Returning to Our Roots
“Bernie, we’re being watched!” I whisper yell. A doe and her fawn step from the trees to observe the beginning of Your Nature Network’s first funded event. They watch as I set the stage for a healing sound bath while Bernie hangs a welcome sign. Lingering for a moment more, their presence feels like a blessing. Gravel from the road rumbles in the distance and I know the first participant has arrived. Embracing Bernie in a hug that says “I can do this but I might be a little scared,” he leaves me to it. And so do the deer, slipping back into the ferns.
One by one, two by two, guests of Returning to Our Roots arrive. Each familiar face steadies me. The heat wave added some last-minute complications to the logistics and I wonder how many people will actually show up. Should I have rescheduled for a later day instead? Catching myself spiraling in self-doubt, I gently tune back into the energy of those already here. Shy small talk, the chitter of excitement, I tell the what ifs to eff off and begin with the group that is here right now. “Let’s head over to the circle. Find a spot on a blanket and get comfortable.”
Under the trees, we listen to the wind in the leaves, watching sunlight slip through the canopy. Beginning with breath, we ground. I start with the sacral chakra, our roots, and play a Tibetan singing bowl. Low and bright, the bowl sings. “This land holds memory. It holds the stories of those who came before you.” As the sun beams down, the crystal bowl opens our hearts. “This is where love lives. Where grief and joy meet. Where your ancestors whisper, ‘You are the dream we carried.’” We move to the throat chakra, a gentle and uplifting chime that tinkles in the wind. “You carry stories that deserve to be heard. You carry songs that deserve to be sung.” In the vibrations of sound, I feel a softening of the pain that lives in my chest.
It is difficult to transition from the healing sound bath to our next activity. Passing out small notebooks with dried flowers taped to the front, I ask folks to write down ten things they love: people, places, practices, beings that matter most in the whole world. Easy enough. “Now, cross off the first five things you wrote down.” Silently, the group painstakingly crosses five loves off their lists. “Now cross off the rest.” Some are visibly shaken. Even this symbolic act, crossing off words on a page, stirs grief, a tiny echo of what centuries of cultural destruction, genocide, and devastation of the planet might feel like for Indigenous people.
Somberly, we leave the shelter and begin our hike. We walk along root networks, feeling the heat of late August in every step and drop of sweat. I stop us on the trail to ask, “What would your ancestors tell you about the earth if they were here with us?” A participant shares, “I bet they’d tell us the best fishing spot on the river.” Looking out, we see the water shimmering, beautiful, while a beer can drifts along. I ask what our world might look like if profit were not tied to land. “Maybe we would know more plants. We would greet the plants by name and know what gifts they share.”
On the trail we pass a couple reciting vows on the grass, ancient trees with branches cut to keep the path tidy, and ferns swaying in the breeze. Back at the shelter, conversation begins to flow. Participants share wisdom. “Land Back is not just about picking up trash, it’s about a relationship with the land. The trees miss being spoken to. The river greets me by name. The river recognizes the DNA of my ancestors who have lived here for thousands of years.” Another says, “My daughter and I said hello to every tree today.” We talk about the difference between belonging to the land and owning the land. “It’s like this. A shirt can be owned and that means it can easily be discarded. When we think of the land like a shirt we wear, it makes us feel separate from it. But if we think of land like it’s a part of us, like it’s a finger on our hand, we belong to it. We can’t throw ourselves away. We have to heal the earth because it’s a part of us.”
The conversation turns to community. “Being in a community is not always convenient. Sometimes we irk each other.” Another chimes in, “I had to drive far today and figure out childcare. But it’s an investment I make to be in the community.” We shift to the small, steady ways to be in relationship with land, ancestors, and each other. “Wearing a pin that says I am Indigenous, or You are on Native Land, is a way to show up each day and remind people of the fight for Indigenous sovereignty.” Someone else adds, “Every life matters. Land Back can also be about not wasting resources and holding space for the sacrifice the earth gives for us to live.” And another reflects, “The theme in our conversations today is relationship. It’s no coincidence that we saw a marriage ceremony on our hike.”
Holy shit, my heart soars. I don’t want these conversations to stop, yet everything is temporary. The event is drawing to a close. Volunteers serve lavender, rose, chamomile, passionflower, and calendula tea, brewed by the sun and love. This tea is my love letter to the land and to each other. I collected the flowers with gratitude, thanking each stem for its sacrifice, and dried them above my bed to encourage sweet dreams. The water came from a mountain spring on a sunset date with Bernie and Nacho. It was brewed on my porch in a vessel gifted by Lans. Each sip, shared in community, feels like a return.
There is one last thing to do. Passing out dissolving paper, I ask the group to write what no longer serves them. We walk to the river and surrender to the water. Fear, doubt, insecurities dissolve in the current. Some of us swim, others rest in the sun, and others leave because the event is over and it is hot as hell. I swim, my body wholeheartedly soaking in the pride I feel for bringing people together. The green, clear water whispers to me to release my shame.
On a blanket with two other Black femmes, I finally show what I usually hide. My hands, tender and raw from eczema. “The river feels so healing today. It’s helping my itchy hands during a flare-up.” They nod. They have the same patches. They understand. I feel seen in the way I crave.
Two hours later, we pack up. At the edge of the clearing, the doe and her fawn return. They stay for a long moment, then slip back into the green. I cry on my drive home and sleep like a rock.
The next morning, I rise early and drive to the Vancouver fish hatchery, a place my family visited for years. It is time for me to return to my roots, too. The softness of the gathering makes room for something bigger. I forgive someone I had kept out of my life for a decade. That weight, stacked brick by brick, finally falls. I feel light, like surrendering to the current instead of resisting it. I didn’t even write this loss on my dissolving paper, and yet the river knew. She made room for me to release it anyway.
Returning to Our Roots changed me. Not because it was perfect, but because we brought our full selves and let the land hold us. Healing happened in the circle, on the trail, in the water, and in the days after. I am grateful for everyone who showed up as themselves, for Metro’s support, and for the forest and river that carried us so generously. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
