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Projection on Burrard Street Bridge, at Senakw, Vancouver, BC. Photo courtesy of Cheryl L’Hirondelle.

By Dylan Robinson

* Written for the Canadian Association for Theatre Research Conference, May 30, 2018

Plenary presentation “Rethinking the Practice and Performance of Indigenous Land Acknowledgement”

Please cite only with permission of author: dylan [dot] robinson [at] queensu [dot] ca


“I’d like to acknowledge that we are on stolen land.

I’d like to acknowledge that we are on borrowed land.

I’d like to acknowledge that we are on overdue land.

I’d like to acknowledge that we are on pickpocketed land.

* * *

I’d like to acknowledge academic colonialism.

I’d like to acknowledge activist colonialism.

I’d like to acknowledge that we are on bureaucratic land.

I’d like to acknowledge poetic colonialism.

I’d like to acknowledge drinking a glass of water ten minutes ago and not

having to boil the water first.

I’d like to acknowledge the ice on the inside of the walls when I lived in

Labrador in the 1970s as part of the military occupation of Innu/Inuit/

Indian land.

I’d like to acknowledge not having mould in my son’s room.”

From Clint Burnham’s NO POEMS ON STOLEN NATIVE LAND (2010)


To acknowledge something is often to name that which has been previously ignored. To acknowledge Indigenous territories and lands that we are uninvited guests upon—to speak, affirm, declare—is to begin to name specific histories of colonization and continued non-Indigenous occupation of Indigenous lands. In this naming, a lot hinges on the language we use to describe how we occupy the lands we live and work upon. The way we name our positionality—as guests, uninvited, visitors, settlers, invaders, arrivants—speaks to how we understand the terms of occupation, and relationships to Indigenous peoples. A lot depends upon these specific word choices, but also upon our phrasing, the tone of our voices, and the time we take as we speak about how we occupy space, and whose space we occupy. A lot depends on how the specifics are named, and how these specifics express why we are naming these things in the first place. Much also depends on how we acknowledge our hosts, whether they be Haudenosaunee, Anishinaabe, Stó:lō, Wuikinuxv, xwelmexw. I’d like to acknowledge what happens when you stumble over our nations, our names—when Indigenous language falls carelessly out of the mouth, shatters upon the ground—is heard as a certain kind of acknowledgement too.

There are innumerable things we might acknowledge, as the excerpts from Clint Burnham’s poem demonstrate. One of the most important forms of acknowledgment is that which is addressed to the Indigenous peoples upon whose lands we gather upon, an address that often puts into question the relationship between the speaker and addressee. But land acknowledgment is certainly not the only thing that needs acknowledging. The exceptional moment—the conference, the event, the first time a class meets—these are not the only places where acknowledgement might take place. To move beyond the mere spectacle of acknowledgment as a public performance of contrition, we must take into account acknowledgement’s site- and context-specificity. As xwelmexw, I understand our protocol (a word often used instead of acknowledgment), and that of neighbours across the coast, as always relational: it changes depending on who is in the room, what those specific relationships are historically, and in the present moment, what is going on in ever-changing natural world and other-than-human relationships there. I know this too from the Kanien’kehá:ka people whose land I am now a visitor upon—“the words that come before all else” give thanks in the specific instance of our gathering: the time, the place, the land, the waters, the skies. To read and repeat prescriptive acknowledgement without variance runs counter to the very principle of acknowledgment.

How then, might we become more specific about our acknowledgments, particularly in the academic and artistic contexts in which we work? What might happen, for example, if we were to start department or annual association meetings with a form and language of acknowledgement that is specific to that space, and specific to the work done by those people around the table? What would it mean to “decolonize the department meeting” in both form and content? What would result from starting such meetings with an honest acknowledgement of how much decolonizing work our departments or associations have done over the past month or past year? Some? Any? Not enough? What would happen if we oriented such meetings within the colonial histories of our disciplines or art form, and used such a re-orientation as the impetus to undertake substantive decolonizing action? [1] Do you know the colonial history of the discipline or art form you work within? [2] Do the ways in which your discipline perpetuates heteronormative/settler colonial/anti-BPOC values impact your daily life? Do you feel these norms viscerally, in the pit of your stomach, as your heart races, as your breath is knocked out of you?

