MY GRANDFATHER THE CEDAR
MY GRANDMOTHER THE WOOL

By

Rachelle Clifford
BFA, University of Victoria, 2008

A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS
FOR THE DEGREE OF
MASTERS IN APPLIED ARTS
in
Design

EMILY CARR UNIVERSITY OF ART + DESIGN
2010

© Rachelle Clifford, 2010

Abstract

This thesis is a personal journey that seeks to comprehend whether First Nations
philosophies, specifically the Coast Salish can contribute to current research on
sustainability. As a Coast Salish person, I initially set out to deepen my understanding of
my own culture and ended up learning about the environment – simply because the two
cannot be teased apart. My praxis explores stories based within Coast Salish knowledge
of the land, seasonal harvesting, elder’s guidance, and a traditional philosophy of respect.
I weave this with Western philosophies centered on land ethic and systems thinking to
create a space of hybridity. This thesis describes my new understanding of materiality in
our interdependent world. The writing structure is woven and fragmented with different
voices that reflect the academic, the poetic and the making. The writing is tangential,
repetitive and circular, which mimics the structure of the traditional oral history of the
Coast Salish people.

ii

Table of Contents

Abstract ............................................................................................................... ii
Table of Contents................................................................................................. iii
List of Figures...................................................................................................... v
A Conversation........................................................................................... 1
Opening words ........................................................................................... 3
The Living River ........................................................................................ 5
Note to Reader............................................................................................ 7
Methodologies............................................................................................ 10
Webs of Relations and Webs of Responsibilities......................................... 14
Material Speaking....................................................................................... 21
Seasonal Harvest ........................................................................................ 22
Receiving Material from the Tree of Life.................................................... 25
Circles and Connections: The Prayer Song and the Spindle Whorl.............. 28
Reweaving the Story................................................................................... 31
Closing Remarks ........................................................................................ 34
Work Cited .......................................................................................................... 41
Work Consulted ................................................................................................... 43

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List of Figures
Figure 1:
Cedar tree located on the Tsawout Reserve in Saanich, B.C.
10 August 2010. Photo by Rachelle Clifford .......................................... 2
Figure 2:
Mae Sam (foreground) spinning wool in Victoria, B.C.
12 July 2010. Photo by Rachelle Clifford ............................................... 27

Figure 3:
My Grandfather the Cedar, My Grandmother the Wool
Vessel 7. Cedar and Wool. 2010............................................................ 30
Figure 4:
My Grandfather the Cedar, My Grandmother the Wool
Vessel 8. Wool. 2010 ............................................................................. 35
Figure 5:
A sand spit on the Tsawout Reserve. Saanich, B.C.
10 August 2010...................................................................................... 36
Figure 6:
My Grandfather the Cedar, My Grandmother the Wool
Vessel 5. Wool and Fern Frond. 2010..................................................... 37
Figure 7:
My Grandfather the Cedar, My Grandmother the Wool
Vessel 10. Wool and Cedar. 2010........................................................... 38
iv

Figure 8:
My Grandfather the Cedar, My Grandmother the Wool
Vessel 11. Wool and Cedar Pulp. 2010................................................... 39
Figure 9:
Traditional family harvesting grounds on the Tsawout
Reserve. Saanich, B.C. 10 August 2010 ................................................. 40

v

A Conversation

Alright.
You know, I hear this story up north. Maybe Yellowknife, that one, somewhere.
I hear it maybe a long time. Old story this one. One hundred years, maybe more.
Maybe not so long either, this story
Thomas King, One Good Story, That One

Alright.
You know, I hear this story from the Coast. Maybe Saanich, that one, somewhere.
I hear it maybe a year ago. Old story this one. One hundred years, maybe more.
Maybe not so long either, this story…
Rachelle Clifford, “My Grandfather the Cedar, My Grandmother the Wool”

1

Cedar Tree located on the Tsawout Reserve

2

Opening Words
I am Coast Salish.
The Tsawout Band.
Saanich Peninsula.
Vancouver Island.
British Columbia.
Coast Salish Territory.
Want.
A deepened understanding.
This is my chance.
Immersion.

