Humour and Hubris

Monday August 24th

Allan Reeve

A cold northwest wind has dropped the temperature below 10C. Rain pelts the windows at Meg’s Hilly Lake home. No morning swim for me today. We’re packing up and heading out for the 1500K drive home.

The CPT team has said its goodbyes and shared individual commitments to remain allies of our new friends here.

I take with me a quote from one of our morning readings (that I’ve lost the reference for). It goes something like “Jesus made three promises to his followers: that they would know bottomless joy, that they would possess an unshakeable fearlessness, and that they would be always in trouble.”

Bottomless joy? One strong lasting impression I take away from my visit is the humour of our hosts. While their stories stir rage in me, they keep a twinkle in their eyes. They are quick to joke and tease while I get lost in an earnest search for answers. Their humour is like the water that crashes against the rock cliffs of white man’s hubris. (Hubris (/ˈhjuːbrɪs/, also hybris, from ancient Greek ὕβρις) means extreme pride or self-confidence. When it offends the gods of ancient Greece, it is usually punished. )

The arrogance of my culture astounds me. We have been so sure that we stand on the rock of ages. Yet water and wind over time turn rock into sand. What makes our hosts laugh when their tears run steady?

What makes these warriors into fearless defenders of mother nature? In a CBC interview internationally renowned cutting-edge architect Douglas Cardinal comments on the power of fear’s inhibition. His heritage gave him what he needed to put fear behind him. “Once you sit with the elders and experience the Vision Fast – you experience a death of ego – and so you learn to fear nothing.”

And as for the trouble Jesus promised? Trouble is what the Trickster uses to teach us when we’ve strayed from humility into hubris. Humour is what tickles confidence into questions. Joy is the evidence of a wealth that money can’t buy.

As I wonder at how Indigenous people across Canada have survived colonialism, and I think of the Canadian winter approaching, what strikes me is just how tough you need to be to live off this land. If these people could survive through the winters here – adapt and even thrive – is it surprising they have been resilient enough to survive the plagues of colonialism.

“We’re still here.” declares Judy DaSilva, Larry Morrissette, and others in a mantra I’ve heard repeated now many times.

It also strikes me that just as indigenous people taught the first Europeans how to survive in nature’s harsh elements – they have lessons to teach us still. As global warming threatens to wipe out our modern societies, we’ll need new skills. If anyone can adapt and survive through radical climate changes – it won’t be those of us who don’t know how to live without electricity and gasoline. Traditional, appropriate technologies of the first peoples developed over millennia offer hope.

For the last two centuries we’ve been working hard to educate and civilize indigenous peoples. Colonial efforts across the globe have pursued this same pattern. Changing the people of the land into good corporate citizens. Training them to respond to bells, whistles, and the clocks of progress. Turning them into consumers dependent upon the cash-economy. Uprooting them from their place in the eco-system to be part of a transient society in pursuit of “the American dream”.

Is it these first peoples who need to change?

My Grassy Narrows friend, Mary-Ann laughs when I ask her about the effects of the closure of the Abitibi Pulp Mill in Kenora. Fifteen hundred jobs were lost. “It didn’t affect us at all – hardly any of us were even employed.”

While we get scared every time the stock market dips. While politicians compete to be the one to ensure middle class comforts by feathering the ever-bigger and better nests of the super rich. While we worry about pensions and property values. None of this even touches the poor – the majority of people on this planet. When you have nothing to lose – why vote for leaders blind and deaf to the interests of what actually sustains you?

What sustains you when you are not a part of the global economic order? Clean water, clean air, and the soil that holds the bones of your ancestors. A communal wisdom rooted in co-existence with the elements. The people who have listened to the earth speak, and have shaped their survival out of respect for its laws – know more about sustainability than any PHD with a library full of books. (books made with paper from clear-cut forests.)

“Built on Paper” declares northern town’s roadside signage. They invite tourists to stay and enjoy the natural beauty, spread some of that southern cash around. Tourism employs more people and contributes more to Canada’s economy than the oil industry, or mining, or forestry. Yet the economics that puts disposable income into the gas tanks of tourists threatens to ruin what they’re here to experience.

In the first six months of a North American baby’s life, they will consume more packaged goods than most people on the planet will buy in a lifetime.


Is it indigenous people who need to change, to be fixed, to be educated?

