Toivo Land, WA 98648

“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.” – Emily Dickinson

~
There are numbers zipped up in code that distinguish a place. A place where the mailman sometimes drives a mile or more to the next box; markers upon a black sea of asphalt, gravel and rain. Toivo lived here, amongst the mapleway and dirt trails- snags of trees swaying in the wind. A psithurism cathedral, with halls that echoed Finnish Polkas in a land of make believe. My Grandfather came from an old world, yet made a new one in the mossy twigs of 98648.

I am the oldest of 10 grandchildren, and arrived into a world filled with imagination and music. My grandfather played the accordion, spoke Finnish when drinking with his brothers and sisters, and loved to tell good stories. My oldest memories are set to the soundtrack of joy, laughter, and the Chicken Dance. Gramps had instruments in every corner and nook- amongst the dusty wisps of paper scrolled upon with poems, music, and blueprints for building. His hands were always inventing something new. When I was 9, he invented Toivo Land.

Toivo was an imaginary friend he made out of sawdust flesh, dressed in cover-alls, and who wore a face of permanent marker drawn upon a milk jug. Toivo always sat on an old Ford tractor that was rusty and splintered (unless he was out and about with the Toivo Land Band.) Toivo was a Magician, and like the Wizard of Oz, Toivo plowed a yellow brick road dotted with hand painted signs, and paved with the falling leaves of Maples, Oak, and Fir. A network of discovery that spanned 3 acres, and a lifetime. Toivo was always busy- this was Toivo’s land.

Toivo: 1) Finnish toivo = ‘hope’, ‘wish’, ‘desire’ 1 a) … with an older meaning ‘faith’, ‘trust’, ‘promise’

 (Photo of Toivo Land Band @ Skamania County Fair Parade, Stevenson, WA. 98648 , cir. 1984)

(Photo of Toivo Land Band @ Skamania County Fair Parade, Stevenson, WA. 98648 , cir. 1984)

~~

The faint sound of Polka seeping from old cassettes keeps time with the machines monitoring his breathing. His heart beats sporadic metronomes to his Covid-19 fever dreams. His fingers fold in on themselves- clutched and cold. It has been awhile since he has held the weight of billows and keys strapped upon his stern shoulders. He is quiet and ready- ready to make music again.

“Thank you,” I sob a hard sentence, stuck in my throat made of his flesh, “thank you Grandpa for always being there, and making our lives magic, and filled with love.”

“Thank you Grandpa for Toivo!”- I strain the words between tears that fall upon my pandemic shield made of plastic.

We lock a gaze of Finnish silence, the kind of silence filled with the solidarity of *Sisu. A stoic tear moves its way down his ageless face of wisdom, and with a side quiet smile, he says:

“It is all I could have hoped for!”

“It is all I could have hoped for.”
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* Sisu is a Finnish concept described as stoic determination, tenacity of purpose, grit, bravery, resilience, and hardiness and is held by Finns themselves to express their national character. It is generally considered not to have a literal equivalent in English.

Remembering to Be Human Beings: Three Years After Standing Rock

Many felt that a dream had led them to Standing Rock in 2016, myself included. Many spoke of how it felt like their Ancestors had nudged them awake, as if the Earth was rising in a chorus of resistance.

Turtle Island, November 2016.  | Photo: Si Matta (H a v e n)

Turtle Island, November 2016. | Photo: Si Matta (H a v e n)

Time stood still in the liminal spaces of the day to day of camp life… and the ritual of living was a Sacred space.. one worth defending.

I was at Standing Rock, because I felt I needed to gather and bear witness to what was happening there as relatives put their lives on the line to defend the Sacred. I was there to bear witness to prophecy and resilience, and the meaning of dreams and place. I was there for my own Ancestors, and the future generations. There was a collective joy and togetherness in camp, that many of us felt ripple through our hearts, melting intergenerational traumas to the ground. We all felt that fire in our hearts!

I share this video I made, to show more of that feeling of what it meant to be there. I have tons of riot footage, and footage of anger and despair, but I wanted to show that, even though they tried to break our Spirits, we were remembering what it meant to be human.