Bachelors of Fine Arts.
University of Victoria.
Sculpture.
A process.
Working with my hands.
Working with materials.
Understanding materials.
A tacit knowledge.
Slow.
Repetitive.

3

Entering.
Masters of Applied Arts.
Emily Carr University.
New.
Design.
Connections.
First Nations.
Exploration.
Found.
Understanding.
Land.
Ecology.
Systems Thinking.
Webs of Relations.
Materiality.
Stories.
Integration.
Repetition.
A Way of Knowing.
A journey.

4

The Living River

When I was a boy, my father and I fished this stream. There were many fish. Now there
are no more fish that return here. They are many reasons why but I think it is mostly
because the people don’t understand the river. I have never forgotten the words that my
father spoke to me one day when we were fishing here. He said that the river is a living
thing and if you listen, he will speak to you.

I am a living river. I am the arteries of your body. I channel the life giving rain that falls
upon the land and carry that water to the organs and extremities of the land. Like the
arteries of your body, I bring nourishment to all who live on my banks. Great runs of
salmon course through me. I help to irrigate the land where the berries grow and where
you grow your fruits and vegetables. I water your animals. I give you water to drink and
to run cities and industries. Without my life giving waters your civilizations would not
grow.

This is true for the Indian as it is true for the white man. Today I transport your logs to
your sawmills, your ore to your smelters, your finished goods to your markets. I am like
the veins of the body as well, removing the waste products of your civilization, your
personal waste and your industrial affluent, the runoff from the flooding. Long ago when
there were few of you on my banks I could do these things well. The native people in their
villages and the first settlers in their towns could let the waste of their small communities
5

drain into me. As the number grew on my banks, you placed more and more demands
upon me.

Today there are many of you making demands on me. Some of my arteries are blocked
with dams and culverts and then the Salmon don’t find their way to the spawning beds.
You have poured your waste and chemicals into some of my veins. Now the living
creatures that make their homes there are sick and dying. There are fewer places to drink
my pure waters today, but you are still fortunate my many waters continue to endow you
with richness of resources for your pleasure, your commerce and for the natural beauty
and diversity I provide.

You are fortunate but you must be careful not all my arteries are clogged and polluted.
Many remain clean and pure. You can still delight in my waterfalls and trout pools. You
can still run my coursing rapids or walk by my peaceful rills. I can still bear the weight of
your log booms and carry your waste products, but I can no longer do these things
without your help. If you do not help me, I can no longer take care of you. As I nurtured
you, you must nurture me.

These are the words the river would speak, if we would listen today. 1

1

My Grandfather Dr. Earl Claxton Sr. told the story of The Living River and Arthur

Holbrook Productions Inc produced the video for the British Columbia Heritage Rivers
Board.

6

Note to Reader

The circle of conversation in First Nations spiritual knowledge.

The movement of power is not hierarchical, as from the teacher (the top)
down to the student (the bottom). I picture the movement of power as
flowing between concentric circles. The inner circles may represent the
words, knowledge itself that expands and moves as it is taught to and
shared with others. The circles may represent the individuals, family,
community, nature, nation, and the spiritual realm that are influenced and
in turn influence this power. I call this knowledge-as-power movement
cultural reciprocity grounded in respect and responsibility. Respect is
essential. Everyone has a place within the circle. Their place, their role is
honored and respected. All also have a particular cultural responsibility
to their place, their role: the storyteller-teachers to share their knowledge
with others; the listener-learners to make meaning from the storyteller’s
words and to put this meaning into everyday practice, thereby continuing
the action of reciprocity. (Archibald qtd. in Ridington, Ridington 151)

Oral histories. A model to share knowledge. A cultural responsibility. My narrative. The
form of a Coast Salish oral history. A story. Many stories. Voices from my community,

7

scholars … personal. Formed connections. Circular, fragmented, and repetitive at times.
Shared ideas about a connection to place. Operating in different ways. Interplay.