Time to make things right

Sunday August 22nd

Allan Reeve

Much of our time with the CPT delegation at Grassy Narrows is unstructured. We hang out or go for walks. Our home base is the Trapper’s Centre overlooking the Pow Wow site and new Elder’s Centre.

Shoon Keewatin, the Centre’s Director, drives his pickup over to the Trapper’s Centre with his small grandson. He has kind eyes and grey in his hair under the ballcap. He comes and goes quietly from the centre – checking on this or that – smiling and waving at us.

When I ask him about the centre he tells me this story:

“I was working as a caretaker at the school. I happened to be in a classroom one day when a teacher – a native teacher – was showing slides to the children about handmade snowshoes, hide tanning, moccasin making, and such. The teacher told the class, ‘This is what we used to do.’

“That really struck me.” says Shoon. ” I thought she should be saying, ‘This is what we do.’

“So, I started to look into the old ways. I heard about a man in Kenora who was making snowshoes. I went to see him and when I told him that I wanted to learn – he started to cry. He was so happy to have someone who would keep the skills going.”

Shoon shows me the practice frames that he has the teenagers and adults learn on – tying the knots and getting the weave right. He also shows me the snowshoes he’s made using plastic tubing as the foot support webbing – and a synthetic twine for weaving the front and back parts of the frame together. “Moose hide can be hard to come by these days. The moose left these parts when the forests were clearcut.”

There’s a couple of cradleboards for carrying babies on one table. A small scale replica of a birchbark canoe is hanging from the ceiling.

One of several large area maps on the wall is marked with lines and the words “traplines available”. When I ask about it, Shoon explains that the Province made a park out of a territory. They told the trappers they’d have to give up their traplines for the campers. But when the campers arrived they asked, “Where are the trappers?” Now the Province is trying to get trappers to come back into the area to make the tourists happy.

Shoon shows us a video of him teaching a group of youth how to tan a deerhide from start to finish. It’s a long process with many steps and a lot of hand labour. The kind of job that goes better when you’ve got a group doing it. It takes skill to scrape off the layers of fur and membrane. Shoon explains that it’s not hard to ruin the hide by poking holes through it. I think how heartbreaking it would be to ruin a hide after putting hours and hours of work into it. They started out working on four hides, but ended with just two. The high cost of education I guess.

He tells me about a wood carver who made a small owl. A guy from a retail chain asked him if he could make a thousand of them. Shoon looks at me, “He could have set up with a computerized saw – but that’s not art” I shared a few stories about my experiences trying to balance the need for a fair wage with the low prices most consumers are willing to pay. Soon just nods and looks at me sideways.

Afterwards I realize we’re talking two different economic languages. My experience and analysis are driven by the idea of counting time as money. The value of a product is measured by the cost of labour put into it. But Shoon’s ways are traditional. His technology comes from a time before the cash economy took over their lives. The arts of survival he is reclaiming are not measured by the hourly waged individual worker. The value of these crafts are about staying alive. About a community relying on one another. Each doing their part in the day by day, season by season cycle of taking from the land the living it provides.

The land is not a resource to be exploited to feed the cash economy’s endlessly hungry machine in its relentless march towards progress’ illusory benefits for all. No, their relationship with the cycles of the seasons is one of love and respect for the mother that sustains them. The creatures of the woods and waters, the plants of the forests and shorelines, are not a commodity but a relationship. Time is precious but not something to be bought and sold.

No wonder these folks are so passionate about protecting the woods and the waters. To break the cycle into a linear path puts everything at risk.

Shoon’s sideways look takes me back to the Sabbath teachings of Jesus. As his people were being absorbed into the Roman Empire’s coin economy – forced to exchange trade, barter, and share system for the Roman’s cash and tax system – the itinerant rabbi reminded them of what was being lost. Either Caesar is Lord – the guy with his head on the silver coin – or Jesus is Lord – the guy who called his people into a radical generosity that couldn’t be taxed.

Shoon isn’t just showing us what his people used to do. Now, at the Trapper’s Centre – it’s what they do.

Wigwam Wisdom

Thursday August 20th

What a beautiful spot! Early morning sun hits the far shore of Grassy Lake and a cool breeze is keeping the bugs away. I’m sitting in a camp chair enjoying the day’s first coffee. Crows call back and forth. Dogs come to visit for a scratch. A carload of early risers passes with Johnny Cash singing “I walk the line because you’re mine.”