What happens when we formally acknowledge in a department meeting the lack of a decolonized core curricula? I name “core curricula”—the core history, the theory, the artistic practices—in particular, since it serves as a the “ground” for the discussions we want to build upon with our students. If we think of our curricula as the “the ground”, we might then also consider core curriculum as the educational equivalent of land.[3] It might then follow that in order for decolonization not to merely be a metaphor (Tuck and Yang), curriculum might need to be one of the things “given back”, where curriculum is the ground that we provide through the courses, the texts, and the performances we teach. Substantive forms of redress that Indigenous people call for are not reducible to the singularity of “the land”, but include other foundations, other ground.

What foundations are you (perhaps inadvertently) reinforcing? What ground are you occupying, and inviting others—your students, your colleagues—to occupy? Foundations are equally reinforced by refusals to refuse. You might, to yourself and others, acknowledge that you need to give over these foundations, this ground. Perhaps you need to give them over entirely, and then work to rebuild. To give these over, entirely, does not mean you will no longer teach what you love to teach or that which you feel has value—Brecht, Shakespeare, Stravinsky, the Beatles—but instead that you might practice forms of “settler refusal” for the perpetuation of settler colonial structures that demand a “fitting in” of non-Western, Indigenous, and BPOC work into an pre-existing, era-based progressions, into the canon. What it means is not increasing “other” content, but a refusal to place other content within a structure that “settles” Indigenous knowledge and cultural practices.

More broadly, what I am proposing, paradoxically, is that we decolonize what acknowledgment has become, in its formalization, bureaucratization and rote presentation, by considering how acknowledgement’s form has a place within our lives and work that is always in-relationship with the specificity and context of its use.


Structure for Acknowledgment

By Dylan Robinson


I am sitting in a room. Limestone walls surround.

Limestone lines

inside and outside of the structure I sit within

This    building, this   house, this  room,

is one of many


I am living in a city—“often called the Limestone City”—

says the city,

I sit inside many “of the many charming limestone buildings,”

says the city,

“many of which help tell the story of Canada”


These charming limestone walls—this charming city—built from quarries

Quarried from the lands of Haudenosaunee and Anishinaabe people

Built from the lands of the Haudensaunee, the Anishinaabe

Structured by colonial design

to allay anxieties of impermanence


I am sitting in a limestone room that hums

with the subfrequency of colonial quarry and cut—

this audible-inaudible sound—resonates my body

My body—xwelmexw body, swiyeqe & yes xwelitem starving person’s body—

in this room, these buildings, that amplify the story of Canada


I am listening in a limestone building, trying not to feel the story of Canada

resonate through my body

shiver through


I am trying instead to hear the seepage of water through stone

I am trying to hear the labour of quarry, cut and chisel

I am trying to hear if these walls are also still the land

I am trying not to hear these walls declare their immovability,

declare their charming structure, their necessary structure,

I am trying to hear their structure burn down

while the building itself remains


[1] These are rhetorical questions; they are also invitations for action.

[2] On the colonial histories of academic disciplines and scholarly associations see Tamara Levitz: See also Tuck, E., and M. Guishard. 2013. “Uncollapsing Ethics: Racialized Sciencism, Settler Coloniality, and an Ethical Framework of Decolonial Participatory Action Research.” In Challenging Status Quo Retrenchment: New Directions in Critical Qualitative Research, edited by T. M. Kress, C. S. Malott, and B. J. Portfilio, 3–27. Charlotte, nc: Information Age Publishing.

[3] Tuck and Yang note, “Though the details are not fixed or agreed upon, in our view, decolonization in the settler colonial context must involve the repatriation of land simultaneous to the recognition of how land and relations to land have always already been differently understood and enacted; that is, all of the land, and not just symbolically.” (“Decolonization is not a metaphor”, 8).

PHOTO: Projection on Burrard Street Bridge, at Senakw, Vancouver, BC

Reclaiming Shingwauk Hall Exhibition

by Jonathan Dewar

* Update: Check out the following links for press coverage and photos:


I am very pleased to be able to share an update on a nearly completed exhibition project that has been six years in the making, and which was supported, in part, by the Creative Conciliations project.

