  Little gusts of wind blew the snow from their branches.  Tiny ice crystals from the snow were carried by the wind towards me, twinkling rainbow colours in the sunshine.  It felt like travelling in space with stars whizzing by me or like driving in a snowstorm with the high beams on.  I knew I was standing still, but it felt as if I was moving forward.

I watched the tiny little “stars” until the wind changed direction.  Now they were moving past me from my right to my left.  I let out a big sigh and the cloud of water vapour from my mouth partially obscured the stars for a moment before it dissolved into the air.  It seemed to me that the trees were exhaling water as solid ice crystals and I was exhaling water as a gas.  The gaseous and solid water that were back-lit by the sun, danced before my child-like eyes.  I stood there for a time and eventually the wind died down, breaking the spell and allowing me to continue along my way forever changed.

Building Community at the Edge of the Precipice

 

The Sturgeon River has been carving the gorge out for a long time, longer than a human life time.  That is for sure.  The flowing water bubbles over smoothed river rocks forming deep pools in the serpentine curves. And in winter, snow and ice cover most of the river which continues to flow out to Georgian Bay in Lake Huron.  A few days ago, I stood on the edge of the gorge about a hundred feet above the river, listening to it gurgling under the ice.  I had one hand on the trunk of a large Eastern Hemlock tree to keep my balance.  Its huge roots broke through the cliff face in a few places as the soil was gradually eroded by rain and wind.

 “What a precarious place to grow,” I thought.  Perhaps there had been more soil on the cliff’s edge when the tree began its life as a sapling.  Across the gorge, I could see a few trees that had fallen from the far bank into the river.  I wondered if one day, this Hemlock would also tumble down the steep bank.  I closed my eyes and imagined the whole root structure of the tree that I was touching.  Instead of the imminent disaster that I had just "seen",  my imaginal eyes could see instead how the roots held the soil of the cliff in place.  

 I have a fascination with the roots of Eastern Hemlock trees.  They speak to me and teach me about building community.  Last year, they showed me how communities were like baskets or nests, woven one root, one fibre, one conversation at a time.  They had taught me how the strength of the basket, the nest or the community allowed work to be done in its centre, in the space protected by the woven edge.  Now, I wondered what this tree clinging to the edge of the cliff had to teach me.  The tree was indeed clinging to the soil, but it was also containing and anchoring the soil.  The Hemlock was preventing erosion.  It was rooted here at the precipice, at the place where everything dropped off, maintaining the integrity of the cliff’s edge and protecting the forest behind it.

Many people are feeling as though they are living at the edge of their own precipices brought on by climate change, a global pandemic, loss, change and uncertainty.  What is keeping them from falling in?  One thing that being separated from each other has taught us is the importance of social interactions for one’s mental health.  Perhaps, it could be community that holds people from falling into the abyss.  “And so,” whispered the Hemlocks, “ what better place is there than the edge of a precipice to weave roots, relationships and responsibilities into a community, into a nest?”

 

Wattled with Willow

 

The land along the shoreline of the bay was saturated with the snow that was melting.  Anna walked on the raised trail that ran alongside this wetland searching for one of her favourite trees.  She was in the midst of her spring ritual of renewing her relationship with Willow.  When Anna was a young girl, a man at a tree nursery had taught her how to cut Pussywillow branches and put them in water until they rooted.  He had told her that if she planted those three rooted stems, a Pussywillow bush would grow from it.  He had taught her this after Anna’s father had refused her request to buy this tree that she had fallen in love with at first sight.  She had followed the man’s instructions and the branches did magically send out long white roots into the jar of water she had placed them in.  Her father had let her plant them in the garden and they had indeed grown into a Pussywillow bush that was twenty feet high by the time she herself had grown up.  This was Anna’s first experience of co-creating with nature and it set the tone for her whole life.

As a young mother, Anna’s family had moved frequently to accommodate the growing number of children.  She returned to her parents’ home frequently and visited the Pussywillow which had the usual ups and downs of trees; leaves eaten by insects, older branches rotting and falling off and occasionally catastrophic damage from winter storms. The Pussywillow had always bounced back, growing new stems, branches and leaves.  It loved it in the yard which flooded every spring.  Willows love water.  The Ancient Celts named Willow the Queen of the Water because of that and this tree was associated with the Moon and Feminine qualities as well.

Each spring, Anna, as an adult would cut three stems from the tree and take them home to root just like she had as a child.  She planted those Pussywillows in every place that she lived.  As a mother, she cared for her children and she cared for her willows.  The Pussywillow that she had planted as a girl was a male tree.  It only produced male catkins, those soft, silvery “pussies” that gave the tree it’s name.  Not only did the stems root in the water, but the male catkins went on to produce golden pollen that soon covered the grey fuzzy kittens.  It wasn’t until Anna was an older woman that she saw her first female pussywillow tree.  The female catkins had raised green stalks that contained the ovaries.  Once pollinated by wind or the bees that used the pollen as early spring food, the seeds would form and seed pods would cover the catkin.  Anna had learned that these seeds would fly in the wind along with the fluff from the catkin and so they needed to be light.  They contained no endosperm, so they had to land in wet soil and take root immediately.  Willows also had a fibrous root structure that would send up shoots easily and this was the more successful form of procreation.