We forget that we belong to each other. We forget that we are all connected in this web of life. We forget that every time we take – something needs to be given in return. A pinch of tobacco reminds us of how precious is the circle of life that holds us and sustains us.

The Trapper’s Centre where our gang is staying – our international delegation I should say – sits on a hill overlooking the Pow wow site and a new Elder’s Lodge being constructed. I can see the Fire Hall and a community hall where we’ll gather later for a community meeting with government officials about the Mercury situation.

A golf cart sized boulder splashed with red paint sits beside me. Is it vandalism I wonder – or a declaration of the red path’s way? “Walking the red path” is about taking care of the circle in the old ways.

“Out here we’re Anishnabek people” Judy told us last night. We’re sitting around a fire in a wigwam constructed of birch saplings and heavy canvas tarps. As the day’s light seeps away, she tells us the history of the blockade and the struggles to sustain Canada’s longest running civil disobedience action. “Inside the Reserve we’re under the Indian Act. Out here in the forest, in our traditional territory, we follow our ancient ways.”

“I lived with logging all my life,” she explains. “It was just a part of our lives here. Following logging trucks all the way to town. Seeing them in the ditch. Hearing the growl of them day and night. But when they started to put in a new road just on the edge of the reserve – it seemed they’d be cutting right on the edge of our homes. One of our trappers told us with tears in his eyes about how he’d gone out to find a swath of clear cut right through his trap line.”

She explains that it’d be like us coming home to find our house gone. “That’s the only way to explain to you how it would feel.”

“It was late November 2002 and we came out as a group to stop the trucks from going up the road. The Police came to tell us what we were doing was illegal but we stayed. My brother spent the whole night here. While the rest of us went home to our warm beds, he stayed. When the next truck came he went out on the road and put his arms wide and just stood there. He said he didn’t know what else to do. We have had many acts of heroism here. The next day young people came out and lay down across the road in front of the trucks.”

The blockade camp runs along the turnaround road the truckers would use after giving up on getting through. There’s a couple of small log cabins and some tent frames along the road. In the trees hang coloured cloths. Judy explains. “When someone fasts and prays, they put tobacco in the cloth and hang them as a sign and as a way of creating a circle of good feelings and protection from negativity.

“We have women’s gatherings. We have youth gatherings. People come out here to pray. But right now we’re having trouble keeping the young people interested. My kids used to beg me to take them out here – there was always something happening – but now they’re losing interest. Larry (Morrissette) says it’s the effects of assimilation. He taught me about neo-colonialism where we start acting like colonizers on our own people.”

As my eyes follow the wood smoke up through the wigwam opening, I see a satellite passing blinking over.

“CPT’s been with us all the way. When the blockade first started I knew we needed help. I googled “peacemaking” and found the Christian Peacemaker’s website. I called the number and spoke with David Pritchard in Toronto. He said that they’d worked in many countries but never Canada. I invited him to come and see so he brought some Mennonite elders up from the States with him to help decide if this was a place they could be.

“It was getting late in the evening and we were wondering where one of the Mennonite men had gone. When he finally came back he explained that he had been listening to the loons calling. He said it reminded him of when he was a boy and his grandfather would take him out on a lake to hear the loons. But now, he told us, the loons are gone. Industry drove them away. He told us he cried when he heard the loons here. He told his CPT friends, “we need to be here.”

“It’s all the small ways that they help us out – practical things – just helping out like one of us,” Judy explained. “I feel safer when they’re here. It’s encouraging to know that we’re not alone. And when the next crises comes, we know they’ll be here with us then.”

“What should we do to help when we go back home?” one of us asks. Judy pauses to think. She says “When you see an injustice – step in – don’t step back. If it’s a homeless person being harassed – or whatever. Helping them, helps us. It’s all part of the circle.

“You could do a bake sale, or sell some t-shirts, or tell our story and encourage people to do what they can to help. I understand Maslo’s hierarchy of needs. Lots of our people are busy just trying to get by. They can’t spend any time or money on this – so that’s why I ‘m here. I speak for them.”

Judy’s working on the Mercury Advisory Team that the Provincial government has set up to monitor the long term effects. She tells us that only a few people like her have received compensation for the Mercury poisoning. She tells us about the Japanese doctor who came to Grassy several times over the decades. How he’s now died and other scientists who loved him have taken up his work.