Shortly after the closure in 1970 of the Shingwauk Indian Residential School, and in the early years of Algoma University College’s relocation to the present site, Residential School Survivors connected to the Shingwauk School, their families and communities, and their allies were catalysts in the growing Healing Movement, culminating in the development of the Shingwauk Project in 1979, and the Shingwauk Reunion in 1981.

From these watershed events began the decades-long work of organizing, collecting, displaying, conducting research, and educating the public that led to the establishment of the Children of Shingwauk Alumni Association (CSAA) and the Shingwauk Residential Schools Centre (SRSC), as the Shingwauk project is now known.

In 2012, the CSAA received funding from the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, which allowed it and its partners, notably Algoma University and Shingwauk Kinoomaage Gamig, to hold a large Shingwauk Gathering & Conference – the first of several annual events hosted by the SRSC.

In my role as Director of the SRSC and Special Advisor to the President at Algoma University (2012-16), my SRSC colleagues and I arranged to have several visiting exhibitions of Residential Schools-related material on display at this event, to bolster the SRSC’s longstanding efforts to display and celebrate the Shingwauk collections. This included the seminal Where Are the Children?, curated by Jeff Thomas.

At this event, and more formally at the one that followed in 2013, I asked the Survivors – members of the CSAA and some from the wider Survivor community – how they would like to see their stories told on the walls – and more broadly, throughout the site – of the former Shingwauk School. This was the start of a five-year, iterative exhibition development process, led by the SRSC and the CSAA, to raise funds, develop concepts, and return each year to the Shingwauk Gathering & Conference to refine and further develop plans for a museum-quality exhibition that would further the Survivors’ efforts to celebrate resiliency and reclaim Shingwauk Hall – and beyond.

With funding from the Aboriginal Healing Foundation (2012-14), the SSHRC-funded Creative Conciliations project (2013-18), and Canadian Heritage’s Museums Assistance Program (2014-16, 2016-18), the Survivor community, staff of the SRSC, and the creative team (led by me, along with my collaborators Trina-Cooper Bolam and Jeff Thomas) developed Healing and Reconciliation Through Education, a multi-phase, comprehensive exhibition plan that includes the first phase, Reclaiming Shingwauk Hall, which will be opened in ceremony August 3, 2018, at Algoma University in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario.

The exhibition has three major galleries: ““From Teaching Wigwam to Residential School;” “Life at Shingwauk Home: An Indian Residential School;” and “We are all Children of Shingwauk.” Located on the main floor of Shingwauk Hall, the exhibition completely transforms the space and explores the 110 years of history of the Shingwauk and Wawanosh Indian Residential Schools through their industrial and residential phases.

It was designed with Survivors to honour their experiences and resilience and brings the history of Chief Shingwauk’s vision, and of the Shingwauk and Wawanosh Schools, to Canadians. Most of all, it further serves the mandate they gave the SRSC – “sharing, healing, and learning” – and is part of their longstanding efforts as leaders working to advance reconciliation.

As Shirley Horn, one of our collaborators and a founding member of the CSAA, who now serves as Algoma University’s Chancellor, says in the promotional material for the exhibition launch, “The exhibition is a dream come true. The Children of Shingwauk Alumni Association have been discussing creating such a space for a long time. This new exhibition helps reflect the whole story of those who lived through the residential school era and helps fellow Survivors move toward healing and reconciliation.”

The Creative Conciliations project allowed the SRSC to host three Shingwauk Gatherings (2013-15), which was instrumental in allowing us the time and space with Survivors to work through concepts and move into content and design. And, to close out our Creative Conciliations work, the grant is again supporting a Gathering this summer – this time to launch the first phase of the larger exhibition project and to continue developing the subsequent phases.

Chi miigwetch to Keavy, Ashok, David, and Dylan for your support!

