I’ve got some examples of cloths here in my catalogue.

I was honored to contribute this article to the Fall 2020 Issue of Geez Magazine. Read it online from Geez.

Dufferin Grove Park, Toronto

We made it to the Valley of Remembrance at this year’s Night of Dread, hosted by the marvellous Clay and Paper Theatre at Dufferin Grove Park here in Toronto, in time to visit the shrines before the rain poured down.

This year I chose to make a shrine in memory of the poet Mary Oliver  who died this year.  Every time I read her poems I always hear something new, she listened to the world so well.  I thought of her as I considered what to do this year not because I think she would be someone who would appreciate shrines built in her honour,  but because I do believe she might appreciate being remembered among the beautiful trees  in Dufferin Grove, a beloved place in the community.  Somehow it just fit.

Dufferin Grove Park Toronto

It felt right to start with a branch and I can imagine her sitting among the butterflies enjoying the view.  I appreciated the opportunity to take some more time with her poems and I found some pieces that were new to me.  Like this one, “Everything That Was Broken.”

Everything that was broken has
forgotten its brokenness. I live
now in a sky-house, through every
window the sun. Also your presence.
Our touching, our stories. Earthly
and holy both. How can this be, but
it is. Every day has something in
it whose name is forever.

–Mary Oliver

Maybe her words won’t live forever, but she will have a lasting effect on so many and her vision continues to invite us to pay attention to the magic and mystery of ordinary things.  I decided to include an interactive element this year and create little quotes that people could take away with them. Presente Mary.

Every year we leave our shrines in the good care of the folks who prepare the festivities for the Night of Dread and often the shrines make it through to stand another year.  I was delighted to find some of my earlier creations were present again this year.

Remembering Tony

Remembering Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls

Remembering Jimmy

It’s always interesting to see who and what turns up in the Valley each year. I’m grateful for this creative opportunity to collect our losses, light them up and call them out, acknowledge them together.   There’s not enough room in the world for spaces like this that invite us to come forward and express our losses and create our own remembrances.   I’m thankful for this one.

Toronto Homeless Memorial, Holy Trinity

I’m not always able to attend the mid-week Homeless Memorial on the steps of Holy Trinity to honour the memory of the people who die in the streets or as a result of being homeless, but I am always deeply grateful for the dedication of the folks who faithfully show up each month.

This month I arrived a bit early to see the names chalked on the pavement in the busy noon-time courtyard of the Eaton Centre.  You might not notice the display case outside the church that houses the names, but printed along the path they cannot be missed in the way that we have learned to miss so much of what is going on around us.

I spent some time saying them out loud, Peter, Alice, Dave, Frank, Jimmy.  Every time there are also those terrible place-holder names, Jane and John Doe, for the people who have not been identified.

The memorial makes room not only for the names, which is an act of resistance in itself, but it also creates an opportunity to share the stories and for folks to grieve their friends. For some, this will be the only funeral ceremony that is held.  This day the story that stayed with me is the one of the man who died with a list of 90+ names in his pocket, names of the people in his own life who he had lost. Names that he recited every day in his own remembering practice.

There’s a whole river of loss flowing through our city and for too many people it is the defining feature of their lives.  It’s too much for one person to face alone which is why we need places like this to gather in support of each other, with people who are willing to wade through this river together.

One of the things I love about the Memorial is the way that people engage by sharing memories and songs that they have written, by sharing news of the next rally or critiquing the inaction of  City Hall, or by coming up with their own ways of honouring loss.  I have a few marbles now from one fellow who always passes them out and asks us to put them in our pockets so that when we find them we will always remember.  These marbles became the inspiration for how to spruce up the memorial and make it stand out a little more in the square with so many people rushing by.

If you do find yourself in Trinity Square at any time, do stop and pay your respects. Or come down on the  second Tuesday at noon and add your warmth to the crowd who will be there until they don’t need to be anymore.

I was very honoured to walk with the survivors at the “Lost but not Forgotten” Memorial at the Huronia Regional Centre cemetery in May this year.

The story of the graveyard mirrors the story of abuse and exclusion that surrounds the institution. People disappeared, were buried without names, and their burial ground has been desecrated by sewage pipes.

In recent years, survivors and allies have organized, researched and advocated with government to reclaim and restore the cemetery. Much has been acheived and there is much more to do.

We gathered at the bottom of the road. The day was grey and wet and cold. Survivors assembled with signs of loss–a homemade casket, a hand-sewn banner, baskets of comforting things that had been denied, photos of relatives. We carried them up the hill, together, walking behind the pipers.

As I listened to the pipes I was reminded of the recent funeral of my brother where we also processed behind a piper. It was full of honour and dignity as his colleagues paid their respects. This procession looked pretty different, but embodied the same claim of dignity, honour and respect. By the time we reached the gate, I felt like we were setting something right with our simple solemn walk of honour.