In fact, Willows were so good at sending up new shoots, even from cut trunks and branches that Anna’s ancestors had practiced coppicing or cutting the branches off regularly on certain trees so that there was a constant supply of building materials.  They had used flexible willow branches in wattling or weaving the stems to build baskets, furniture, walls for buildings, boats and fences.

The Weeping Willow variety was brought from China to the United Kingdom roughly three hundred years ago and subsequently to North America were Anna lived.  Anna had grown up with a Weeping Willow as well in her backyard.  She loved the graceful dance of the long stems in the wind and as a child she liked to sit inside the ring of branches and leaves that swept the grass and formed a moving wall as well as a “secret hiding spot.”  As the tree grew, so did Anna and there came a time when she wanted to climb it.  But, she didn’t like heights.  She felt the force pulling her up and the fear anchoring her to the ground.  Somehow, she felt the Weeping Willow urge her to climb up into its branches and sit awhile.  The idea came to her that if she did that, she might get over the fear of being there.  As an adult, Anna learned that desensitizing is one way to heal phobias but she didn’t know that as a child.  Anna felt that the Willow had whispered that to her child self.  And so, Anna did spend time sitting in the willow.  She did get used to being there with the fear and she never fell out of the tree.  The Willow held her like a mother.  And Anna learned that fear can be present but it didn’t have to stop her following the urgings of life, not with the Willow Mother to hold her, not with Mother Earth to hold her.

Anna didn’t know that her ancestors, the Celts had understood that Willow can help with letting feelings flow and that it’s gift was tears.  She didn’t know that this tree was believed to strengthen intuition, inspiration and imagination.  She didn’t know that her ancestors made harps out of willow so that the tree could sing.  But she did know how to listen to this tree and follow its urgings.

Lost in her thoughts and memories Anna had stopped walking. Suddenly, she snapped back to the present moment and looked around her.  There, in the wet land beside the trail was a large Pussywillow bush covered in soft silvery catkins.  She took a sharp inbreath in surprise and then burst out laughing.  Her body had found the tree while her mind was miles and years away.  Anna took out a little penknife from her pocket and after receiving permission from the tree to take three branches, she cut them and placed the cut ends in a plastic bag to keep the ends moist.  She rubbed the soft catkins on the side of her face like a cat and smiled at the feeling of her old friends.  Her child self and crone self were present together in that moment.

Since the weather was warm and spring was pulsing under her feet, Anna kept on walking.  There were pussywillows everywhere and the catkins were shining in the spring sun.  She came across some female catkins and stopped to examine their interesting structure.  The ovaries looked like antennae to her and she couldn’t believe that she had spent so much of her life only seeing male catkins.  Now that she knew what female catkins looked like and she paid closer attention, she could see them here and there.  “She was not too old to learn a few new things she thought,” as she chuckled to herself.

After a few minutes, Anna came to where a huge old Weeping Willow grew.  Some of its giant branches had grown sideways and some rested on the earth.  Some had rotted and snapped off.  They lay strewn about the base of the tree like old bones.  Hundreds of new yellow shoots grew out of the scars left by the fallen branches, like hackles on a cat.  The crone tree’s life story was told in the branches and stems and bones.  And yet she radiated strength and resilience.  Anna could see how Willow represented the three aspects of women.  Willow had the flexibility of the maiden, the nurturing and strong procreative ability of the mother and the strength of the crone.

Anna climbed down the embankment and made her way to the old Willow.  She placed her hands on the warm bark and felt the energy of moving water.  She knew that Willow was cleansing the water she took in from her roots from pollution and that she would expire clean water out through her leaves.  As she rested there, Anna became aware of the sadness that she was keeping under the surface.  Sadness from so much change, loss and uncertainty.  She breathed into that sadness and it flooded up within her all the way to her tear ducts. She let the feelings flow as she kept her hands on Willow, the comforting Grandmother who had seen it all before.  After a time, the feelings floated away and Anna took a deep cleansing breath.  She felt ready to make her way home.  But, before she left, she once again took out her knife and after getting permission from the tree, she cut one long waving stem. 

After walking for a few more minutes, Anna once again climbed down to the wetland and she planted the stem into the wet earth.  She knew that she was taking part in the procreative cycle of Willow and at the same time, creating a symbol for her ability to reimagine her life and to create something new.  Anna’s life story was woven through with Willow.  They were wattled together just as her ancestors’ from across the ocean had been.  She imagined a woven willow basket with coloured wool and thread added to it.  She imagined the basket filled with co-creations. And she knew that this was her life story.