Seeing the interplay between system dynamics and the individuals is a
dance of discovery that requires several iterations between the whole and
its parts. We expand our vision to see the whole, then narrow our gaze to
peer intently into individual moments. With each iteration, we see more of
the whole, and gain a new understanding about the individual elements.
(Wheatley, Leadership 143)

Stories that peer intently into individual moments. Gaps between iterations. A new story.
A gained understanding of the whole. Responsibility. The storyteller – teacher to share
knowledge. The listener – learner to make meaning out of the storyteller’s words.
Connections.

… there is a continuous communication not only between living things and
their environment, but among all things living in that environment. An
intricate web of interaction connects all life into one vast, self maintaining
system. Each part is related to every other part and we are all a part of
the whole, part of Supernature. (Watson qtd. in Suzuki, McConnell, and
Mason 49)

8

Web of interaction. Layers. Hybrid. Place in between. Fine arts. Current sustainable
research. First Nation philosophies. Western approaches. A Story of understanding
materiality. A story of understanding stories. Threads side by side. One thing. Many
things. A part. A whole.

9

Methodologies

I am in the forest. There are things I think about. Ideas that are present. When I am trying
to understand the land. When I am thinking about ecology. When I am trying to
understand a material to harvest. When I am working with a material. Voices of
Armstrong, Leopold, Senge, Capra and Wheatley. They are always there. It is a way to
locate myself. A way to act ethically. A land ethic.

All ethics so far evolved rest upon a single premise: that the individual is a
member of a community of interdependent parts. His instincts prompt him
to compete for his place in that community, but ethics prompt him also to
co-operate (perhaps in order that there may be a place to compete for).
The land ethic simply enlarges the boundaries of the community to
include soils, waters, plants, and animals, or collectively: the land.
(Leopold 203 – 204)

An ethic I try to understand. One that included soils, waters, plants, and animals. I am
wanting to embody a way of life. Can a shift in one’s view occur? Mine is a story of
Coast Salish knowledge of the land, elder’s guidance, seasonal harvesting, a concept of
respect. Webs of relation.

Once we recognize that organizations are webs, there is much we can
learn about organizational change just from contemplating spider webs.
10

Most of us have had the experience of touching a spider web, feeling its
resiliency, noticing how slight pressure in one area jiggles the entire web.
If a web breaks and needs repair, the spider doesn’t cut out a piece,
terminate it, or tear the entire web apart and reorganize it. She reweaves
it, using the silken relationships that are already there, creating stronger
connections across the weakened spaces. (Wheatley, Leadership 145)

The web. I am looking forward. I am looking back. I am reweaving it, using the silken
relationships that are already there. A story of learning, observing, practicing, and
participating. Immersion. Where I come from. Where I am. Understanding stories.
Convergence. Nature’s design. Capra.

[ . . . ] Nature’s “design” and “technologies” are far superior to human
science and technology. They were created and have continually refined
over billion of years of evolution, during which the inhabitants of the
Earth household flourished and diversified without ever using up their
natural capital – the planet’s resources and ecosystem services on which
the well-being of all living creatures depends. (Capra, Hidden 233)

Time with nature. I weave a link between nature and myself. A belief - natural resources
were once people. A transformation. We now occupy the same space. Becoming
community. Emerging: a story that allows the Earths household to flourish. Dualist
separation of subject and object, still a struggle.

11

The problem is that most of us have spent our lives immersed in analytic
knowing, with its dualist separation of subject (“I”) and object (“it”).
There is nothing wrong with analytic knowing. It is useful and appropriate
for many activities – for example, for interacting with machines. But if it’s
our only way of knowing, we tend to apply it to all situations. When we
interact with a living system from the analytic stance, problems inevitably
arise because the living field ‘doesn’t know itself.’ ‘A field that doesn’t
know itself collapses into this little unidimensional subject-object
consciousness.’ (Senge et al. 99)

Unfamiliar becoming familiar. A story where the whole informs the parts. Community
not commodity. A living system. Not a mechanical system. A field that knows itself. It
teaches me. I am learning. Mutual dependency.

Listen. Conserve. Respect.