“Our doctors say ‘it could be this or it could be that’ when we bring them our children with seizures and crossed eyes and speech impediments. Mercury goes straight to the brain when it enters the body.”

All of this information is offered to us in a quiet calm way. It’s a story that she’s been living now for over forty years. I think of the rage that would burn in me if it was my child poisoned by a corporation that never gave a second thought to my children’s health when they dumped chemicals upriver from my home. I think of the rage that would burn in me when the people elected to serve my interests found excuse after excuse to not act. I think I’d lose hope when I see them throw bags of money at all the side effects without ever dealing with the root cause of the problem.

I forget that these are my children. I forget that these are my brothers and sisters. I forget that these forests are the lungs of the Mother who sustains us all.

I am weeping now. Tears stream. Anger burns. And I know that neither will change the hearts of those who have made this mess and those who claim sincere interest while collecting taxes from the companies that feed my own consumer ways.

That splash of red paint on the boulder speaks to me.

Approaching truth from another direction

Tuesday August 18th

Having been somewhat immersed in the local native perspective, I find that I’m curious about what the white townspeople have to say about the logging blockade.

We have some free time in the afternoon so I go for a wander – wondering where I might find such a perspective. I consider the strip bar but don’t think I’ll find what I’m looking for there. And then I find myself on a corner and as I look back over my shoulder – there’s the big windows displaying local art – the place Meg had told me about. A storefront on the historic Kendricia Hotel.

The proprietor is a white-haired, white-bearded friendly sort. He’s wearing a workshirt with pockets stuffed with pens and notes and such. I ask him what he’s been reading and he tells me it’s a story about Residential schools. Hmmm…

Don is curious about where I’m from and what I’m up to here in Kenora. I find he’s quite happy to chat and answer my questions. A few customers come and go and he takes care of them and then returns to our conversation.

I ask him what impact the blockade has had on the local economy and he says “not much”. I’m surprised. What about when Abitibi Pulp and Paper shut down? (the operation made the decision to stop clear-cutting in the late nineties when the Ontario government finally began to respond to Native concerns and the future of their cutting contracts seemed murky.)

Don says that most of the workforce at Abitibi was older. They were happy to receive their compensation packages. Turns out Don was working as an employment counselor for the federal government at the time and knows quite a bit about the local workforce.

I tell him about my friend’s sister’s report that there is high unemployment in Kenora and he shrugs. “There’s definitely a lack of steady high-skilled jobs that provide benefits. There’s no shortage of part-time service jobs and the tourist industry is a big seasonal employer. There’s a new stud mill scheduled to open up this fall but they’re having trouble finding local skilled labour. There’s also plans for a Casino – one of five across the north – but no official announcements yet.

“The federal and provincial governments had departments here that were big employers. But MNR (provincial Ministry of Natural Resources) is now a fraction of what it once was. The Service Canada department where I worked has moved most of its jobs to a centralized, computerized location.”

I try to dig a bit deeper asking if there was much reaction to the blockade. He shakes his head, “A neighbour who was a heavy machine operator – doing road building – wasn’t too happy when his work stopped. But he’s a high-skilled worker and he just moved on.”

We chat about the number of independent retailers and restaurants downtown and he says it’s a struggle to keep things going through the winter months. His own operation fronting the historic Kendric Hotel seems to be more of a retirement pastime than a moneymaker.

“Oh I could go on” he says “but we’d need a campfire to get into it.” He shows me some of the local art hanging in the café. There’s a stunning charcoal portrait of a first nations woman. Don tells me the artist couldn’t afford to frame it and was willing to take the best price Don could get for it. We talk about what the market might provide for such a piece down south. He says it’s a different story up here.

After he serves another customer, we get into a short discussion of the Energy East pipeline. It’s a hot question locally. CPTers joined local townspeople and native activists just last week on a walk to protest this new development. Transcanada pipeline plans to convert a natural gas pipeline into a tar sands pipeline has raised concerns about spills.

“What I’d like to hear about is better safety regulations. I think that’s the common ground here. They tell us that their safety controls can respond within half an hour. That’s not good enough. What if someone’s asleep at the switch? A lot of damage can happen quickly. Our municipality should demand five minute warning systems and a fund to deal with clean-ups.”