To all the Water Protectors the world over,

Masie!

Mni Wiconi!

A Timeless Vortex

The constant sounds of falling water and rustling winds make up much of the landscape of the Gorge.

Dog Creek Fall, Washington

Dog Creek Falls, Washington

The warm Pacific ‘Chinook Winds’ dropping their rains against the cold easterly draft of the Plains. I love being in that cold nip of winter, everything is bright and chill. I get lost in the language of falling water, often watching the afternoons fade into the waining of dusk. There is a vortex here, that makes time stand still.

Inter-Generational Trauma and Breaking Cycles

Myself, I’m one of the generations. My mother is one of the generations, wandering out there in alcoholism, and death, and murder, and domestic violence, and thinking there’s no way out. Well, there is a way out… Like I tell my children, my grandchildren, ‘You don’t have to walk that road of alcoholism and drug addiction. I walked that road. I took all those beatings for you guys. You don’t have to walk that road.’

- Verna Bartlett, Ph.D., Native American elder and sexual abuse survivor

My sweet Grandmother and myself in 2009.

My sweet Grandmother and myself in 2009.

My Grandmother Shirley Amos said pretty much the same things to us kids growing up… ‘you have a good life now..’ and we did, and we do.. but there is still healing to be done.

I recorded this from my Grandmother while she was waiting to go home for Hospice and pass on to her Creator.

Where the Gods live

The salt of time has worn the edges a little thin as the image wains in it’s slow compost. The timeless ghost of the unidentified figure suspended in haunted air. This bridge between the past and now, triggers my own memories, sneaking across forbidden entries, to break to the other side, and bathe in the glory of the Springs. The constant murmur of white waters washing across old stones and the sulphured air, and many generations baptized. I have come to believe that this is where the Gods live.Swinging_bridge_over_Wind_River

Two swinging bridges across Wind River. An unidentified person stands on one bridge. Written on the back of photo- “Swinging bridge Shipherd’s Hot Springs.”

Grandma Aggie and the Reminder of the Sun.

I woke up a bit before the Morning Star and could hear the silence of subfuscus mists hovering upon the hills and valleys. I laid awake, and reminisced about early mornings at Oceti Sakowin Camp in 2016, “Wake up, this is not a vacation!”.. I awaken to broken silence, echoing off old canyons, where trees fold time in the roots of soggy soil, I ponder my dreams.

Taowhywee, Morning Star

Taowhywee, Morning Star

Today, I am off to say goodbye to an Elder, Grandma Aggie. I never met this holy Elder in the flesh, but her calling and life, resonated hard in my bones. When she talked about the sacred water, I could hear Wyam (Celilo Falls) pumping from my heart, and the sacred River flowing through my veins. Grandma Aggie felt so familier to me. The smell of Salmon and cedar smoke over open fires waifs from her voice. Grandma Aggie could be my own Grandmother, which, is not a new feeling for us Indians. It is an intrinsic part of our DNA, an intrinsic part of our Story.

My partner awakes to make some coffee and prepare herself for the journey. She knew Grandma Aggie personally, and looked up to her as a fellow Grandmother herself, learning to walk into Elder-hood. I watch her braid her hair with stories of Grandma, and what she meant to her. About her regrets of not staying in touch more, but holding the sacred memory close, she releases a single tear. I prepare the car for our journey to the Siletz Reservation, where we will lay Grandmother’s bones along side her relatives. As I am walking to the car, I hear my own Grandmothers voice in my head, and look up to greet the horizon. The young morning star obscured in fog seems so enchanted and calm. A deep breath overtakes me as I greet the day. I pray, remembering.

{Listen to my Grandmother, Shirley Amos, talking about finding our place in the sun.}

Our drive meanders through the Oregon Coast Range.  The mists ebb and flow like the Ocean waves crashing against the shores of broken trees.