The linkage between human, animals and the spirit world which so
characterized the First Nations societies created a complex ethical
framework which reinforced the notion of mutual dependency. Humans
were not seen as dominant but played a complementary and often
subordinate role in the larger ecological system. A key feature here was
the concept of reciprocity and the belief that respectful human attitudes

12

towards the resources helped to ensure the availability of future supply.
Such an ethic encourages responsible use and supports an imperative of
restraint. (Turner 235)

Choices emerge from careful observation. A story where choice moves beyond self. A
cycle. Sensing and observing ecology. A way to be land. Harvest comes. Care. Through
understanding ecology, I move to understanding the intricacies of harvesting. I reach an
understanding of materiality. Cycle of the supply can continue. A living process.

[ . . . ] A community is the living process that interacts with the vast and
ancient body of intricately connected patterns operating in perfect unison
called the land. The land sustains all life and must be protected from
depletion in order to insure its health and ability to provide sustenance
across generations. (Armstrong)

Community. Soils. Waters. Plants. Animals.

13

Webs of Relations and Webs of Responsibilities

What if designers, artists, architects, and engineers, and all the disciplines that work with
choosing and shaping materials, felt a connection to the materials they use in their
productions? In an ever-changing world, where industrialization is increasing material
options, how can people become more aware of the environmental implications that
accompany material choices? Does material choice move beyond an initial preference or
need for a certain material quality? Should we not only be asking ourselves if the material
is malleable and pliable, and looks right for the job, but whether the material is
renewable, sustainable, and local? Can we begin to become aware of the land on which
we live, the resources that are present, the rhythms of the seasons, and ideal harvesting
processes? How would that change the way that we choose and use materials?

My new understanding of material properties comes from getting close to a First Nations
perspective, which is reinforced in a quote from Thomas King, a contemporary Native
writer and English professor at the University of Guelph.
While the relationship that native people have with the land certainly has
a spiritual aspect to it, it is also a practical matter that balances respect
with survival. It is an ethic that can be seen in the decisions and actions of
a community and that is contained in the songs that Native people sing
and the stories that they tell about the nature of the world and their place
in it, about the webs of responsibilities that bind all things. Or, as the

14

Mohawk writer Beth Brant put it, ‘We do not worship nature. We are part
of it.’ (Truth 113-114)
Over the last two years, I have worked towards understanding my culture. Through that
understanding, I have bettered my understanding of the environment. I have spent time
on the traditional lands of my ancestors harvesting local material when the seasons make
ready the natural fibers. I have listened to the land. I have been guided by the stories of
my elders. I have embodied the traditional Coast Salish philosophy of respect. I think that
sometimes we are so concerned with moving forward that we forget the success of the
past. First Nations cultures have managed a stable co-existence with the environment for
millennia, and have much to teach us. Highlighted in the pages to come is a story that
illustrates my experience in gaining a first-hand understanding of local materials and
ecosystems.

15

I pull open the door. I walk into a warehouse. I am looking for malleable plastic. Where
to begin? I walk down the first aisle. I can hear the sound of my footsteps as my soles
brush along the concrete floor, the adhesives section. Gorilla Glue, King Kaulk, System
Three. Hummm, this isn’t what I am looking for. Mold making supplies, light and dark
bronzing powders, silicone putty. I continue to work my way through the aisles. Jars,
bottles and jars of epoxies, resins and sealers. The supply is endless. I move through the
plastic container section. Bottles, jars, jugs, pails, sprayers, lids, pumps, bags, drums,
totes and tanks. I move through the inventory. I find a shelf stacked with plastic sheets.
Nonstop choices. Thickness of 0.5, 1.0, 2.0, 3.0, 4.0, 4.5, 6.0, 9.0, 12.0, 18.0mm. Sheet
sizes of 48” x 96”; 60” x 96”; 72” x 96”. Available in a variety of colours. Hummm,
Polyester PETG, LEXAN polycarbonate, Acrylite FF acrylic sheets. I know nothing
about these products. A small list of material properties and a price. I get help. I am told
that PETG is what I need. Okay! $30.50 per sheet, I buy three.