I buy some ice cream and a few used books. The money for the books goes towards a local Cat Rescue Shelter. Don is obviously a guy with a big heart. His love for Kenora and the great outdoors is as clear as his generous nature.

Don’s perspective is one of those four ways (or twelve ways) of approaching the truth I was blogging about a few days ago. I thank him for the chat.

Blinded by Privilege

Sunday August 16th

“I am not sick. I am not a victim. I have been colonized. I am a member of a strong and resilient people. The effects of being colonized have made me sick. I have been victimized but that is not who I am. I have been healed, and continue to heal, by the traditional ways and medicines of my ancestors – given to them by the great spirit.” (a paraphrase)

My great-great-grandfather James Reeve brought his family to Ontario because the Church of England would not educate his Baptist children. Ryerson had created a public education system. A system that has benefitted generations of Reeve children. Ryerson also created the Residential school system for Indians.

I too have been colonized. It is difficult to see this from my deep immersion in the privileges that I enjoy. It is difficult to see that my friends, family, and people who share my culture and status are intrinsically a part of a systematic, racist, strategy to undermine the collective power of a people, of anyone, who might stand in the way of progress.

With plain language. With humility. With a lived experience to draw from, Larry Morrissette of Winnipeg’s Bear Clan (one clan among many) explains how colonization has attempted to destroy his culture and eradicate his people’s claims on the land we call Canada.

Larry is the founder and president of Medicine Fire Lodge Inc., an Indigenous organization involved in cultural revitalization through education and training. He teaches at the University of Winnipeg. One day, he tells us, he showed up to give a lecture and a security guard stopped him and asked him if he was looking for the Food Bank.

He says this kind of thing can trigger memories of abuse suffered in the residential school by “mean” nuns. His hope is that the young people – including his children and grandchildren – who learn the traditional teachings and use the medicines of their people will be better able to protect themselves from such attacks on their personhood.

“They thought we’d be gone by now – but we’re still here.”

Larry generously shares the four directions teachings of his Bear Clan with us. Each clan, he explains, has it’s own variations of the four directions teachings. We’re a small group of international witnesses visiting the Grassy Narrows blockade of the clear cutting Whiskey Jack forest. CPT has been accompanying this blockade since it began in 2002.

That’s when young members of the band decided to put at risk any potential benefits of cooperating with the Federal and Ontario government. The Band Council had no success in effecting change working through the official channels of engaging the Federal and Provincial governments. The young people took direct action.

Larry gives us a Canadian history lesson outlining how official policies have served corporate interests in first conquering, then starving, then taking the Indian out of the Indian, then assimilating, and now treating the Indian problem as a sickness – as something to be cured through pharmacology and sociology. From the start, european settlers’ economies led to hardship for indigenous peoples. (Clearing the plains of bison, overhunting the forests, clustering the people on reserves, and later on, clearcutting the forest and poisoning the land.)

“The only reason first nations people were given the vote in 1969 was that Lester Pearson was pursuing status with the United Nations.”

What makes colonization complex – and de-colonization so difficult – is a series of trade-offs that benefits some – while discriminating against any who might stand in the way of corporate interests. The first treaties were a trade-off. Band leaders sought a way to feed their starving people. Then, parents looked for ways to educate their children to equip them for colonial life. Leaders and parents today want what’s best for their children. Because it works for some – it means there is no unity among the people.

An example of this “divide and conquer” strategy that works at all levels is how a few teachers managed to control hundreds of students in residential schools. Larry explains that the nuns would “employ” select students to serve as taskmasters, snitches, enforcers. By adopting the tactics and serving the interests of those in power – life was easier for them.

The question, says Larry, is “what privileges are you prepared to risk and lose in order to be a part of the de-colonized solution?”

“You can’t make deals with Judy.” He’s referring to Judy DaSilva one of the blockade leaders. “She won’t trade her rights for the priviledges offered.”

Undoing colonialism is about a communal worldview. While colonialism serves the rights and interests of individuals – breeding consumerism in its wake, indigenous traditions are all about taking care of the community. In a communal culture every individual understands their identity and role in the context of the community’s health.

For me, as a Christian who desires to follow Jesus, the choice of communal versus individual benefits is at the crux of the question.

The rich young man asks Jesus what he must do. Jesus tells him to give away all his possessions. The young man goes away sad because he has many attachments.