The Space of Gathering and Gathering in Place

Poster for NNA Gathering in Ottawa February 9th 2018 Image ©

by Jennifer Claire Robinson

Early this year, I attended the Native North America Gathering  at the National Arts Centre in downtown Ottawa. The evening was one of many gatherings that have taken place over the last couple of years that have brought Indigenous musicians featured on the brilliant 2014 compilation Native North America, Volume 1: Aboriginal Folk, Rock, and Country 1966-1985 together to share music, poetry and stories. Though well known in their own communities and music circles, many of these performers were never given due exposure or credit for their achievements in Canada. That is, they were never considered part of the mainstream “Canadian” music community during the 1960s, 70s and 80s. The success of the Grammy-nominated album, produced by Vancouver-based music historian Kevin Howes and released by Light in Attic Records, has opened new possibilities for larger audiences to hear the words of these musicians through national and international tours, gathering dates, and album re-releases (see the writings of Howes at Voluntary in Nature for further information about artists involved in this project and these important gatherings).

This night has played out a number of times in my mind since February, as I am sure it has for others that were in attendance. To better understand the importance of the gathering, it is worth me giving some brief context for this evening. The evening, like the album itself, was dedicated to the life and music of legendary Mi’kmaw singer William “Willie” Dunn who passed away in 2013 shortly before the album’s release. Members of Dunn’s family were in the audience and the program included a viewing of Dunn’s National Film Board production “Ballad of Crowfoot. The night also included poetry by Duke Redbird, songs and stories by Eric Landry, Leland Bell, Willy Mitchell, Alanis Obomsawin, Willie Thrasher and Linda Saddleback. Artists Leanne Betasamosake Simpson, Nick Ferrio, and Ansley Simpson joined this line up, allowing the audience to witness a lineage of incredible Indigenous song writing from the 1960s to the present.

And it was during the intermission of this gathering at the National Arts Center, one of the country’s largest and most prestigious places to perform, that the audience heard the outcome of the of Gerald Stanley trial. In this moment, Rosanna Deerchild, the host for the evening (and also of the CBC program On Reserve), shared the news that Stanley had been found not guilty for the death of young Colten Boushie from the Red Pheasant First Nation.

It is hard to put into words what this moment felt like. And I emphasize here, felt like, for even as I reflect on this moment, it is not just the content of the night that stays with me ­—it is the feeling that filled the auditorium. It was the cries of audience members. It was the shivers that ran down my spine and the sadness that swelled and sat heavy in my soul. It was knowing in that moment, there was a commitment understood by everyone in the room to do better. I am conscious of how the aesthetics of the evening: the music, the poetry, the sound, met this news to produce affect. Even as I write this months later the shivers return and it is as though my body remembers. My body is telling me not to forget. And so I am listening.

Like so many others, I was overwhelmed and completely shocked at the level of racism and violent words that erupted on social media after the closing of this trial. A part of this struggle is that this situation is not unique. There are too many of these situations, these acts of discrimination and violence occurring across Canada. And the truth is that sometimes I struggle to understand my own responsibilities as a Settler Canadian because I am overwhelmed by the lack of understanding, the lack of empathy, and the inability for so many to connect as human beings. I struggle to understand how so many Settler-Canadians can live with this anger, but people do. And I know this for I know the histories that perpetuate dominate colonial and national paradigms. Paradigms that produced privileged, ignorance, and authority over the land. I know the legacies that perpetuate a lack of cultural understanding because I have witnessed them. I have seen these legacies in the media, in the streets, in classrooms, in places that are supposed to be safe. I have seen them in my family. And I struggle with this reality the most.

I have been thinking of the importance of gatherings in times like these. Gathering—of being together with our bodies— in the face of ongoing settler colonialism in Canada.  The word “gathering” has a much different intent than the words “event”, “show”, or “performance”. Gathering means more than simply just “getting together”, or “attending an event”. Gathering in a space with a purpose implies as sense of togetherness. Gathering implies a sense of participation, even if that participation is inward, self-reflection or participation that requires change in our families and communities. Conciliation is about coming together, even if there is tension, frustration, sadness, and anger. Building conciliations in Canada will always be about exposing truths about colonial injustice. The task of using creative practice such as music, for example, to build new, anti-colonial frameworks with goals to decolonize praxis, will likely never be easy work, but maybe acts of gathering around creative practice might produce new ways to move forward.

