"Warrior's Lullaby" and "Crying Bones": Shy-Anne Sings the Truth

 

A friend recently sent me links to the music of Shy-Anne Hovorka.  She is an “award-winning songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, humanitarian and perfomer…   Shy-Anne holds, an “Honours Bachelor of Music” and “Bachelor of Education” and her “Masters of Education” Degree. When Shy-Anne is not touring as a solo, band or symphony act, she is a highly regarded school teacher, who works with youth in her community to help them improve their lives through music and continues the important tradition of teaching the Ojibwe Language, or out on the land reconnecting with the Earth.” (https://shy-anne.com/)

 

Shy-Anne Hovorka (https://shy-anne.com)

These two songs are part of a larger project that combines artwork with music.  Hovorka partnered with different artists for each song adding to the original image which emerges throughout the video.  Both of these songs are about the children whose unmarked remains were recently found on the grounds of Indian Residential Schools in Canada.  Shy-Anne sings the truth in a powerful way and her music combined with the emerging artwork is sure to touch the hearts and minds of those who witness this collaboration.

This first song, Warrior’s Lullaby is illustrated by artist Sonya Belisle.  Here are the lyrics:

Warrior's Lullaby "  by Shy-Anne Hovorka

Tiny hands, Tiny souls

Tiny lives that live no more

Your body’s gone, but your spirit flies

Creator has you by his side

Your flesh and blood, they became the trees,

Your bones buried are now free,

From where they laid in secret tombs,

Stolen from your mothers wombs.

Warriors,

Some survived, still walk this land

their bodies still carry the brand

The heat and fire that killed the mind

And their lives before still trying to find

You’ve lived your life, with fear and pain,

You hid your tears in the rain,

You wear the scars of life now lost,

Carrying this heavy cross...

Warriors Creator is waiting in the sky….

Creator’s been standing by your side….

 

You can view it here:

 

 

The second song, Crying Bones was illustrated by artist Vanessa Willow Giiniw-Ikwe.  Here are the lyrics:

 Crying Bones by Shy-Anne Hovorka

 Tried to hide the evidence of shame below the ground

Tiny little bodies tell the story now that their found,

Voices of the past have risen from the grave,

All their tiny souls are no longer enslaved

 

Chorus: Crying Bones Crying Bones

You’re not alone Crying Bones

 

Can’t deny the truth, or deny the words being told,

History has proven what memories of others hold,

Try to say you’re sorry now that the truth is out,

But the story is much bigger than what this song is about

History keeps showing us how we’ve been tried

Tortured, slaved, and punished and told many lies

Forced assimilation from the government still proceeds

Now you are faced with consequences of your deeds….

 

 You can view it here:

 

In the End is the Beginning: Elder

 

The ancient Celts used the first alphabet in Europe which is called the Ogham script.  Each letter is associated with a tree or an important plant.  The alphabet was used as a mnemonic device to encode knowledge, the Celtic song of the universe, Ceolta na Cruinne (Diana Beresford-Kroeger).  The thirteen months of the year (pre-Gregorian calendar) were each represented by a particular tree.  The new year began on Nov. 1^st with Birch, followed by Rowan in December, Alder in January, Willow in February, Ash in March, Hawthorn in April, Oak in May, Holly in June, Hazel in July, the Blackberry (Bramble) or Vine for August and September is represented by Ivy.  The month of October is represented by Ngetal for the first 28 days and Elder or Ruis for the last 3 days which make up the 13^th month of the calendar.

The 13^th month is a short ‘make-up’ month ending in Samhain, the last night of the year or Hallowe’en.  It is represented by Ruis, the letter R and Elder which is a tree of regeneration.  It regrows damaged branches easily and it will root and grow from any part.  Ruis represents the end in the beginning and the beginning in the end and is therefore a transition tree from one year to the next.

Elder (Sambucus nigra) is a tall bush that grows at the edges of rivers and streams.  It is connected by underground suckers.  Elder leaves consist of five leaflets attached to a centre stalk, set opposite each other.  Each tiny Elder flower has five creamy petals and five green sepals behind them that look like stars. The flowers grow in clusters that resemble many-spoked umbrellas.  In the fall, these flowers have turned into dark purple elderberries that weigh the branches down.   Birds feast on the berries and distribute the seeds. There are about 20 species worldwide.

