I listen to CBC Radio a lot; there’s often discussion about reconciliation, interviews with first nations individuals who share their stories about how they experienced Residential Schools, Reservations, Childhood, Adulthood, White People, and more. They share their real.

At work, we are participating in some sensitive learning around all of this. I’m a white cis female – autistic, yes, so I struggle socially – but privileged in all measurable ways (except money, LOL – definitely not that).

Sometimes, I hit this wall with all of this sharing. All of this emotion. I was not raised to share; hugging wasn’t common in our family, nor was deep introspection or learning. My older brother challenged a lot of our history by diving deep into finding our broken paths.

Somewhere in the middle of his digging into all the places things fractured in our ancestry, I also attending some sensitive learning at work. Where we were encouraged, via a Zoom-Drum-Circle – to imagine our ancestors … all of them holding hands on to the shoulders of those-to-come…and imagine them going as far back as we can. How their lives influence who we are, how their stories inform us, create us. How we are the stories of those who came before. Our ancestral sisters and brothers.

Woah baby. That’s some heavy stuff when you look at my family. We only have brokenness. My maternal grandmother abandoning my mother when she was old enough to remember; my own biological useless sperm donor who hurt my mother beyond imagining; and my brother’s dad who also hurt but in a different way… complete jerks (use your imagination) (except for my own amazing Dad -step father – who is amazing in all the ways men lack most of the time). My history is fractured is a kind way to describe what is real. Ancestral supportive hands? Never.

Today. Today I walked dogs through a forest – that, in spite of it being a holiday here – was remarkably quiet when you walk far enough. An hour can go by where all you hear is the wind clacking the tops of the trees together.

I reflect… That second growth forest that seems so scarily alive; these silent looming sentinels planted too closely together to grow in a healthy way, who click and clack and moan and bend as a gentle breeze gives them movement… they are seeking reconciliation too. Unlike me, they have a history, and through the fungus network that threads through their forest floor, they remember and they speak to those who listen. What they say isn’t pleasant. It doesn’t feel good to pause in the middle of a forest like this and reflect on the silence, there is no peace, only a brief wondering at the discontented clattering and groanings of trees too close together – “is it a bear” “what’s behind me?” – you find yourself glancing over your shoulder far too often, seeking the spirit of the soul that is all around you. Breathing, giving life back to the world just as it shares its own pain, its own sufferings, its own remembrances.

I’m not an expert on all the things white people have done. My family came here seeking refuge. America, to us, regardless of how white we appear to be, was not about privilege, but rather about safety and opportunity, as it is for so many, many refugees. But, we still can’t ignore that which was done to build a nation (nations, Canada and the US). Who was stepped on, pushed aside, needs ignored, or steamrolled over, in the name of economic growth, in the name of power, in the name of succor.

Reconciliation. It’s a loaded word. If we pray to God and listen to the trees and try to remember our ancestors… whom are we exactly accountable to as we work to reconcile the damages inflicted by a powerful few so that the many may prosper? And, was the cost exacted too great? Have we yet to fully grasp the interest that’s been accumulating on the loan we took out when we started cutting down the trees, decimating habitats, re-configuring this world to exact the best possible price for every product brought to market?

On the grand scales of justice, far too big for someone small like myself to fully grasp, how does the good that was brought to bear balance against the evils inflicted on those lives (human, tree, animal, system) that were sacrificed?

America, and all that it is, was always a good in my upbringing, much of the bad simply glossed over with a cute rhyme and a complete lack of depth. More important, more pressing issues at hand than to focus on what we did to get here. Progress isn’t measured by those who dwell on the costs exacted to get here.

I could keep spinning on this topic. But, instead, I ask the reader to pause at the final period of this post. And imagine. Imagine the forest. Tall. Green. Lush. Eerily silent. Moss covered rock outcroppings framing you on either side. A cool breeze kisses your face in the gentlest of touches. And then you hear moaning. Clacking. Snapping. You pause. You look around you. And you wonder… what is it that seeks me here?