This July 2018, the Creative Conciliations Collective will come together with collaborators, some old and some new, in Kelowna on the territory of the Sylix people, as part of the Indigenous Summer Art Intensive hosted by UBC Okanagan. This gathering will be a time to reflect on the years following the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in Canada to consider the critically essential role of the arts and creative practice in (re)conciliation, resilience, and resurgence work in Canada. I wonder in the days leading to the Intensive, if through gathering we might also reflect on what it takes—it times  like these—to build pedagogies of togetherness.

Duplicate Stitch

An Amends Making Project

by Keavy Martin

To mend, to amend, to make amends. This project occurs at the intersection of these three concepts: all of which, in English, have a common origin in the Old French amender and thus in the Latin ēmendāre. As the OED explains, the prefix ē— is short for ex—, or “out” (“out of,” “from”), here added to the root “mendum,” meaning a fault. Ēmendāre: to ‘out’ a fault, in the sense of removing it. This is a word of potential but also of some danger.

To “mend” is to fix, to heal. Bones mend; tears in fabric can be mended. With reference to clothing, mending can have thrifty, practical, and even sustainable connotations: something is fixed rather than being discarded or replaced. Despite the usefulness of mending, it is humble work, and often private, scarcely discussed. One might also think of the care-taking, even the love, that goes into such an activity: love for the object, which is to be preserved for further use, and love for the person who wore the hole in the stocking heel, who has borne and now will be relieved of this discomfort. That the word is gendered, strongly evoking the maternal, should also be kept in mind.[i]

To “amend,” however, is to correct. We might think of a contract or constitution—a text presumed inanimate, which will not be shamed in having to be amended. Yet the history of this term includes a now-obsolete use in which the object being amended is a person: Charles Richardson’s 1839 English dictionary defines this verb as follows: “To free from deficiency, fault, or blemish; to repair, to correct, to improve, to reform, to recover; to correct, to chasten, or chastise” (22). The OED’s entry for “amend” notes that the 1535 Coverdale Bible makes use of this term in Matthew 3:2, when John the Baptist preached in the ‘wilderness’ of Judea: “Amende youre selues the kyngdome of heuen is at honde.” “Amend yourselves”—later versions render this simply, “repent!” In this usage, a human becomes the flawed object, their ‘fault’ being less a sign of wear but rather a defect, a deviance, something inherent. The amender, then, acts benevolently, taking pity on the flawed, ridding others of their faults—and proposing to save them in the process.

‘Right Side’

‘Wrong Side’










Knitted fabrics—like those used for socks—have two sides (see photos above), conventionally labeled the Right Side (which faces the world) and the Wrong Side (which is often less beautiful and tends to stay facing inward). I think of the English word “mending”—and the action that goes along with it—of likewise having a hidden pattern on its underside, less visible but nonetheless interlaced with and essential to the other. Mending—this humble, loving action; this expression of care—conceals on its wrong side a pattern of saintliness, of presumptuous benevolence, of paternalism. It assumes that a hole is a flaw; it relishes the opportunity to fix it, whether the object wants that fixing or not.

Mending, darning: these were everyday activities at Indian Residential Schools—for girls, in particular. Until the advent of cheap, mass-produced machine-knit socks, darning would have been a common activity of most women, even the wealthy ones. But in institutional settings, this work had a pedagogical purpose beyond utility: K. Tsianina Lomawaima writes about the ubiquity of manual labour in U.S. Federal Indian schools, wherein girls were required to spend half of their school day “sewing hundreds of shirts, darning thousands of socks, polishing miles of corridor” not only to keep the schools and their uniforms operational but also to learn obedience to those in power, a key component of the ‘transformation’ that these schools aimed to bring about in Indigenous children (230). To put it bluntly, Indian residential schools—like Federal Indian schools—aimed to amend Indigenous children, presuming them deficient, desiring them to be flawed. In requiring girls to mend, officials fantasized that they were likewise supervising a process of spiritual repair: a metanoia, a change of mind, a conversion.[i]

