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  • drawing a manitou

    i’ve been doing a lot of reading lately. (well, not just lately, as the story of my life is one filled with many books) however, the reading i have been doing lately is in regards to learning about different aspects of my cultural background.

    being mixed race means that i have a lot of reading to do. while my mother is ukrainian, my father was of mixed blood – half anishinaabe/ojibwe and half european (a mixture of british, norwegian and irish).

    in the anishinaabe teachings about creation and life, there exists the concept of the “manitou/manidoo”, the little mystery, a word for spirit or lifeforce. the manitou live inside all things – animals and people, machines, places, and events. sometimes, the great manitou, or the gitchii manitou, “the great mystery” is referred to as a god or a creator, a genderless being of power and knowledge. the little manitou, the little mysteries, inhabit everything else.

    and, as is usual for me, i’ve been doing a lot of thinking about death and life and thinking about these little spirits, and i’ve been thinking about haunted objects. i see haunted objects a lot in ghost hunter tv shows or movies or mentions of them in true stories of hauntings – this concept that items that are loved by people in life will seem to carry energy with them after their owner has passed – intimate items like jewelry, hairbrushes, cigarette lighters, mirrors, etc. i began thinking a little about the objects that i love, what may be haunted by me after i die? i think i narrowed it down pretty well – my cameras, my jewelry, and my phone, of course. i’m a millenial after all, and as much as i would like to speak otherwise, i remain addicted to my phone.

    i was thinking a little bit about what the little spirit inside my phone might look like.

    i’ve been drawing a lot lately – mostly little doodles i use for my blog, but also things as meditations or to relieve stress. so, i decided to draw the manitou inside my phone.

    i think she’s really cute, btw.

    i started by tracing my phone case, and i always kind of see the camera in my phone as a set of eyes, and i felt like she would be watching the world through my photos. i gave her the star shawl seen on the virgin of guadalupe which nods to my upbringing in the ukrainian orthodox church and attending a catholic church and christian school as a child. i view the star shawl as also nodding to the star blankets much prized by various indigenous peoples. stars also remind me of my friend katie who passed this year from breast cancer. i think of stars and her as this intertwined thing. i connected with her via my phone and i am very grateful for this connection. i incorporated the dream catcher/dream snare (bawaajige nagwaagan) onto my manitou – something deeply cultural and something that i have had with me since my childhood. my mother learned how to make dream catchers when she married my father, and she made me a really cool purple one when i was little and it hung in my bedroom to protect me as i slept. a gold crucifix also hung in my bedroom for the same reason. i incorporated some runes from the skåäng runestone in sweden, a nod to finding my partner online, who is swedish, and the runes are a memorial for a lost father. “i don’t believe in a halfway heart” is a favourite lyric written by mike posner. my phone is almost always streaming music to me and mike’s poetry and lyrics mean a lot to me.

    this was a fun little project and i had fun drawing this little manitou.

    i’ve been finding ways of incorporating more of the indigenous ways of knowing and understanding the world into my work and into how i walk through the world. being mixed race has meant that i exist at the intersections of many aspects of being and culture and worldview and i feel so grateful and blessed to exist as i am.

    i’ve started to draw another manitou already, and maybe i’ll share that one when it’s done.

  • euthanizing the family cat on boxing day

    over christmas dinner, my mother tells me that she is worried about her cat, well, our cat, the family cat. the cat, named gypsy, is over twenty years old and she has begun to slow. she is thin and not so quick as she once was.

    my mother worries over turkey and cranberries that our cat is suffering. she asks when we would know that it would time for her to be “put to sleep”. i say that i feel like if she’s worried, maybe we should see about it and make some phone calls. if i am honest, i will recognize that i have noticed the slowed steps, the quieter mews, the thinning fur. in my heart, it’s time.

    my mother says she will think about it. i see the pain in her eyes. this isn’t just a cat we are talking about and the words go unspoken between us.

    gypsy was my father’s cat too.

    gypsy was his baby and boy, my father fussed over her. he would sing to her and meow to her, he would turn the kitchen sink on for her so she could have a fresh drink of water. my father bought toys, and blankets and pillows for her. a trip to the grocery store usually meant coming back with at least one new cat treat or some new toy.