Elder flowers have been used as a face wash that strengthens and protects the fine capillary network just under the skin. It is said that this will reduce crow’s feet.  Cooked elderberries carry a complex sugar sambucin which helps the eyes to adjust to darkness.  It is still in use for the treatment of night blindness. Apart from the fresh or dried flowers and cooked berries, Elder is poisonous.    Dried Elder flowers and peppermint are were used in a tea to treat the common cold.  Other parts of the tree were used as medicine but this knowledge has been lost. Both the flowers and fruit make excellent jams, wines and teas.  The berries were used to darken hair.  Natural dyes can be made from Elder; black from the bark, green from the leaves and blue from the berries.  The wood is pithy and was used to make whistles and the chanters for Welsh bagpipes.  Elder’s hard, close-grained wood was used for fishing rods, shoemaker’s pegs, instruments for mathematicians, and combs.   The leaves were used for insect control.  The berries are high in Vitamin C and can be made into cordials to help with winter colds.  According to Elen Sentier, Elder can be used to treat over 70 conditions. 

Elder grows in Britain, Europe, Asia and North America.  Elder has been special to humans for millennia, in particular by the Norse, Celts and Saxons.  Because of its powers of regeneration, it is connected to the goddess, magic and female energy.  The Elder Mother or Hylde-moer in Danish, is the mother of the elves and she lives in the elder’s roots.  However, Christianity painted her as a wicked witch.  Legend held that sleeping under an elder would grant access to the otherworld, sometimes through magical dreams or being carried away by the faeries.  Elder provides contact with ancestors as well.

Elder, the Elder Mother, has wise old woman energy.  She guards the entrance to the underworld and death and the threshold of consciousness.  Elder provides the wisdom to deal with changes.  This will bring about great inner strength and wisdom. Danu Forest writes, “Becoming an elder includes sacrifice and restoration, working hard for the betterment of others and leaving a positive effect or contribution to the world, family, or community.” (Danu Forest, p171)  “By sacrificing the past, new energy is released, benefitting from the nourishment produced from the healthy decay of things that have passed their time.” (Danu Forest, p172)

The name Elder comes rom the Anglo-Saxon word aeld and the tree was called eldrun.  In Low-Saxon the name is ellhorn.  Ald  meant “fire” since the hollow stems were used as blow-pokers for the fire.  As a guardian and protector of house and farm, she was offered cakes and milk in Scotland, milk in Sweden and bread and beer in Germany.  People used to say “Lady Ellhorn, give me some of thy wood and I will give thee some of mine when it grows in the forest,”  before cutting any elder wood.

So, as the Celtic year ends, take this opportunity to clear out things, ideas and attachments that have passed their time so that new energy will be released that will take you into the new year and the new beginning represented by Birch.

 

This is a compilation of information taken from the following sources:

Diana Beresford-Kroeger (2019) To Speak for the Trees. Random House: Canada.

Danu Forest (2014) Celtic Tree Magic: Ogham Lore and Druid Mysteries. Llewellyn Worldwide: Woodbury, Minnesota.

Glennie Kindred, (1997) The Tree Ogham. Glennie Kindred: UK.

Liz and Colin Murray (1988) The Celtic Tree Oracle. Connections Book Publishing: London, UK.

Jacqueline Memory Peterson (1996) Tree Wisdom: The definitive guidebook to the myth, folklore and healing power of Trees. Thorsons: London.

Elen Sentier (2014) Trees of the Goddess. Moon Books: Winchester, UK.

 

 

The Earth is a Tremendous Teacher

 

“The Earth is a tremendous teacher,” writes Richard Wagamese in One Drum (p. 148).  I thought about these words as I walked a treelined trail through farmland this morning.  The sky was low and grey and waiting to release its heavy load of rain.  The low light created saturated colours all around me – rich greens, reds and oranges.  The air felt heavy as I made my way past the basal leaves of Burdock and Garlic Mustard, the edge dwellers of the trail.  A few yellow Sow Thistle flowers shone out as did the last of the white and purple Asters against the dark greens.  Leaves fell around me and covered the trail.  Summer is winding up and the trees are releasing their sugar producing leaves now that the fruit of their labours is safely stored underground in the roots.  To hold onto these leaves would create a huge weight in snowload during the winter that could snap the branches and trunks.  And so the deciduous trees and plants let go of their leaves..

I created a number of things this summer and had many experiences and conversations with people.  It was a busy time and I spent much of it outdoors.  But now, it is time to store the gratitude for all of those experiences and the wisdom they shared and release the summer patterns of behaviour and clothing.  It is time to wear warm shoes and jackets or raincoats.  It is time to look for the huge flocks of blackbirds preparing for migration and time to make pumpkin pies and wild grape jelly.

