Excerpt from "Tree Life" by Genevieve Lehr.

“ No matter how long we live here, shaking sawdust from our hair, listening to chainsaws, handsaws or the carpenter’s gentle plane, the wood we touch is an orphaned tree prepared to walk through fire to go home.”

Excerpt from “Tree Life”, a poem in “The Sorrowing House” – Genevieve Lehr.

Where would the birds be without the trees?

Where would the birds be without the trees?

There is an urgent need to discuss the genocide of trees.

We watched Erreur Boréale and I can’t help but to think of Concentration Camps, the killing of millions of people…why should it be so different then; the genocide of millions of trees: life givers of oxygen, of animal habitats, shelter from the wind, safety from the rain, wood for instruments, for homes, for boats…

How many trees need to be sacrificed, how much land needs to be raped, pillaged, seduced under the machine of power before we stop to reflect and recognize the consequences. The effects are not only on humans, but for the wild beings, and the well being of this fragile ecosystem.

How is this sustainable?

All My Gods

I used to sing Christmas carols with my family as a child...we would walk out into the cold cul-de-sac on Trap Road in the small prairie town of High River Alberta, to sing to the neighbours. We would gather round, march in a circle formation, door-to-door, summoning the spirits of winter, through the spirit of sound.

And so, as I watched from my favella flip-flop footing in what reminded me of a sesame street setting, I was both enamoured by the act of music and nostalgically inclined to think of my own family traditions. I watched and smiled; my gringa smile; as they danced, moving their feet together and apart, crossing one in front of the other, bare toes gripping the hardened dirt, legs weaving around one another in hypnotic stitches. I watched as the little ones joined in, some no bigger than two feet, some perfectly aligned with the rest and others mimmicking and running out of focus. The families, the mothers and their little ones, topless and smiling, the old and their lovers, wrinkled and observant. They watched me, english speaker with the strange hair-do and the weird accent. "What is your name?" they would ask one-by-one, laughing at their ability to communicate with me in my language...and I would return the question in theirs, waiting for the shy glance and then the proud response "Lenita...Roberto...Layton...José." They would leave and circle round to return the very same moment and observe me some more. Everything like a wave: of sound, of youthful jubilation, all to the beating of the wood on the skin of the drum and the blowing of the flute to the tune of the birdsong...we carry on. We carry on, to the Indian Tribu music in the centre of the urban favela, summoning whatever gods must be summoned, peace pipe and machete warrior game. I watch, take it all in, and think to myself: it is so good to be here right now, in this moment, it is so good to be alive. Thank you for this body, this heart, this breath. Thank you for these stars that so often appear so dim in the night sky, thank you for their magical alignment...oh Creator...all my Gods...oh Spirit Guides.

All My Gods

I used to sing Christmas carols with my family as a child...we would walk out into the cold cul-de-sac on Trap Road in small prairie town of High River Alberta, to sing to the neighbours. We would gather round, march in a circle formation, door to door, summoning the spirits of winter, through the spirit of sound.

And so, as I watched from my favella flip-flop footing in what reminded me of a sesame street setting, I was both enamored by the act of music and nostalgically inclined to think of my own family traditions. I watched and smiled; my gringa smile; as they danced, moving their feet together and apart, crossing one in front of the other, bare toes gripping the hardened dirt, legs weaving around one another in hypnotic stitches. I watched as the little ones joined in, some no bigger than two feet, some perfectly aligned with the rest and others mimmicking and running out of focus. The families, the mothers and their little ones, topless and smiling, the old and their lovers, wrinkled and observant. They watched me, english speaker with the strange hair-do and the weird accent. "What is your name?" they would ask one-by-one, laughing at their ability to communicate with me in my language...and I would return the question in theirs, waiting for the shy glance and then the proud response "Lenita...Roberto...Layton...José." They would leave and circle round to return the very same moment and observe me some more. Everything like a wave: of sound, of youthful jubilation, all to the beating of the wood on the skin of the drum and the blowing of the flute to the tune of the birdsong...we carry on. We carry on, to the Indian Tribu music in the centre of the urban favela, summoning whatever gods must be summoned, peace pipe and machete warrior game.

I watch, take it all in, and think to myself: it is so good to be here right now, in this moment, it is so good to be alive. Thank you for this body, this heart, this breath. Thank you for these stars that so often appear so dim in the night sky, thank you for their magical alignment...oh Creator...all My Gods...oh Spirit Guides.

Illumination

In between dreams
slipping in and out
regenerating
visions cross-pollinate
minds eye
narratives speak
with eyes wide
shut

What becomes clear
in a precise moment
of touch
dissolves as a mere
fixed perception
with eyes wide
awake

Without eyes
we see humble
shapes cast on
our souls
surrender to
illuminated
sights
with hearts wide

open.