    my father loved cats. he fed every stray he could. gypsy adopted my parents in 2009 by simply coming around hoping for a few free meals and she got a really nice little life with a family who loved her dearly.

    when we talk about the cat, we talk about him too, but we just don’t say it.

    the morning of boxing day, i get a call from my mother, the cat is doing terribly, unable to stand, and she is no longer drinking fluid. it is time.

    we meet at the veterinarian’s office at 1400 on boxing day. i had plans to stay in my pajamas and read the disturbing books i got for christmas and eat christmas chocolate, but instead i’m standing in a veterinary practice where it smells like medicine and loss.

    i don’t want to cry, but i do. the nice lady asks if we want the cat’s ashes back and my mother is confused, she doesn’t know how to respond to that. i say we want the ashes back with more sorrow in my voice than i intend, and my mother shoots me a look.

    with a quavering voice i say, “she should be with dad”.

    my mother’s mouth is a grim line and she nods, signing the papers for gypsy’s ashes to be returned to us. they say they will call us in two weeks or so.

    they take gypsy to have an iv inserted into her thin leg. gypsy’s eyes are sunken, her nose is dry. she is almost unable to lift her head. she is so old.

    saying goodbye to her was, in a way, like saying goodbye to my father. the medicine goes in, she takes a few heavy breaths and she is gone. her eyes are fixed well before the medication reaches her heart. she is gone. another december loss.

    my mother fusses with gypsy’s blanket and cat carrier, now empty.

    they come and take gypsy’s little body.

    as we leave, i notice the little rainbow light lit up on the counter of the veterinary office, signifying that we have been saying goodbye, that our cat made her way across “the rainbow bridge”.

    i used to think the concept of the rainbow bridge was stupid. but i find myself comforted by the light, in a way. my throat is dry and i’m too warm under my wool and leather jacket that says “budweiser” on the back. i am sad, but i am also grateful.

    what a privilege to have loved and been loved by this tiny little cat.

    what a privilege to feel the love of an animal.

    in times of loss, i am comforted by some quotes:

    “now that you live here inside my chest, anyplace we sit can be a mountaintop” – rumi

    “blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted” – matthew 5:4

    and i saw this reel on instagram called “farewell”:

    “though now my body has slowed, it was a privilege to be granted a slowing body at all, both the world and i have aged in circles not in lines, i have watched it change, and i have changed with it, returning to familiar places with wiser eyes, but don’t worry, there’s mercy that comes with old age, a quiet tenderness, one final gentle forgiving silence, as this farewell is the world’s circular grace, often mistaken for cruelty” – @sin.xline

    it is hard to say goodbye, even when it is time.

    so, goodbye, little kitty, i sure did love you.

    i hope dad kept a bed warm for you, and that you’re together now.

  • god rest ye merry gentlemen

    i’ve been dreaming lately about the old tuberculosis sanatorium at the edge of town. my grandfather used to work there. i dreamed about being lost there in the dark and in the fog with only a radio stuck between stations, kind of like the one carried by james in silent hill 2.

    december is a time of loss for me, and the air of the holy holiday remains tinged with bitter grief. i had the idea to record my own version of “god rest ye merry gentlemen”, my favourite christmas hymn, and wondered what it might sound like coming from an old radio when one was lost at tranquille.

    1 corinthians 15: 27-45

    god rest ye merry, gentlemen,
    let nothing you dismay,
    remember christ our savior
    was born on christmas day
    to save us all from satan’s pow’r
    when we were gone astray

    o tidings of comfort and joy,
    comfort and joy;
    o tidings of comfort and joy.

    from god our heav’nly father
    a blessed angel came
    and unto certain shepherds
    brought tidings of the same;
    how that in bethlehem was born
    the son of god by name.

    o tidings of comfort and joy,
    comfort and joy;
    o tidings of comfort and joy.