There is a simpler way to organize human endeavor. I have declared this
for many years and seen it to be true in many places. This simpler way
feels new, yet it is the most ancient story there is. It is the ancient story
demonstrated to us daily by life, not the life we see on the news with its
unending stories of human grief and horror, but what we feel when we’re
in nature, when we experience a sense of life’s deep harmony, beauty, and
power. It is the story of how we feel when we see people helping each
other, when we feel creative, when we know we’re making a difference,
when life feels purposeful. (Wheatley, Finding 1)

16

I walk into the forest. I am looking to harvest the bark from a cedar tree. I see rows upon
rows of trees. Where to begin? I walk down a path. I can hear the sounds of nature as my
soles begin to brush along the forest floor. I find myself surrounded by ferns. Bracken
fern, deer fern, sword fern. Hummm, I see a cedar in the distance. Grass, sedge, moss. I
continue to move through the forest. Groups and clusters of mushrooms and lichen. The
supply appears to be endless. I move past fowl bluegrass, lady fern, hanging moss, blue
wildrye, indian pipe, douglas fir, and grey sedge. I come to a cedar tree. I understand her
story. I pay her with respect. A strip of cedar I receive.

At one time our economy was primarily based on renewable materials –
wood, natural fibers, plant- derived chemicals, and so on. One of our
greatest missteps was to replace this economy with one based on
nonrenewables such as oil, gas, coal, metals, and minerals. [ . . . . ] The
smart alternative is to take from the land only what will allow more to
grow back. In forestry, this is known as a sustained yield, and basically
living on interest, not depleting the capital, of growing stock. [ . . . . ] A
sustainable society, therefore, depends on not just shifting to renewable
resources but carefully managing all of the Earth’s regenerative gifts.
(Benyus 270 – 271)

I just finished harvesting cedar. I am tired. My hands hurt. I am honestly aware of the
process I just completed. The land I visited. The material I received. The effort I made.
The time I spent. I roll the soft inner bark into a circle. I tie it. It is ready for drying. I am

17

connected to nature, the source of my supply. A newfound respect for the material, the
land and the connections between. My choices become careful. Waste is not an option. I
didn’t just complete days of intense but rewarding work to be wasteful. That would be
disrespect. I learn the true value of the resource. I become conscious.

Conservation is a state of harmony between men and land. By land is
meant all the things on, over, or in the earth. Harmony with land is like
harmony with a friend; you cannot cherish his right hand and chop off his
left. That is to say, cannot love game and hate predators; you cannot
conserve the waters and waste the ranges; you cannot build the forest and
mine the farm. The land is one organism. (Leopold qtd. in Suzuki,
McConnell, and Mason 117)

I am weaving the cedar. There is no factory or processes for me to understand. There is a
need to understand nature’s technology. I respect it. It too has limitations. An
appreciation grows. From the tree to my hands to the vessel. From the roots and soil to
the air. The material is honored. I am careful. The supply isn’t endless.

Care flows naturally if the “self” is widened and deepened so that
protection of free Nature is felt and conceived as protection of
ourselves…Just as we need no morals to make us breathe…[so] if “self”
in the wide sense embraces another being, you need no moral exhortation
to show care…You care for yourself without feeling any moral pressure to

18

do it…If reality is like it is experienced by ecological self, our behavior
naturally and beautifully follows norms of strict environmental ethics.
(Naess qtd. in Capra, Web 12)

I take time with it
I touch it
I think about it
I understand it
I harvest it
I appreciate it.
I know it

When people’s cultural identity is closely linked to their ancestral lands
they have a high incentive to care for them. [ . . . . ] To truly understand
changes in ecosystems and habitats it is essential to know them well, to be
familiar with minute details such as food habits of animals, the locales of
all the different plants, the locations of springs and wet places and all the
seasonal patterns of weather, light and animal migrations and plant
growth. We cannot all be so intimately knowledgeable about all places,
but if we are observant and patient we can come to know such details in a
few – the ones where we live and spend our time. The longer we stay in a
place, observing its rhythms and intricacies day to day and year to year,
the greater our chances of recognizing changes when they occur. With

19

time, we develop strong attachments to our dwelling places and our
affection for them encourages us to protect them and look after them.
(Turner 229 – 230)

Understanding my cultural identity has developed through understanding my ancestral
lands. I have incentive to care for the land. To truly appreciate the land upon which I live
and all that it encompasses. I must be conscious of the stories that deepen my
understanding. The story of the ecosystem, the story of the animals, the story of the local
plants and the story of the water, soil and air. We cannot all be so intimately
knowledgeable about all places, but if we are observant and patient we can come to know
such details in a few – the ones where we live and spend our time. The longer we stay in
a place, observing its rhythms and intricacies day to day and year to year, the greater our
chances of recognizing changes when they occur. It takes time, but for all of us,
sustainability can become part of self. We can all take the time to learn the stories of our
land.

