Powwows and continuity...

Some moments reassure.

I will come to the ways...

The Six Nations comprise of the Mohawk, Oneida, Cayuga, Seneca, Onondaga and Tuscarora. Each year the Grand River Powwow at Chiefswood Park, Ontario, welcomes indigenous peoples from all over North America. Open for all to attend. Six Nations is also the birthplace of the noted Canadian writer Emily Pauline Johnson. Her writings celebrate her First Nations heritage, pride, dignity, valor and relentless spirit. Her poetry unveils the pain and alienation, the challenges and inequity...feelings of the invisible and the unheard.

Today on June 21st, National Indigenous Peoples Day in Canada, I am reminded of a summer afternoon spent at the Grand River Powwow, a decade ago. I was with Nina and Evelyn, two very dear maternal figures for myself and my husband Marsh. Nina is an indigenous elder and Evelyn, a retired nurse with Carribean cultural roots. Nina, Evelyn and I, along with their friend Akiko had gone on a trip to the indigenous reserve at Ohsweken for the Powwow. Each one of us had our origins in different cultures, ethnicities, age groups, with backgrounds as diverse as can be. That afternoon, at the Powwow, the reverberations of the drums, the exquisite colours of the ceremonial regalia worn by the indigenous dancers and their powerful, proud dance rippled through our veins in synchronicity... the oneness of raw goosebump moments, when real beauty presents itself.

I had just lost my Ma at that time. With a heart heavy filled with indescribable grief, I had only recently returned from Assam, leaving my dearest sister Naumi (and other loved ones) behind. I was exhausted and drained from the loss and from seen and unforeseen disappointments. There is something about unconditional, non-patronizing interactions that renew and rejuvenate worn-out tiredness. No power- play, no competitiveness, no one-up ness, no feeling of threat of any kind...just safety and pure friendship. That day was one such instance. Our laughter, conversations and adventure transcended beyond boundaries into a forever moment. Profound discussions giving way to unstoppable laughter. Spontaneous bursts of fun and then the return to a comforting silence. Some of it reminded me of travel times with Ma, where no topic was taboo, deeply poetic conversations, silly chatter and laughter... endless. It brought back glimpses of adventures with Deta, some quite daring, like the exciting one into the rough terrains of the India-Myanmar border on the narrow, Stilwell Road. Those adventures where we would stop for little wonders, gaze at brilliant colours and acknowledge the here and now. 

My friends have known love, laughter and loss. Tasted the hues of life...the painful, the joyous, the in-between. Some answers we have found, while others we still seek, yet some we never will. Those we accept as mystery. Not everything needs to be known, to be at peace. 

That afternoon was reassuring. About connectedness and celebrations that speak of life's tapestry. Tears and smiles intertwined, fairness and injustice interspersed. Coexisting. Together. Nothing negated. Most of all, there was the reassurance of continuity. Of love and life, as expressed in the Fire Flowers by Emily Pauline Johnson...

And only where the forest fires have sped
Scorching relentlessly the cool north lands
A sweet wildflower lifts its purple
And, like some gentle spirit sorrow-fed
It hides the scars with almost human hands

And only to the heart that knows of grief
Of desolating fire, of human pain

There comes some purifying sweet belief
Some fellow-feeling beautiful, if brief
And life revives, and blossoms once again

P.S. For more information on the Grand River 'Champion of Champions' Powwow: 

About – Grand River Champion of Champions Pow Wow

Melody

...this tune now

all at once

transports

an aroma

from another time

narrates a reality

of people that were

vivid within those sounds

the laughter

the glee

conversations

stories

patterns and movements

sounds and wisps...

interlaced sometimes

lyrics and strains

the ebb and flow

offering glimpses of

quicksilver moments

and illusory shores

the music

when ends

settles lightly

with stories muted

fading feelings

of characters now silent

veiled and frozen

obediently locked

until one day...

the melody replays

bringing back faces

familiar greetings

yet again

from another time...

