Within the pages of a borrowed book, picked up some weeks back when the sugary leaves were still clinging on, I read that in the language of nsqilxʷcen (nsyilxcən) spoken by the Indigenous Syilx (also known as Okanagan) people of Canada, the same root syllable is used when referring to both land and body.
I then encounter an article about kɬúsx̌nítkʷ (oos-kha-nidt), the accurate and original name for Okanagan Lake, a fjord lake located in the southern interior of British Columbia. The word kɬúsx̌nítkʷ is explained to mean “a place or a body of water that has two long sides”, the similarities between lake and body then noted, how so many of the land-related nsqilxʷcen words reflect the words used for people—the land and the body reflected back to each other constantly. There are an estimated 50 native speakers of the language left; those important reflections between land and body needing to be strengthened, brightened.
Why wouldn't we cultivate a romance with the very systems that keep us alive, honouring them, giving back to them, holding their nuanced truths within our languages.
There are so many thin strands hanging between these things that we often do not manage to see: land, body, romance, home. Any one of those, devoid of the other three, seems emptier somehow, especially when considering that all four have been commercialised in very particular and, to my mind, detrimental ways:
Told it is not enough to experience reality left-alone within landscapes and that instead they require endless photographic evidence, that experiences must be paid for, costly ‘protections’ put in place to keep the free and the wild out. Instructed, too, that romance must come with cost, and evidence made public in similar ways to that apparently required of the land. Bodies meanwhile are given status based on meaningless attributes, declared either satisfactory or inconsequential.
I believe that all of us need, deeply, connection and relationship to these four things—land, body, romance, home—and that we feel predictably but painfully lost when one is absent or damaged, much like if one of the cardinal directions of the planet were to go missing. Our bodies are the planet, the earth is brim-full of romance, and the land has always been home.
THE FOLLOWING:
From a recent project by Maira Kalman entitled ‘don’t think too much’.
THIS WEEK I FELL IN LOVE WITH:
Originally published in the WePresent Magazine No.6, images by photographer Heather Sten of her 77-year-old mother. Heather has spent time documenting her mother, Thong, over the last four years, and there is a brief but lovely interview with her here. From that interview:
From swimming and Tai-Chi, to nurturing seedlings in old pill bottles and flax seed packets, to her obsession with tiny cookware. “My mom has always been the main provider. My dad left when I was 15, and she juggled work, raising my sister and me and caring for my grandma with Alzheimer's. Now that she can rest for the first time in her life, she’s finally free.”
And lastly this, from
’s publication the :My etymology text tells me that anger has roots in the 13th century, when as a verb it is rooted in Old Norse, angra, “to grieve, vex, distress.” As a noun, its use dates slightly later—the mid-13th century—rooted from Old Norse angr—here given as “distress, grief, sorrow, affliction,” also citing a Proto-Germanic word angaz, meaning “tight, painfully constricted, painful.” Finally, it notes that Old Norse had the term “angr-luass,” as in ‘anger less’—meaning ‘free from care.’
The hint that anger arises out of grief, distress, sorrow, and affliction feels right. Anger is so much more than rage or wrath directed outward; it's about the grief of being hurt, oppressed, painfully constricted. And it’s the last meaning that gets at the crux of it—angre-lauss, free from care—meaning anger is essentially care. Because that’s what anger feels like to me—like giving more than a damn. Care for the things that constrict and hurt one’s self at times, but especially care for others who are experiencing hurt, grief, sorrow, and affliction. Polite silence does not create change.
Wow--I was reading your beautiful post this morning, thinking about romance with the land--something that I often think we don't honor enough--only to find my own words staring back at me in the end of your post! Thank you so much for reading and sharing, it means so much! 💜
Always in your words so much resilience, resistance, and respect (for those like yourself, who care and pay attention to the world). Always moved by these newsletters, Ella. Thank you.