We gathered in a circle to honour the dead, at at the same time it was an honouring of the living as the survivors expressed not only their grief, but also their outrage at what has happened to their families and friends.   I witnessed stories of cruelty and harm and unthinkable loss.  At the same time, people made all kinds of creative offerings and the circle filled with care.

I decided to bring little bundles of lavender, an ancient herb used in honouring and washing the dead. Every body deserves an honourable rite at the end of their life.  In a small way I hoped we could  restore some goodness by offering a symbolic act of honouring.  Some of us sprinkled the lavender over the graves.  I appreciated the way it lingered on my hands, marking my own body with the memory of those who died. I hope I can carry their memory with honour.

Death is not the end of love and those who lie in the Huronia cemetery, known and unknown, continue to be loved and remembered. Survivors continue to resist, to bear witness to their own truth and to compell the wider community to Remember Every Name.

The community conversation for Remember Every Name is on Facebook, where you can ask to join the group.

Church Street, Toronto

I regret only stopping by briefly to pay my respects at this memorial for the Orlando shooting that has been growing at the 519 Community Centre in the heart of Toronto’s lgbt village.   I was on my way elsewhere with a group of people and when we stopped to read the names.  I struck by how young so many of them were and I must have said that out loud.  “Yes, they were”, said a very quiet voice behind me.

I turned to see a kind, sad face of a woman looking at me.  She started to tell me about a friend of hers who was killed, but his name could not be listed because he was not out to his family.  She had no where to go to remember who he was.  She spoke so quietly I could barely hear her.  For a few minutes we were quiet together.  I said I was grateful that she told me about her friend and how important I thought it was that she remembered him as he would want to be remembered.

Another very kind woman at the site offered me a cup of tea. I supposed she was with the 519, and they were trying to create some hospitality for folks who were stopping by.  I said no and caught up with my group.  But since then I wish I had stayed or returned back to spend some real time there, just being with people who are wandering around, looking for a place to remember, a place to find a bit of comfort and company.  How important it is to create actual physical places for people to mourn and to comfort each other.

So much has been taken in Orlando.  Little acts of compassion and hospitality are so important.  The queer community has always created it’s own places of welcome and care and we will repair the breach that has been opened by this violent act of hate — one story and one cup of tea and one candle and one name at a time.

Toronto

Tonight we gathered to remember and celebrate the life of Cathleen — a woman who dedicated her life to making the world a better place — in the women’s movement,  in faith community, in the peace movement and most significantly in the movement for peoples to secure a safe and sustainable source of food.  People came together from churches, from community organizations — activists, organizers, Raging Grannies — to express gratitude and to tell stories of this woman whose life had touched so many.

The evening began with hospitality — food provided and food shared – a plentiful table and as we ate people shared connections.  As we listened to the speakers who had been invited to share, there were many similar stories.  Many people spoke of her enduring imprint as a mentor, especially to young woman.  People remembered her courage to speak out against injustice, her political savvy, her capacity to grow not only food but whole movements for change.  She was a leader, an organizer, a mentor, a “shit disturber”, a feminist, an activist.

I reflected upon the difference that she made for me as a young feminist in the church, creating room where there had been none.  Another woman, a staff person in the food movement, described herself as a tree planted by Cathleen.  Someone else paid tribute to her strong spirit and political foresight — someone who builds for the future.

Her family who was present were strengthened by the many examples of her legacy that would live on.  The stories that they heard offered them some language in their loss about the meaning of her life.  I believe that each person was able to take away something from the evening.  By exchanging stories of Cathleen’s legacy and giving voice to the commitment to continue to carry the concerns that she was so passionate about, the gathering generated hope for the future. In connecting people from various movement, new possibilities may emerge.

I learned more about the local food movement and who is working in my own neighborhood. I felt a renewed sense of gratitude for my own faith community and our connection to these bigger movements for justice.  I feel compelled to live up to Cathleen’s example and make the world a better place for the next generation of young women who will come after me.

I was honored to contribute a reflection from my church community about remembering Cathleen. I chose to bring rose petals as symbols of beauty on International Women’s Day, as symbols of justice given that they were fairly traded flowers, and as tactile signs of impermanence.  The extravagance of the rose invites us to indulge in the moment, to touch the  beauty of creation and their fragility speaks to the significance of making the most of the time we have together.   Some people took a few petals with them to carry into the week.  I collected the rest to return them to the earth and complete the turning of the wheel, returning blessing for the life of Cathleen that touched so many live and planted so many seeds.

Thanks Lydia Wylie-Kellermann for sharing this great story of how we can resist disappearing death with our kids.

Learning from Laughter: Fish Funeral