20

Material Speaking

I am holding raw wool in my hands. I feel something. This is about a feeling. I have no
sketches to follow. I divide the raw wool into sections, unsure of the outcome. I feel at
ease with not knowing. The softness of the fibers are comforting. There is a connection. I
continue to work. I am slowly building layers of fibers – fibers around a resist. My
actions are repetitive. They are slow. I continue to lay out the fibers. They soon will
weave together. A tacit knowledge, a play. I continue to make. The fibers are ready to be
felted. All I need is some soap and hot water. Gently I press the fibers together. The wool
has knowledge of its own. It shares that knowledge with me. We are working on an
intimate level. My actions are repetitive. They are slow. The wool needs time to
interweave her fibers. I give that to her. The transformation. The fibers join. Becoming
vessel.

The woolen structure takes form. I hold it in my hands. I have no sketches. It begins to
talk. Wool invites cedar, cedar becomes wool, wool becomes cedar. This process isn’t
about thinking. I listen to the organic shape. A fold in the felt speaks to where a piece of
weaving should sit. A circle suggests a knitted edge. A swell, a burl marks a place to rest.
A place for materials to gather. Materials share their knowledge. They become whole.
They become vessel.

21

Seasonal Harvesting

“Wait,” said my Grandfather.

“But, how do I know when it is time to harvest,” I ask.

“Listen to the Saanich Moons. The moon of the frog will begin to speak. The
earth will warm. The frogs will wake. They will announce the coming of the spring
season,” he replied.

I begin to think…hummm, ok listen to the frogs…

“There will be signs! Next comes the moon of opening hands –
blossoming out moon. All living plants will begin to open their hands to the spring
sun.”

He pauses.

I ask, “and then it’s time?”

He laughs.

“No. Then you wait. The moons are the first signs that the harvest is coming. You
22

watch nature. You become familiar with her. She will let you know when she is
ready. You just watch.”

A month or so passes.

I have been watching. The cattail and sedge are thriving.

I tell my grandfather.

“If you harvest now, if you do things carefully, if you show respect, good things will
come. You each receive. You are gifted materials to work with. The natural resources
are approached and harvested in a way that will allow them to enhance their resources
in the future.” He pauses. “I want you to think about these things before we harvest.”

Two days go by.

Hmmm. I have been thinking about the words of my grandfather. I have been thinking we
really do live in a space of interconnections. A space between landscapes and resources.
Frog and blossoms invite sedge and cattail. Sedge and cattail invite me.

A week goes by.

We harvest.

23

The end of summer has come. I have harvested sedge, cattail, cedar, fern fronds and
prepared wool. The harvesting process has informed an understanding of interconnected
systems. Connections. Natural fibers, soil, water, air. The moon of the frog to the land.
Connections visible and invisible.

24

Receiving Material from the Tree of Life

I stand on the traditional lands of my ancestors. I am with my mom and dad. This will be
the first time they harvest cedar. I am here to share the knowledge. I walk by some
stunning old growth trees. The sun is shining through the flora. The landscape opens and
there is a beautiful view of the ocean. We continue to travel to lower grounds. Our
summer has been hot and dry. I hope the cedar will allow us to harvest its bark. The edge
of the forest meets with the beach and the ocean. This is where we will harvest. These
trees have received the most moisture over the dry summer. We walk around. I take some
time to respect the landscape. I begin to look at the surrounding cedar trees to find one
that has an open face with no branches or knots. I find one. I take a moment. I thank the
tree for the resources it will provide. I think about my ancestors. I remember the words
that were spoken to me the first time I harvested cedar bark. “Ask for your ancestor’s
guidance, let them know you need their help, show appreciation to the Tree of Life.”