Hwy 20 west to Siletz Reservation. © H a v e n

Hwy 20 west to Siletz Reservation. © H a v e n

My partner tells me the story of how Grandma Aggie’s People were relocated to this wet fortress from the dry tinder Rouge Valley of Southern Oregon, which was known as “Oregons own trail of tears”. A story all Indigenous people share. A story of displacement from place and belonging. A story that is passed from one hand to the next, drenched in tears and whiskey. It is hard for us Indians to trust our strengths, and as I sit and listen to the Stories Grandma Aggie’s family tell, I know I am not alone.

Just as our stories are heartbreaking and traumatic, they are also laced in resilience and joy. There is a deep belonging to Place that fuels an inner fire no colonial power can kill, and no god can enslave. Yet, the scars are deep and seeping, and our Mother is in danger. We must find our place in the Sun, and rise above for the future generations. Thank you Grandma Aggie for the reminders, and the Stories.

Our Time to Shine

The smells mingled in a frenzy of excitement, swaying with the brisk winds, carrying laughter and conversations into the chilly August night.

1954 Skamania County Fair: unknown photographer.

1954 Skamania County Fair: unknown photographer.

The whole county would seem to come alive and vibrate with a new frequency, communing over corned cob and Volunteer Fire Dept. hamburgers. It was our time to shine.

remember who you are

The sun peeks its morning head over the hedges. Summoning the morning glories to rise and open their light to the world. Sometimes, I feel like a tight bulb, curled in on its self, not wanting to expose myself to the world, or

'you put a spell on me. 'exquisite corpse drawing bernard dumaine marc gosselin

‘you put a spell on me. ‘exquisite corpse drawing bernard dumaine marc gosselin

the sun. Yet, hope seems to beckon me awake, vulnerable and still. I wonder if plants are haunted by dreams, and bad decisions. Do they regret where their roots have been planted? Do they wish they lived else where, or were never born at all? In my observation, they do all they can to reach for the light.. even if it means moving concrete and time. To thrive is their birth right.

View From the Garden

I have been spending time in the garden. The smell of wet pollen set against the arid Chinook breeze blowing in from the ocean.  Whispers of connection strained through the milky brown soil, sometimes I swear I feel my grandmothers hands reaching for mine. A message in dirt, and dreams the petals carry through time. There is a calm in the act of growing. A reach toward the sun runs through all living things. A mirror of blood draped in ancestral knowledge. I forgot how to fish in the new hunter/ gather paradigm, and in the quiet, a paradox is born.  I would like to think that the birds remember my name, eating the seeds freshly planted with a smirk across their grace.68693252_1597909433674041_6125972924424781824_n

My grandmother would tell stories of hunting mushrooms in forests draped in misty moss. The smell of autumnal decay squished between her words, making my hair stand on end like porcupine. You could hear twigs snap in her silent pauses, where her eyes would look up to the sky, and then slip back into tales. Tales of tall creatures made from old stories, who still roam and haunt the landscape. Tales of  little people who lived on rims of volcanoes, and haunted lakes. Ties to an old way of being intwined in the cycles of Earth. It felt safe. It felt familiar.

Right now, the world around us burns in torrent flame and indifference, and I long for the soothing caress of Grandmothers tales, but her words are now wrapped in the winds. I will sit in the garden and feel those words wrap around my worried heart, and find peace to breath long enough to remember. Yet, I tell my tales in the confines of a mechanical life, wrapped in binary sinew, my drums occupy the servers of modern living. I hate to admit that I am bitter at where time has placed me.. bitter that I have to wade through the muck of others greed and desire for destruction. But, there is no time for bitter abandonment, for the harvest is yet to be reaped.

 

These Mountains Have Teeth

These mountains have teeth, talking in ash and earthquake, and then silent. Lore spews forth from their huckleberry fields, seasonal rounds of medicines and comfort. Grandmothers teach old ways, the basket and weaver of stories. I feel the tinge of spirit run my spine like porcupine, goosebumps raised

Cowlitz cradle board. Artist: Paul Kane

Cowlitz cradle board. Artist: Paul Kane

with the visions of Wah-Tee-Tahs, small in the mirror of the winds. Skookums, in shadow, wait to raise the child to elder. On the banks, waiting for Salmon, Coyote plays a silly game, and gives life back to the hungry, and the lost.