                                       

Freedom

Out of the grasp

Of enmeshed wounds 
And intricate bonds

A response 
That refuses simply

To sell itself out

Transitions into an authentic unknown

From tired, saccharine familiarity

A step short of reacting

That saves the soul

From repetitive, never-ending patterns

A relief unfolds
Bidding farewell

To enslavement 

And suffocation

In the guise of endearment

Earthly cracks
That freely rise

In creatively crafted images
Of impossibly human

Humanity

Surfing on waves

Of joyous imperfections

And unbridled humour

Lying beneath

Rigid, stoic worlds

In such ways often

Presenting as moments

Flashing as instances

Sometimes...
Freedom can be found

“Mr. Watson, I want you here....”

Words along these lines were first transmitted through the telephone, by its inventor, Alexander Graham Bell in 1876. Words meant for his assistant, Thomas Watson. I had heard about this at our dinner table, many moons ago as a child, from deta, my father. He would often initiate such conversations on current affairs, historic moments, space explorations, scientific discoveries, music and other interesting bits. Clippings of these would then be creatively posted onto a collage board that he had made and would regularly update, so that my sister naumi, ma and I could refer to these from time to time. We would eagerly look forward to what the latest was on the board that introduced us to a vast, multi-layered world.

Years later, just the other day, I found myself in the picturesque province of Nova Scotia. This is where Graham Bell spent the later years of his life in the village of Baddeck, in the island of Cape Breton. Graham Bell was born in Scotland and had emigrated to Canada with his parents. Then, there is the Canadian Museum of Immigration in Halifax that curates stories of people who find their way to Canada to make it their home. There is also the Peace by Chocolate story of a Syrian refugee family who had to flee their home country of Syria, leaving behind their lives to start anew here in Nova Scotia, in time building a meaningful chocolate enterprise. And, more...

Immigrants, all of us. A status we share...Scottish-Canadian, Syrian-Canadian, Indo-Canadian, so on... hyphenated identities, a different kind of belongingness. Perhaps, a few common experiences...of alienation and inclusion, loneliness and acceptance, disruption and consolidation, stagnation and rejuvenation, cynicism and trust, split yet rooted loyalties, sometimes nowhere yet everywhere, nuanced perceptions of people and situations that often come with hyphenations, a sliding spectrum of otherness and embracement. Of never really feeling definitive, certain...of anything. Surety would be an illusion in a relative world, wouldn't it? Could this also be a space that disintegrates self-imposed shackles, birthing newness, ingenuity and freedom?

My mind ponders as the camera captures images of the coast lines of Nova Scotia, the historic lighthouse at Peggy's Cove, the water fronts, the colourful heritage town of Lunenburg, the bays, the villages and more lighthouses…

Feels like a few full circle moments.

Love

Mimi

P.S. few pictures and drone shots

 

Introduction

I think I was six or seven years old when I first wrote something that I would call my own creation. It was a comic book with childish sketches and stories with pictures. Much like children influenced by fairy tales at that time, mine too was about princesses and princes and how they meet and live happily ever after. Then one day, deta, my father, in his gentle, loving manner asked me "majoni (my darling), does your princess always have to be tall, fair- skinned, rich and famous? What else does she do apart from waiting for her prince? Are there other qualities you would like to write about?" Those questions in my tender mind were the beginning of a journey into seeking new perceptions, unfamiliar thinking and spaces...simple questions from a man I have always looked up to ...a man who lived fully in the short life that he lived. You had to meet him once to love him forever.  A brilliant engineer, musician, artist and more, deta (Ranjit Kumar Borooah) was also the youngest Assamese child actor in the first Assamese film Joymoti...

Ma (Neeti Borooah), my mother and confidante, was a poet and Sanskrit language educator. Ma nurtured my writing further and published my first book of poems, Afterthoughts. Ma also translated these poems into Assamese in a prolific and poignant manner, as Uttarbhabona. Writers Workshop, Kolkata (India) then published my next three books Vermilion and other poems, Reflections, and Poems and Impressions.

I grew up in Duliajan, Assam, in a creative and loving home with my parents, my sister and our soul family members, nani (devi sonar), mali (hazrat ali) and others. My parents welcomed people from all walks of life and every corner of the world...explorers, artists, scientists, musicians and more...learnings I treasure more each year that goes by. I have also learned that tough times in different forms will present itself but ease and comfort are around the corner as well. And, a sense of appreciation ultimately makes life worthwhile...I continue living this way with my life partner Marsh, friends and family.

So, here I am, giving form to my thoughts, through images and words, that flow into my life, often...in the pauses between.

Thank you for stopping by

Mimi