12th April 2014
12th April 2014
Imagine a world where a giant corporation genetically engineered a variety of sperm that was superior to the strain that Man was naturally endowed with. Now imagine that this corporation falsely proclaimed that their “super seed” was much more vigorous than the original version and thus capable of creating an over abundance of life. Over time the intelligent egg began resisting the manufactured sperm until the corporation introduced a line of chemical fertilizers which ensured that an ovum would be the result of their union. This ovum became an embryo and finally a child, however through this process all of the male children born were without sperm. The right to procreate was now solely under the jurisdiction of the corporation who had patented the “super seed” formula and any time you wished to have a child you would have to buy your seeds. Attempting to create life by any other means would be a breach of intellectual property rights and would render you a criminal.
The story above is exactly the truth of what is happening with the food sources on our planet. Somewhere along the way we lost our faith in the inherent capacity of life itself to be its own progenitor. We literally sold the rights of Creation to biotech giants like Monsanto who tamper with DNA, in our conceited belief that our intelligence is beyond the Creator’s. We ignored the fact that nature is intelligently coded to advance itself without any outside intervention and it has been this way for as long as we know it. Mother Earth is the soil of life’s potentiality and the seed represents both the source and result of the reproductive cycle. It is a perfect symbiosis that is none but the signature of a divine intelligence.
One night I had a dream that I was searching for Mother Earth. Amidst dilapidated buildings and empty streets filled with waste and broken glass, I called out to her, begging her to show herself. I finally discovered that she lived alone on the top floor of one of the buildings, her voice calling back to me barely audible as it competed with her blaring TV. I awoke startled at the idea that society had squeezed every last vestige of her beauty and generosity to the point that she had to end her days like a lonely old ‘cat lady’ – dishonoured, dethroned and totally alone.
This narrative begged me to contemplate if women across the ages and the continents have not suffered the same fate as the Mother in my dream since we have commodified the Earth’s worth and over exploited her benevolence to breaking point. After all, this matriarch is our principal native soil and to disrespect the very land that bore us cannot lead to a greater respect for the life that lives on it. It is hard to face our own ignorance and irreverence for the sanctity of life. How did we let it get so far? How can we reclaim our innocence? How will we restore the dignity of our primordial Mother?
We must return to the land. We must submit ourselves to her teachings and her wisdom. We must beg her forgiveness. Most of all, we must bear her witness. She has a story to tell that will shake the very foundations that our crumbling societies are built on. We must be willing to listen to this story, for within it are the sacred seeds of healing which will only blossom through allowing our hearts to be her soil.
7th April 2014
Two photographs from my darkroom project in India were recently published in the Seities magazine, a Calgarian publication that features exclusively analogue photography. The exhibit will be held for public viewing at Shelf Life Books for another week. I highly recommend checking it out to support the revival of this dying art form.
Find out more at http://seities.ca/
At what age did you first start travelling solo? (if you don't mind) =)
Asked by happinessx365
7th April 2014
27th March 2014
First it starts like an impossible thought. A daydream even. It must be someone else’s life. Certainly not mine, for I am nobody. Then it starts to itch, slowly growing into a full blown rash. Even then I am too busy looking for a topical remedy for this internal calling that merely wants to be acknowledged in some form or another.
One day, out of sheer frustration at having denied this itch’s existence for so long, I scratch. I imagine a better version of my current self in some impossible circumstance, living an impossible dream - like an imposter in disguise. Once or twice I may even let it be me as the hero of this fantasy, until I ask myself, “could this be my life?”
Warning: Here is where the mental deliberation begins and my blissful ignorance ends. For now, through the crack of my own projection, I have allowed myself to think, even for a moment, that I could live the life I dream. Crazy, huh? At this point there is no guarantee that I actually will live that life, but if I never do, it is an unavoidable certainty that I will forever live feeling like I am being squeezed into a pair of jeans that no longer fit. Or worse yet, I will die filled with regret.
And those are pretty tough pills to swallow.
It may take years to have the courage to make my move, to really admit to myself that this has been my dream all along and that every other thing I have done in its place has not been able to quell the visceral urge of my longing. And only I truly know how many other roads I tried to walk, hoping that they would take me close enough to my dreamed destination. Here I am, after all of it, with no other road left to walk but one. My feet feel like iron bricks but my heart is aching for the passion I once promised myself before the fear of failure set in. Little by little I inch myself further towards that dangerous dream, and that is when clarity strikes like a bolt of lightning. “This really could be my life. All that is lacking is my permission and acceptance.”
This is it. Now I am standing on a precipice - behind me all the untruth generated from years of not accepting myself as I am, and ahead of me, a vast realm of unexplored possibility, the manifestation of which, depends on my belief and commitment. I am almost there.
I am tumbling forth into glory.
A life denied its sweet song to be crooned or its earth pounding dance to be embodied, is a life half lived. I know that well. I once stood on the other side of an unthinkable dream, ignoring its soul gripping call.
Rest easy now. Although I am yet to arrive, that one step I took is the start of 10,000, and I am going to make it - or die trying.
22nd March 2014
17th March 2014
16th March 2014
How do we heal in a profoundly sick society? How do we acknowledge all that is lost to tragedy, old age and disease? How do we recover from experiences that change our way of knowing and being forever?
I won’t pretend to have any easy answers to these difficult questions, yet I will offer a suggestion of what can transform loss into a ‘rite of passage’. Honouring.
A rite of passage is both an acknowledgement and a blessing of an individual’s undergoing. It is a threshold by which one’s stepping over can transform the mundane into the sacred. It redefines tragedy into triumph and makes victors of victims.
I am particularly aware of this tonight because a dear friend of mine is on the other side of the world collecting the body of his brother who unexpectedly passed away.
My tribal senses were immediately awakened when I heard of this news. I wished to band my tribe together and form a circle with arms interlocking and hearts wide open, singing our songs of celebration and shouting our cries of betrayal skyward. I imagined us burning sage and sweetgrass - sending those wisps of smoke sailing to the heavens to appease the wrath of the Gods. In that dream we were beating our drums and pounding our hands to the earth, and when our tears had run dry and our bodies lay crumbled, we embraced the fragility of the other with a Mother’s warmth. Our mourning was as grand as our celebration for we intrinsically knew that one was illegitimate without the other.
Without rites of passage we rob life of its glory. Ritual is as much an act of reverence as it is an offering by which one receives blessings. Every moment we live is a chance to awaken our awareness to our primordial connection to Source. Tragedy is proof of life and grieving a testament to love. Our heartbeats are none but the cadence of Creator, pulsating to the rhythm of a most sacred drum. This sonic boom is life – both hum and drum, wave and ripple. Honour, celebrate, grieve, and cast yourself into the deep with total abandon. This life takes everything, promises nothing and requires equal measures of grit and grace. Honour your losses, remember your ancestors, and treasure every heart-wrenching anguish of your one miraculous life.
All my relations.