Our Creative Conciliations research project started out in 2013 with a mandate to “think beyond reconciliation” toward other models of addressing the colonial past and present and of making better relations in these lands. In that spirit, this is an amends making project: it aims to think about mending, amending, and making amends through the work of darning—a task, as my both my grandmothers have pointed out, that nobody does anymore (our machine-knit socks wear long, when they do finally wear out, they are swiftly replaced).[ii] Central to this project is the hypothesis that mending, as an embodied action, can shed light on both the problems and possibilities of making amends in ways that reading and writing alone cannot. “Amends,” as a plural noun, is something that colloquially must be made—it is a continual and, most importantly, a material process of paying for, or giving something, “to make reparation for any injury or offence” (OED). It is necessary but also carries risk, for what ought to render the amends-maker penitent, contrite, and humble could potentially cast them as innocent, or benevolent, selflessly bestowing improvement upon deficient things.[iii] Can amends be made (can mends be made) without this kind of piracy—this wresting of moral capital from the things themselves?

A sock heel worn but not broken.

As I begin this work (my first actual creative research project in a career built on critiquing the creative projects of others), I am currently in the process of locating socks—and of sock-wearers willing to entrust me with their mending. The first pair came from our son’s grandmother, who one day, while watching me knit, began to talk about having had to darn the heels of socks as a young girl in residential school. Having never darned (having never been required to darn), I listened to her describe the process of weaving in a new fabric to fill the hole… and I try this work now with her in mind, with the difference in our circumstances in mind, in hopes of offering her something, even something small, and in hopes of learning something about mending, if only to more closely examine the affects and intentions and possibilities of amends-making.

Asking people for their holey socks is a very strange thing and can only happen in the context of particular relationships: a certain intimacy or trust is required. As this practice unfolds, the guiding questions will be: how to care for these socks (whether hand- or machine-knit, whether wool or synthetic), how to respect their worn spots and even to celebrate them for the history that they keep, how to listen attentively—both to the wearers and to the socks themselves—as to how (and whether) the mending should take place. And, most importantly, how to make these mends without amending, without necessarily understanding the hole to be a flaw, and, most importantly, without joining the ranks of benevolent white women knitters performing acts of charity for the sake of their own souls?

One sock, darned.


I welcome any feedback on this project and can be reached at keavy [at] ualberta [ dot] ca

Thank you to Rosa Wah-Shee for talking to me about darning socks at Breynat Hall residential school in Fort Smith, NWT. Her story inspired this research.

My gratitude goes out to those, like my Grandma Margaret, who have entertained my inquiries about holey socks and who are willing to discuss darning mushrooms and other such things.

Thanks also to my colleague Prof. John Considine for helping me to navigate the OED—and for alerting me to the work of lexicographer Charles Richardson.


[i] Metanoia, “after thought” or change of mind, is the Greek concept of conversion that was rendered into English as “amend yourselves” (or later, “repent”). Lomawaima also documents the many ways in which children resisted this process and other impositions . It is highly possible that for a residential school survivor today, to simply toss a worn sock into the garbage might be an important act of resistance.

[ii] In fact, a mending revival is underway, thanks to 21st century interests in sustainability and extending the life of clothes. For a start, see the work of Tom of Holland and of Jonnet Middleton (futuremenders).

[iii] I am thinking here of Eva Mackey’s “The Apologizer’s Apology” and of Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang’s deployment of the idea of white “moves to innocence.”

[i] For brilliant discussions of mending, see Jonnet Middleton’s “Mending” or Anna König’s “A Stitch in Time: Changing Cultural Constructions of Craft and Mending”.

Rivers by Jennifer Claire Robinson

Treaty 6 Time by Jennifer Claire Robinson

Treaty 6 Time by Jennifer Claire Robinson

I have been thinking a lot about rivers. Of the movement of rivers. About the marks that rivers leave on the landscape. I have been reflecting on the ways rivers connect people, places, and things. Of the way that rivers can carry us somewhere; somewhere new, somewhere that we need to get to.