I make a small horizontal cut near the base of the tree. I work my hands under the tough
outer surface until I can feel the wetness of the soft inner bark. This first pull will let me
know if the cedar is ready. Holding the edges in my hand, I move my right hand towards
my body so the outer bark separates from the tree. I move to my left hand. I repeat this
action. I watch the strip move with ease towards the sky. The cedar is ready. The long
strip tapers to an end. It falls to the ground. I pick it up and work on splitting the outer
bark from the inner. I begin to think about the material. I think about weaving and the
cedar’s future form. The bark is a gift to me. The two pieces separate. I roll the soft inner
25

bark into a circle. I tie it. It is ready for drying. We continue to harvest. I think about the
tree. Only one hand width pull from the tree in order to sustain the Cedar’s being. I am
aware of how much I need for the year, just enough to last me until the next harvest. My
hands begin to hurt. They even begin to bleed. This is tough. I continue to harvest. I
know this is my only chance. Soon the sap will stop running and will not allow the bark
to be removed from the tree. I think about our way of life and all that is included. I think
about a shared connection with my parents; a shared connection with the cedar tree; a
shared connection to the land; a shared connection to my ancestors and elders.
Appreciation grows.

26

Mae Sam Spinning Wool.
27

Circles and Connections: The Prayer Song and the
Spindle Whorl

It is a hot day in the middle of August. We are sitting in an incomplete circle in the
basement of an old historic building. I can feel the breeze of the ocean and hear the soft
sound of the waves. This is not our first day together. We do not have a long history
together either. We have been meeting for a couple of weeks now, working from fleece to
skein. We are comfortable. We are eager to work.

We all have some wool in our hands, along with a spindle whorl in the other. In
comparison to Mae Sam, an elder form the Tsatlip First Nation, we all look clumsy in our
attempts to spin. It is silent. Our focus is on producing. I stop and watch Mae’s hands as
they work. She has been spinning wool for years. Her focus is not on her own hands but
on the hands of everyone in the class.

I watch Mae’s hands in order to get a better idea of what I am doing wrong. The Saanich
way is learning by listening, observing and practicing. I am still observing and so are a
few others in the class. Spinning does not come naturally to me. I notice the Lanolin from
the wool is leaving a residue on my fingers as the wool moves through my grasp. I look
down at the spindle whorl. I see a man, a women and a thunderbird traditionally carved
into the whorl. I continue to practice. I find a rhythm that works. I watch as the human
and the non-human beings on the whorl blur together. I begin to think about circles. I
watch as the wool spins onto itself to produce a yarn. The diameter of my yarn wanders
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in and out, as the wool produces the length of the yarn. I am okay with that. It makes me
proud to be learning a tradition that is so important to my ancestors.

The room stays silent and we all continued to concentrate.

Mae realizes that we were all feeling comfortable with the wool and spindle whorl in our
hands. She breaks the silence and her voice fills the room. She tells us that she wants to
share a song with us if we are willing to listen. Everyone’s eyes shuffle around the room
and we are eager to see what happens. Mae is silent for a second. She speaks first. She
tells us that she is going to share a traditional Coast Salish Prayer Song. She begins to
sing. Her voice carries through the room. My hands stop working and my focus is on her.
I feel a calmness move through me. Her voice is soft yet powerful. She seems to embody
the song. Her eyes are closed and her body moves with the words. Her thigh becomes the
drum as her hand softly beats against it. Her words make me feel connected. I feel
connected to her. I did not expect her to sing the prayer song today. I look down at my
hands. I take a breath. I pause. I think about the human and the non-human blurring
together. I can feel that we are all one. I feel at a loss for words.

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My Grandfather the Cedar, My Grandmother the Wool. Vessel 7.

30

Reweaving the Story
Jan Steinbright’s story: 2

I am holding a birch bark basket in my hands. As my hands mold themselves around the
smooth form the bark has taken, I am made aware that what is within my grasp is not just
a container that happens to be made of natural materials; not just a space conveniently
formed to hold low bush berries in the fall; and not just a 20th century market item to help
my Athabascan friend who made the basket purchase wood for the winter. I am holding a
story in my hands.