And what of the other things that I carry with me?  I am becoming more aware of the ancestral traumas of separation as people fled Europe for Turtle Island, leaving families, conflicts and land behind.  I am aware that these people and their descendants re-perpetrated this separation by taking children away from Indigenous people and separating them from their ancestral land, creating the same trauma.  How is it that settlers find it hard to understand the damage that this caused when they carry it within their own bodies?

My mother emigrated to Turtle Island from England and never really got over the trauma of leaving loved ones behind.  She made the best of it, but the sadness never went away.  And I carry that sadness as well since it was the only expression of love that she could find for those far away.  How do I let that sadness fall away like yellow-orange leaves?  How do I find another way to love from a distance, to connect across the miles?

After supper, we walked a different part of the same trail in search of flocking blackbirds.  For the past few years, we have gone to the places that we have previously seen large flocks of blackbirds travelling to the marshlands to spend the night.  It is thrilling to see these clouds of black individual birds flying as one.  Watching them lifts my heart and spirit.  I remembered the bench where I sat last year and heard the whoosh of a flock flying over me.  We found the same bench, sat down and began to scan the sky.  Moments later a flock flew over our heads and I felt our relationship renew itself. Despite the damp weather, I felt my heart soar with them for a moment.  

Waiting for more birds, I noticed the low grey rainclouds moving swiftly to the north, driven by a strong south wind.  I knew that the waves in the lake behind me would be doing the same thing.  The birds were flying from east to west at right angles to the wind, pulled from the farmers’ field where they had fed all day, to the safety of the cattails to sleep all night.  I could hear the sound of running water as the marshland on one side of the trail drained into the lake through a culvert under the trail, drawn by gravity in the same direction as the birds.

More flocks crossed the trail on either side of us before it began to rain.  The wind had driven a dark grey cloud over our heads and the water it held fell to earth, pulled down by gravity and filling in the third tangent, up to down joining the east to west and south to north tangents.  We were getting wet at this point and decided to walk back along the trail, following the direction of the wind, drawn by the dryness and warmth of the car that would take us east to our home and warm gas stove.

Constant movement was the teaching that I received today from the Earth.  Everything is constantly in motion.  Despite our human desire for stasis which feels like safety and control, this is not the way of the universe.  With constant motion, things are getting closer and farther away from each other all the time.  How can we be at peace with this constant change?  Indigenous wisdom offers a possible answer.  Remembering that we are all connected, the renewal of relationships becomes a way of strengthening this knowing.  Coming out to the marsh to see the blackbirds flocking every fall is a way of renewing our relationship with them and learning from their ability to cooperate.  Talking on the phone, texting, emailing, using platforms to see each other and speak are modern ways to connect, to renew relationships.  Connection is the important thing, even over distances.  Picking wild grapes and making jelly every fall is a way of renewing our relationship with wild grapes and walking the same forest trail is a more frequent renewal.  Feeling and expressing gratitude for all those we are connected to is another way of renewing our relationship with water, the food we eat, our friends and family.

In a Western culture that is based on scarcity and fear, these acts or renewal are counter-culture.  In an Indigenous way of knowing, they are acts of humility, recognizing that we are part of a giant web.  So writes Richard Wagamese: “Humility’s energy is the binding agent that holds all things together-- the glue, if you will.  When we look at Mother Earth, we are looking at a truly humble being.  She offers life to everything… That is the nature of a truly humble being, and she is why Indigenous people have always said that the Earth is our university – we learn all things from her example.” (One Drum p. 64)

And so, pulled from my warm, comfortable home to the forest, the lakeshore, and the marshlands by my Mother Earth, I watch and listen and learn and remember who I am as I navigate this ever changing world guided by relationships.

Keeping Time Over Time

 

Clap, clap…. clap, clap… clap, clap.  Our small child hands mimicked those of the teacher on the third floor of an old sandstone building that housed the Brampton Police on the ground floor.  When I was young, my parents would drop me off with another older child on Saturday mornings at the curb outside of this old fashioned building.  I didn’t know this boy but I now guess that my parents had made an agreement with his parents to drive him to class. He and I would climb the circular stairs past the police whom we could see through a window, up into the turret.  It always felt slightly dangerous to my five-year-old self to be out in the world with police and criminals, climbing up into a turret to listen to music and clap out the rhythm.

These classes were soon replaced by piano lessons with a teacher called Mrs. Stone.  She thought it was hilarious that I was “small for my age” and that my parents were from England.  She repeatedly called me “Sharon old bean” followed by harsh laughter.  I didn’t like this woman but I quietly tolerated her judgements of me.  This time the classes were down some stairs into a dark basement with an old dark brown upright piano and a menacing woman who seemed to me to be quite large.  Mrs. Stone taught me to count out the rhythm as I played the notes.  One and two and three and four and.  Or one-two-three, one-two-three for a waltz.

