at sea, on bodies

My body is implicated now more than before; I am on the Coho ferry from Victoria, headed across the Straight of Juan de Fuca to the Olympic Peninsula. Destination is Port Townsend, the Mandala Centre training on Theatre of the Oppressed.

Being embodied has been a struggle for me for years. I remember in grade 3 when they did the unit on safe touching at school, the teacher saying things like, “Your body is yours…” I was embarrassed that she was referring to our bodies so directly; I wanted to get back to the alphabet. I remember doing that sort of leaving that offers some relief, narrow escape while body stays put wherever it’s supposed to be… or supposedly is - sometimes my body felt more like a rumour rumbling up gossip from below the neck.

Last week at the dinner table, home visiting my parents, Mom’s eyes focused on the delicate lines underneath the fern tattoo on my right bicep. In my story I’m sure I’ve seen her see them before, and not be ready to know that she sees. Finally she is asking “What are those marks on your arm?”

“You really want to talk about this?” I return. She affirms, and so begins two hours of strained attempts to talk ourselves closer to each other. Dad looks uncomfortable but quietly does the work of staying, to understand. "Since how old...?" Mom searches for the reason why, a person to direct the blame (pain) towards. More questions. I welcome them with my head, but my heart stays mostly buried for the exchange. Survival instinct. Breaking the norm of silence is enough for one day, we won’t also break the norm of keeping tears inside. I have to draw the line when she wants to look closer at the skin.

A couple days later I am deep in the backcountry hiking with Dad. After a rigorous 10km hike to our base camp at Bedwell Lake I count to 3 a few times and dive into the cool mountain waters. The next day we attempt to follow an unkempt route up to the ridgeline of Mt. Tom Taylor. At some point I am bruising my inner thigh wrapped around a tree, while it hugs me back very intimately, its pokey finger of a branch in my mouth, my eye, grabbing my hair. A steep drop behind me and a cougar den in the cliff to my right, “Dad, um… are you sure we’re still on the route?” My legs are covered in scratches, bites, abrasions and bruises. But these, given by rubbing myself upon nature feel different from the old wounds, purifying, healing wounds. And after all that we find a magic subalpine valley with an unnamed lake.

Yesterday it was my nephew’s third birthday. I woke up in the morning from a dream of my ex (hereafter “X”) who I lived with for awhile in the subarctic, who assaulted me, who I lived in fear of for months before I left. Not a usual being chased and running dream, this time we stand face to face. I am frozen but calm, X pulls two handguns out, looking morose. I take them away. X pulls out two knives. There is some threat, but more it is like a plea for disarmament. 

My nephew Sheamus is double the size he was at his last birthday. I try to remember what its like to be able to grow that fast. As we set up for his party I notice a FB message from a friend in Kahnawake. Two young women we worked with in the North, close cousins of X, died in the night. One was in high school, one was about my age, early 30s. A car accident. Alcohol? Two women, like the two guns. Despite a resolve to uphold the no-contact order, my heart flies on the wind to X, a prayer for them to choose to go out on the land for healing, to muster the strength not to destroy their own body upon this grief. I string helium balloons to little fire trucks and spread pink icing on chocolate cake.

I am a boat floating above churning waters. My heart feels joy for Sheamus’ pleasure. This is the first year he really understands that everyone is here because they love him, and want to celebrate him, to sing to him, give him gifts. Then the tide shifts, reveals their bodies lying too still, I can not believe the animation I met has disappeared. It’s a hard thing to let myself know, harder still to feel.

Cutting across the outgoing tide of the great ocean, the rocking side to side of the ferry is getting too strong to ignore, comforting and yet sickening. Time to put down this alphabet, drop anchor into my body and start to swim for shore.

~sab

somewhere over the juan de fuca straight

*see the page tab on gender neutral pronouns