Tapped (Pt. 4 - Conclusion)

I am a Sundancer. I have prayed at the tree. I have made an offering of my flesh. If it were not for the tree I would have gone mad. There was a point in my life in which I had become so overwhelmed with what I saw and the reality of it all.

We had lost everything. It was all gone and there was nothing that could be done. Our language, our culture, our ceremonies, our values, our stories, our way of life have all faded into history. Crushed with bureaucracy, lies and willfully racist or willfully blind Canadian public.

I was living in Toronto at the time and I realized that I had not touched the earth for days. I would leave my tiny rented room and I would walk on the sidewalk to the Subway station and head to Queen St. W. I had made myself alien to the earth. A great confusion settled. Sadness. Anger. Madness.

I dreamed I was walking down Queen Street on a glorious day and the street is lively but not too full. I am crying like a lost child. Sobbing. I am overcome by this feeling of hopelessness and I can hide it from the world no longer. I stumble down the street in tears of outrage and no one could care on a glorious day and the street is lively but not too full.

In the next moment, I am walking in a forest almost immediately my burden has been lifted. I come to a large poplar tree and it begins to speak to me. It tells me that nothing has been lost, "We remember everything. Whatever you need to know just come to us and ask."

I am renewed by this dream. The next day on my walk to work. I acknowledge all the trees on the street stopping to offer tobacco at some and hugging others.

I did not know how to take the words of the tree spirit and put them into practice in my life. I did not know how the tree was supposed to teach me the language or long lost cultural practices. All I knew is that I believed the answer to be true and if I were not the one who could crack the code the answer was still there for others. This was enough to carry me forward.

It would be many years later that I would see the tree that spoke to me when I attended my first Sundance.

It was the spring following my fourth and final year as a Sundancer that I had set upon the notion of tapping Maple trees and making Maple Syrup. Despite my dreams and teachings and all the things I had learned over the past two decades and despite my sincere offering at the beginning of the process I cannot escape the realization that I had committed a sin.

I have punctured holes in four Maple trees that were three quarters of a century old and all their sap is bleeding out onto the ground.

This happened because I just start doing things for me and it is all because of me that this is happening and all the focus becomes internal and disrespectful. My ego pushes more forward and I must be right. I cannot be wrong.

I should have taken more time. I should have asked more questions. I should have been more respectful. I shouldn't have drilled so many holes. That was the thing. That was what was wasteful. I should have stopped at one.

                                                       ***


Over the first four days, I am able to collect enough sap to have my first boil and I fill two large stainless steel pots about three quarters full, maybe 25 liters in total.

I begin the boil at lunch break and stoke the fire after work, maintaining a steady steam but not boiling. I talk to my father in law Fred about my problem with the steel spigots and how most of the sap is being wasted especially now that the weather has hit the pattern for peak production.

I don't tell him this weight I feel; but I don't know if it would have made a difference. He did not grow up in a world where waste was tolerated.

He recalls his grandmother sending him out to collect elderberry vines to make their own spigots. He remembered elderberry being on the property some years ago, but hadn't seen any for a while. He suggested I try Sumac since it had a cork like centre similar to the elderberry vine.

We are blessed to have sumac all around our yard. This is a beautiful plant, it's called a tree but it's more in between. It grows to about 10 feet and it has has long lance shaped leaves that hold bright burgundy seed cones that slash red across the summer green.

This time of year the leaves are gone and the seed cones have dulled to a darker purple but it is easy enough to find. The sumac is always looking for attention.

The sumac like the dandelion grew in my esteem as I tried to remove it from my garden. It's extensive and aggressive roots snake out just inches below the surface and new plants can begin anywhere along the chain.

I had to admit that despite the troubles it caused, it was a hardy as well as beautiful plant and the truth was it would one day take that garden back from me with no bad feelings.

I also knew that the fruit of the sumac, that blood purple cone of seeds, was edible. I had come across this fact in a survival guide I had perused and had put theory to the test soon after. Although slightly bitter and with a fuzzy texture that is nowhere near pleasant; it is not entirely unappetizing. I could imagine with the proper nutritional engineering the taste could become quite acceptable and even delectable.

I once again made my offering of tobacco. I then used a tree snips and cut down one sumac about four feet high and what I guessed to be the proper circumference. I then snip into five inch lengths.

I use a large screw driver and push a hole through each one with relative ease.

I take my hand made spigots to the trees and the one closest to the road. The one that got the first sun of the day and the best sun of the day and wore the hole that had leaked barrels of sap for all the world to see.

I removed the wasteful steel spigot with an easy twist and put it in my pocket. It was obvious that my sumac spigot was too large for the hole, but that was good, you can't cut things bigger.

I started to tap the spigot in. The bark and secondary layers of the sumac peeled back creating an airtight seal. When I hit the right depth, liquid came quickly out of the end of the tube. I hang a pail on the notch carved into the spigot and it collects at an incredible rate. The drip, drip, drip is music. It was the old way. It is a beautiful thing.

That night my wife and I boiled the Maple sap down to maple syrup. We got about two cups. It was divine. Over the next ten days, I was boiling every waking hour and getting about one quart a day. Miraculous. A taste beyond compare.

I research Maple Syrup and am amazed at its superfood qualities with trace nutrients, metals and minerals that are quite beneficial to human beings but can be found together in no other natural source.