My father’s first and last love is music.  That is where he finds beauty in a world that is often ugly and unfair in his view.  As a child I was routinely asked “pop questions” during a meal.  “What is the time signature of this piece?” he would ask out of the blue.  Or “Who is the composer?”  I was the dutiful first-born child and so I did my best to get it right.  I gradually found myself figuring out the time signature of music just in case I was quizzed suddenly.  In fact, I still do find myself silently counting out the time signature when I listen to music.

When I attended high school, my father required that I sign up for music class.  To my great dismay, I was assigned a clarinet.  I remember sucking on the reed before it could be attached to the mouthpiece and the horrible feel of it against my tongue.  It was the oral equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard and I still shiver to think about it.  The recorders we had been given in grade school were a bit of an introduction but getting the correct embouchure was difficult.  Because we were using our mouths to blow into the instrument, counting out loud was impossible and we were taught to tap one foot to keep time.  With the piano of course this was impossible because the feet were used to work the three peddles.  It felt somehow naughty or perhaps vulgar to be tapping one’s foot but dutiful still, I learned to do it.  Our Polish music teacher Mr. Liedke disliked me as much as I disliked the clarinet and after 2 ½ years I quit that class and the clarinet.

It was in high school that my father gave me his old classical guitar.  Since the music I loved was accompanied by guitar, this was a big gift.  I learned the chords from the chord charts in the music books and I could learn the melody by playing it on the piano.  Gordon Lightfoot and Cat Stevens taught me the rest as did some friends.  I had sung all my life at home and in a few choirs so that was no problem.  Suddenly music was freedom.  I taught myself and played music that spoke to me.  I learned to use a capo and transpose chords to match my voice.  I had finally found my instrument.

I played and sang in various places over the years, but mostly at home.  I still played the piano occasionally.  I learned to lead others in singing and worked to improve my singing voice once again on my own. A natural mimic, I learned to sing by copying other singers.   In my fifties, I decided to get a djembe and joined a drum circle.  The African call and response rhythms were fascinating and I discovered that after a lifetime of “keeping time”, that I could do it without thinking.  I found that I would relax as I drummed.  The rhythm bypassed my conscious brain as if my ears were directly connected to my hands. I could easily copy any rhythm.  I also discovered the inclusivity of rhythm instruments.  Anyone can join in.  I enjoyed the fluidity of a drum circle and learning from the other drummers.

In my sixties, I joined an Indigenous hand drum group and learned how to play a hand drum and sing songs in Anishinaabemowin.  We use either a single drum beat or a double heart beat.  This is where I learned the power of people drumming together like one drum, like one heart.  Once again, I found that I could join in with others without thinking about it, allowing me to learn the songs and the words.  We often played outside and I learned the freedom of singing loudly in that space, sometimes over the sound of cars on the road.  Our circle can include everyone, it is just a matter of stepping back a few steps to make the circle larger, more spacious, especially if we are outside.

My father is now ninety-four and confined to a wheelchair.  I visit him and play classical music from my iPod into the microphone on the hearing device that the nursing home supplies.  I watch his hand moving ever so slightly, keeping the beat.  Now, I ask him, “Do you think this is ¾ time?”  He pauses, listens and then agrees, “I think it is.”  He still asks me who the composer is, because now he’s not sure.  Except for Bach.  He always recognizes Bach, his favourite.  I have sat for hours doing this over the past five years.  Time enough to feel gratitude for those rhythm classes he drove me to as a young child and the piano lessons he paid for, the symphony concerts, an opera and a ballet that he took me to.  I now see it as a huge gift that has accompanied me throughout my life. 

The first rhythm that I heard was my mother’s heartbeat as I developed from a fetus to a baby.  And perhaps I could hear my father playing the piano while I was still in the womb or my mother singing.  Her heartbeat, the rhythm of my breath and my footsteps and the music that is always playing in my head, the rhythm of the Earth’s heartbeat, my electromagnetic field, the sound of horses’ hooves and the waves crashing on the shore, I am surrounded by rhythms externally and internally.  They keep me steady, they keep me alive, they bring comfort and they remind me that we are connected to everything else by rhythms.  This I have learned over my six and a half decades.

And so, on this Thanksgiving weekend, I am thankful to my parents for this gift.  And I am thankful for all the rhythms that I am aware of and for those that I am unaware of, for this sign of order in the chaos, for these metronomes of the music of my life.