    “fear not,” then said the angel,
    “let nothing you affright;
    this day is born a savior
    of a pure virgin bright,
    to free all those who trust in him
    from satan’s pow’r and might.”

    o tidings of comfort and joy,
    comfort and joy;
    o tidings of comfort and joy.

    the shepherds at those tidings
    rejoiced much in their mind,
    and left their flocks afeeding,
    in tempest, form, and wind,
    and went to bethlehem straightway,
    this blessed babe to find.

    o tidings of comfort and joy,
    comfort and joy;
    o tidings of comfort and joy.

    now to the lord sing praises
    all you within this place,
    and with true love and brotherhood
    each other now embrace;
    this holy tide of christmas
    all other doth deface.

    o tidings of comfort and joy,
    comfort and joy;
    o tidings of comfort and joy.

    released December 25, 2025
    traditional christmas hymn
    recorded december 24, 2025
    in a bathroom in kamloops, bc

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  • excerpt from a christmas card from sweden

    i am sent a christmas card from sweden. i cry when i open it, standing at the stove, drinking black coffee with messy hair and a stomach ache. he was anxious about it arriving in time for christmas and i told him i didn’t care, but he did anyways. it arrives in time.

    the letter comes with his messy handwriting all over it, scrawled bible verses, just like the ones i sent to him when first we started to write.

    i remember friends calling in sick to my birthdays, blowing me off for movie nights and hangouts, and then dumping me completely when my father died. i cut myself open for people in my life who left me when i needed them most. and this swedish aries, who burns with a kind of fire that i am unfamiliar with, travelled the world for me. crossing time and ocean to hang out in my room and make friends with my cats and walk on beaches to look for bones and feathers.

    he says it is nothing to him. he says he doesn’t mind. he says he’ll do it again. he said he’s coming back. back to canada, back to me, and my little house and little life full of vhs tapes and cameras and thrift shops and handmade candles and soaps.

    i say i’m nothing special and he says i’m everything.

    he says it simply, no bullshit.

    he sends me christmas cards. we talk about god and grief.

    he knows the loss that haunts my heart because it haunts his too.

    i see it on his face and in his eyes sometimes.

    sometimes we talk about fathers. sometimes we don’t. we hold hands and eat brownies and look at bird taxidermy in the museum. we kiss by the old church and a lady on the street takes photos of us and says we are beautiful.

    we are beautiful.

    i do not feel so beautiful when i’m ugly crying by the stove clutching my christmas card from sweden.

    i don’t know if this healing and i don’t know if this is happiness, but, god, i hope it is.

    merry christmas.

  • my mother

    my mother. when i think of her, i think of cigarettes and french manicures. i think about her unwavering green eyes that i was always jealous that i did not inherit. my eyes, the same blue as my father’s. i think about my mother’s huge purse with an iphone inside. i think about her face the morning we watched my father die together.

    how many years had it been since i’d spent a night with my mother? and the one we spent was curled together on a rollout hospital cot listening to my father’s breathing slow. i think about her strength and her viciousness in the same moment and it takes my breath away.

    this beautiful complicated woman, my mother. she has always been my greatest adversary, the voice i hear inside my own head as my inner monologue. the leo she is, sits across the zodiac from my aquarius, just as she has sat across from me in life. she is and always has been governed by fire, the same rage that burns inside me, also burns inside her. but i am an air sign, i’m the oxygen that fire needs to burn. am i her adversary too?

    we go out today to do some shopping. we go to our favourite thrift store and she buys me candles and a vintage dress. we go for lunch and talk about my struggles and hers, too. the world rejected her just as it has rejected me. when i was diagnosed with autism, she declined to see it at first, and now, it is obvious where it came from. her brain, just like mine, fixated on justice that doesn’t exist, seeing patterns where others see oblivion.

    how can we be so similar and yet so dfferent? this dance of the mother and the daughter that we do has always seemed like a struggle for who will come out victorious. there are no girls weekends, not with us. but we make sauerkraut and pierogi and borscht. we talk about the abuse my grandmother went through, and then later dished out. we talk about the war and trauma.

    we have such a strange relationship.

    when we visit, we sit on the front step and smoke cigarettes and drink black coffee together and yet it can feel sometimes like we send messages back and forth from other planets.

    she is beautiful, but of course, like with everything, she doesn’t see it. i notice it today as she is handing me her roasting pan. i’m the one who cooks christmas dinner. a tradition passed on now to me. my mother talks about the best way to roast brussels sprouts and i realize how beautiful she is as she prattles on over carrots and potatoes.

    i realize how much i’m looking forward to christmas dinner with her this year.

    it’s such an odd feeling because there have been times since the death of my father where i haven’t been able to find much to look forward to.

    she sends me home with bags of food and a thrift store dress.

    i love her, so much, my mother.