Writing Workshop with CAMH (Session 5)

 

Where is my sacred space? It is in the tender hug I get from my mom when she greets me in the morning as I make two cups of coffee: one for me, one for my husband. My sacred space is the park behind my house, where my nephew like to bring me to play soccer. My sacred space is the frustration I feel when I miss a phone call from my coworker, who’s probably asking for a copy of a note about something important to her. It is in the art that I see all around me. My sacred space is the curiosity I feel just as I log in at 1:59 PM on Thursdays to our writing workshop zoom link. I guess what I’m trying to say is that my breath-the inhale, exhale, the held air in between-is my sanctuary. It is here. Now. So, what is there left to do but to walk on this earth loving justice, comfortable with the huff and puff of stress, and sitting with the softness within. It is humble, uncelebrated, resilient, and generous with its joy.

I have a recurring dream, not of me flying in the air, but riding giant ocean waves. If I’ll fly anywhere, I hope it’s towards the sea, where my childhood was spent pulling fishing nets back to shore. Where I played with hermit crabs, marvelling at the difference in the shells they made into homes. Funny, because I have also come to Turtle Island, calling it my home now. If I’ll fly anywhere, I hope to do it as a Treaty Person, honoring the treaties I made with the Indigenous folks, fulfilling my obligations, and enjoying my rights as a Treaty Person. A steward who flies directly into what needs to be done.