As the newest member of the Creative Conciliations team, I write this post as both an introduction to myself (for further work see, and to my own ruminations concerning my position as a Settler Canadian in the current post-TRC atmosphere of reconciliation research and arts-based practice. I grew up primarily in the Prairies, where the Bow and Elbow Rivers cross, in Treaty 7 territory. In the language of the Niitsitapi, one of several Indigenous groups to occupy the area now known as southern Alberta, this is the crossing of the Makhabn and the Moh-kíns-tsis-aká-piyoyis. In my own journey to better understand the history of these lands, I am motivated to try to learn the names of these rivers and their relevance to the Indigenous communities on whose territories they pass through. It seems to me, that knowing these names is a small, personal act of reconciliation, and it feels right to want to learn. And so, I am going with this feeling.

As part of work with this collective, I recently spent time in Treaty 6 territory celebrating Métis history and culture through events held at the University of Alberta organized by Creative Conciliations members Keavy Martin and David Garneau. During the prepping for the evening events, I spent time helping Joseph Naytowhow and Cheryl L’Hirondelle bundle buffalo sage for use in their installation Light Tipi: yahkâskwan mîkiwahp (see ). As I sat in a gymnasium on a Friday night learning how to bundle sage, I also found myself sharing stories about Cree and Métis culture. We talked about creating art, about the process of writing, the travels we have taken, and our shared connection of having all grown up or spent significant time in the Prairies. Here, we spent time connecting over the land. Joseph told me to take a bundle as thanks for helping him. I have gifted this bundle to my wonderful Cree friend in Victoria who has been having a hard time so she may receive the good medicine that it intends.

As I reflect on my time spent near the North Saskatchewan River, part of larger body of water known in the Cree language as the Kisiskatchewani Sipi, or “swift-flowing river”, I can’t help but think, how lucky I am. How lucky I am that my job includes sharing stories, bundling sage, listening to beautiful music and poetry from young Indigenous students from the U of A, and then, creating a Light Tipi under the Northern Lights. It seems to me that sharing space together is part of reconciliation and it feels right to want to share. And so, I am going with this feeling.

I have been thinking about how the work of reconciliation in Canada is much like the flow of a river. This work can be frightening, and dark. It can lead us down a path that is unknown; perhaps feared. The pace can at times be fast, rocky, and confusing or, conversely, slow, and frustrating. But the pace, much like the pace of a river, can also be gentle; a pace that lets us take in the beauty of the land as we pass along the waters together into a new place. Rivers— like reconciliation— can make us feel. And so, I remain thankful for the time I will spend throughout this coming year with my fellow research collaborators where together, we can watch the water pass. Or maybe, we might jump right in the rapids and see what new teachings, new challenges, and new ways of being together the rivers bring us. It seems to me that taking a chance together is part of reconciliation, and it feels right to want to try. And so, I am going with this feeling.

Life, Death, and Dating

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If you wish to stop because you’re not relaxation with him, you may makes use of the service of free dating online once again to find a different one. The net dating service would call for a significant volume of advertising money in so that it will set your organization apart from the 1000s of other dating services in existence. Its basically a community of people who accumulate together to interact, socialize, and make friends with each other. One of many reasons people decide to be a part of an internet dating service, is that these individuals are doing it! There are lots of internet dating services on the world wide web.

Summer Intensive, 2016

Creative Conciliations has supported the UBCO Summer Indigenous Intensive since 2014, providing funding for projects, artists, and research assistants.

This past summer was entitled: O k’inādās // complicated reconciliations: an artist residency
The k’inādās artist collective acknowledges an award received from the {Re}conciliation initiative with support from the Canada Council for the Arts, the J.W. McConnell Family Foundation and The Circle on Philanthropy and Aboriginal Peoples in Canada.

Full information on the residency is available at

Below are some images from the salmon canning event several of the artists organized in the middle of the residency.





Books from #decolonizemyheart

This is the process. Peter Morin finds books all over the place  some in 2nd hand shops some gifted some found  they all represents some form of excessive typing, racist assumptions, painful connections that make assumptions on  Indigeneity and construction of identity  he collects them  he washes them with a group of others young and old  the washed books are placed in the gallery on a black cloth on a red cloth  they will dry there  and be part of an exhibition that moves us forward without forgetting