But is that the end of the story? What seed did Jesus’ instruction plant in that young man’s life? Did that young man begin to dig deeper into his indigenous heritage? Did he begin to understand the connections between his personal privileges and the poverty of his people?

Larry works with gang members in Winnipeg’s North End. And he works with over-educated white boys like me. He asks “What privileges are you willing to risk and lose in order to be part of the solution?”

I am sad – for I have many attachments. I am sad – for those attachments are intrinsically part of a globalized systemic corporatization of the resources I call Mother Earth. I am sad – for I am no longer a young man and for all my years of working and protesting and educating others about how to change this system – the planet, the forests, the creatures, the peoples of the land suffer more and more.

Larry asks “What privileges are you prepared to risk and lose in order to be a part of the solution?”

The Roman soldier standing with spear in hand beside a row of crosses asks the same question.

My bank manager looking at my mortgage application asks the same questiion.

My grandchildren unable to eat the fish from polluted rivers and lakes ask the same question.

I am no longer blind. I can see. This is the bad news about the good news of the full life offered in the kin-dom of all my relations.

Photo: Hubert Den Drake


Saturday August 15th,

The road from Kenora to Grassy Narrows twists and turns. Like the story of this First Nations reserve, it has many precarious highs and rock bottom lows. Peter points out the spot where one CPT (Christian Peacemaker Team) delegation car left the road to go for a plunge in the lake.

The path across the rise and fall of pre-Cambrian shield through the boreal Whiskey Jack forest was walked long before the European settlers built roads. It was road building that prompted the relocation of the Grassy Narrows band. Their village, on Grassy Lake, was located where commercial interests indicated a roadway trumped indigenous claims.

Relocating the community was a trade off for the band. The village was situated across a large area with family clans living close together with distance between clans. The homes there were built by the people. They had also built a Catholic church and a community hall. But the hydro dam built in the 1950s had made the waters there precarious for boating.

The lure that attracted them to the pre-fabricated, side by side, 612 square foot houses was the offer of electricity, plumbing, and most of all – a school. An alternative to the Residential school was what sealed the deal.

They hadn’t been there long before people started getting sick. It took years of protest before the Ontario and Federal governments acknowledged the problem. A trip to Minimata Japan in 1974 where industrial mercury poisoning had crippled villagers was what convinced the Grassy Narrows people they were suffering the same effects.

The villagers in Japan told them to not expect government or industry to cooperate. It was only when the people of Minimata filed law suits, brought in the media, and conducted civil disobedience that they began to get results.

A CBC news report in June states “Ontario Premier Kathleen Wynne says more research is needed before the province can consider a cleanup of the 50-year-old mercury contamination near Grassy Narrows First Nation in northwestern Ontario.”

One of the questions I bring with me is “How do these people manage to sustain their efforts in the face of disappointments, betrayals, delays, and governments breaking their own rules and agreements?

At the Grassy Narrows annual Pow Wow Saturday afternoon I think I’ve got my answer. We watch dancers dressed head to toe in full regalia with layers of brightly coloured fabrics, feathers, headdresses, and moccasins. It’s 32 degrees and the heat saps my strength but these dancers are putting it out. All afternoon men and women dancers take turns and drummers from the different bands give them the song and beat. I am especially impressed by the dancers with grey hair. Their energy is inspiring.

This celebration of culture, spirituality, and community is deeply rooted. The children dance with their parents and grandparents. Some have obviously put hours and hours into learning the dances and the creation of their own unique regalia.

It is more than pride in culture that I am soaking up. Pride is too much a surface thing. The dancers seem to draw from a deep resilience living in sinew and bones, given life in each generation’s heartbeat as they learn what their ancestors know. The smiles and laughter and jokes come from that same deep place of knowing.

A stiff west wind coming across sparkling lake waters makes the heat just bearable. As the dancing wraps up, the announcer invites us to stay for the feast. Tables are brought out and trays of food fill them. Young people are invited to come and serve plates to the elders and visitors. A plate arrives for me and I’m truly honoured and humbled to not stand in line like the dancers who’ve been putting it out all afternoon.

It reminds me of a church dinner except for one thing. No money changes hands. And a box is put out for scraps to be taken into the woods for our furry friends. Sharing is what the day is about. It is a sacred part of who these people are. Something that the commercial interests that have twisted and turned their way of life just don’t get – because it can’t be bought.

So I’m sharing it with you.