As a family we began to drink the sap and there was always a pot of maple sap tea on the fire. There were numerous health benefits associated with the drinking of the sap. It is cleansing and rejuvenating and an absolute boost for a time of year when the winter time blues have threatened to set up permanent residence.

I discover Maple trees growing along our driveway on both sides. Despite the fact that on one side the black walnut trees have choked out everything else and on the other side the swamp has drowned  or is drowning all new trees. If we didn't make this driveway, there would be no Maple Trees here. The idea washes over me and it is my belief that the reason these things happen is that the Creator wants us to be happy. It is why medicine is sweet and berries are bright.

My grand children observe this whole process. I show them the marks on the tree where Grandma's Grandma tapped the same tree over 50 years ago. In their memory they will know that their family has always tapped these trees.

The memories of the great grandparents direct the grandfather who passes the traditional knowledge onto grandchildren and connects six generations in a moment.

This was part of the answer.

Harper cuts like b-movie madman, but it's up to us to flip the script

No one can accuse the Harper government of causing death by a thousand cuts. The federal government is going after national and regional Native organizations like a B-Movie madman wielding a chainsaw. The recent announcement that the federal government is going to slash funding to Aboriginal Representative Organizations (ARO) has also caused the appropriate B-movie reaction. People are running and screaming and fearing for their professional lives.
The reaction is knee-jerk but it shouldn't be that surprising. Like any B-movie, this plot is thin and see-through. If you didn't see this coming following the election of a majority conservative government. You haven't seen enough movies.
Perhaps the  chiefs that make up the Assembly of First Nations thought that by re-electing Shawn Atleo as National Chief they could be spared some of the carnage. Atleo had faced re-election under accusations that his conciliatory style had made him far too cozy with the Harper government. His main challenge came from Pam Palmater who made that relationship the deciding factor in the campaign. In the end the chiefs in assembly decided to stay the course. Afterall, when the AFN had last elected a truly adversarial National Chief in Matthew Coon Come, the federal government responded by cutting the organization deeply.
As we have now found out, the choice of Atleo didn't make any difference. If the chiefs had really thought about the plot of the movie, they would have known better. You can't make friends with the guy wearing a goalie mask and carrying a butcher knife.
Now, I'm not really the guy that is going to defend the job that is being done by the ARO's. I've worked at the national level in Ottawa and have participated in those high level meetings. I've slept at the Four Seasons in those delicious King sized beds with 14 pillows of all shapes and sizes. I showed up at the morning meetings and went straight to the back of the room to help myself to those decadent oatmeal muffins that were spread out on a silver platter which were washed down with copious amounts of Starbucks coffee. I listened intently and took notes during the bi-lateral, tri-lateral, multi-lateral discussions that led up to the fruitless Kelowna Accord. I had travelled across the country and saw national leaders and executive sitting in first class as I headed to the back of the plane with the rest of the grunts and the wonks.
It never felt right to me. I couldn't accept the rationalization "why should we stay in cheap hotels if the government isn't?" If I could have wrapped my head around that idea I'm sure I would reaching out to you from a higher soapbox than the one I have today.
The current story doesn't only remind me of a b-movie it also makes me think of another story. Watership Down is the story of a group of rabbits that are looking for a new home after one of their prophets has visions of imminent destruction. In their travels the homeless rabbits come across another warren that appears to be utopia. Each day carrots and other vegetables are found dumped into the warren. The food is plentiful and requires no effort to attain. But something doesn't seem right to the homeless rabbits. The rabbits in their new home seem to be dazed, muted. They say they are happy, but they don't act that way. Just as the homeless rabbits begin to put their intuition aside and accept that this may be the home they've dreamed of, one of their own is caught in a snare. It appears that Man is keeping this warren for his own food supply and the free food is merely a way to fatten up the rabbits for slaughter.
This is what we are seeing manifest today. The food supply may be plentiful but there is a price to be paid at some point. One day the food can be taken away and after years of surrendering your survival skills how can you make it on your own.
What our story requires is that we go back to a grassroots movement, that energizes, inspires and empowers the people. There is no lesson of value that can be passed onto our children in making the claim, "the government took away our ability to speak and organize by cutting our funding and now there is nothing we can do".
This is the equivalent of hiding in the closet and screaming in the b-movie or turning away from your brother rabbit with the snare around his neck and saying, "there is nothing we can do, just turn away and forget it ever happened."
This is the point in which the story can be rewritten, this is the part of the movie where we can still flip the script. It wasn't that long ago when all these movements were created by the efforts of our elders, our parents and grandparents. There was no money back in the 1960's and 1970's. Everyone was working together for a common goal and against a common enemy. It was the creation of government sponsored advocacy groups that weakened that movement. Now, nobody does anything for free and everyone is looking at how the other one is getting paid. The pie is only so big and we can't afford to share it.
Yet, that is not the truth. In fact there are numerous activities, events and actions that take place all the time in all parts of the country that are not funded by the government. People travel to ceremonies and gatherings all the time with their own resources and with the support of family and friends. It is the way it's supposed to be and it is a movement that is growing exponentially. People pull together and make something out of nothing with the sheer force of their will and spirit. This is how its supposed to be. This is how it is. These people don't fear the government axe or the snare. If our leaders wish to lead they would go back to the example of their elders. They would be inspired by the movements taking place amongst their people and they would earn, not by vote, but by action the title of leader.