The ninety-year-old women basketmaker is also a storyteller, a traditional bearer and
preserver of her culture. Just as an Indian story is constructed with words and symbols
containing cultural meaning, she made this basket with materials that are intimately
linked to her land and her people; each material is awarded a special cultural meaning.
This ‘story basket’ recites words to a song about the seasons when nature makes the
birch, willow, and roots ripe and ready for collecting. If I hold the basket up to my ear
like a seashell and listen very carefully, I can hear yet another story: one that speaks of
the spirit of a people who for thousands of years have lived in harmony with the land in a
reciprocal manner; a poem of respect for the land and all that grows in and on it.

2

Jan Steinbright was the Project Director for the Institute of Alaska Native Arts.
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My hands leave the body of the basket and make their way up to the rim. Spruce root
lacing over a willow rod secures the bark into the desired form. As I touch the lacing, I
remember going into the woods with the basketmaker and helping her peel the bark from
the trees, dig the roots from the forest floor and cut the red willow beside the road. I
remember sitting with her by a campfire while she heated the bark to make it easy to fold.
I have watched in awe as she deftly peeled the bark from the roots and using her teeth and
hands, carefully split the thin wood into exact strips for lacing. And then, working with a
treasured handmade awl, she carefully made the holes in the bark that would soon accept
the spruce lacings. And I have anguished with her when her desires for young Indians to
learn these skills go unfulfilled.

Oh, but how her wise old eyes dance when a young Indian women is sitting besides her
eagerly learning, making her basket into a song of hope for the future and the continuance
of the Athabascan spirit (3).

My story is a little different…

I am holding an organic vessel in my hands. As my hands mold themselves around the
evocative form the natural materials have taken, I am made aware that what is within my
grasp is not just a vessel that happens to be made of sustainable resources; not just an
object designed with the goal of utility; and not just a 21st century market item made for
production. I am holding a story in my hands.

32

I made this vessel with materials that are intimately linked to my land and my people;
each material and story is awarded a special cultural meaning. This vessel carries words
to a song about the seasons when nature makes ready the cedar for harvesting. Words that
echo elder’s knowledge of preparing raw wool for spinning. If I hold the basket up to my
ear like a seashell and listen carefully, I can hear yet another story: a story that contains
symbols of the multiple. I hear a story of respect highlighting an understanding of the
land and its relations. Threads of ecology and sustainability are interwoven. New forms
and new functions.

My hands move through and around the vessel. Cedar laced through a woolen body
unites traditional materials. As I touch the lacing, I shiver at the memories of my
ancestors harvesting the bark from the trees. My hands move over the woolen body, an
object that is inviting yet a little odd. An organic object that mimics a natural form. My
hand then moves to a section of knitted wool that brings me back to the traditions of the
Coast Salish people. I think about the traditional material. A mountain goat, a small
woolly dog…wool. Holes in the wool will soon accept ideas and thoughts. Space
transforms into place. A place of identity and belonging.

Oh, but how my eyes dance when the vessels become a story of hope for the future and
the continuance of the Coast Salish spirit.

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Closing Remarks

Indian stories do not begin and end like lines of words that make up a
book. Rather, they stop at meaningful points within a circle [ . . . ] [they]
stop at meaningful points in the story and start again as one story suggests
another. Each story suggests every story. Each story contains an essence
shared by all. Each story is both a fragment and an entirety. (Ridington
and Hastings qtd. in Ridington and Ridington 162)

34

My Grandfather the Cedar, My Grandmother the Wool. Vessel 8.

35

Tsawout Reserve.

36

My Grandfather the Cedar, My Grandmother the Wool. Vessel 5.

37

My Grandfather the Cedar, My Grandmother the Wool. Vessel 10.

38

My Grandfather the Cedar, My Grandmother the Wool. Vessel 11.

39

Traditional Family Harvesting Grounds on the Tsawout Reserve.

40

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Steinbright, Jan. “Introduction.” Interwoven Expressions: Works by Contemporary
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Meadows, Donella H. Thinking in Systems: A Primer. Vermont: Chelsea Green
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