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It's a Pacific Northwest morning. I leave my cottage at eight and, carrying a paddle, walk downhill to the lakefront. A canoe, beached and secured by rope to a tree, is a vision of simplicity and transition. I untie the worn gray rope, toss the loose end into the bottom of the canoe and shove off, stepping into the canoe as the current takes us, using the paddle for balance.
The lake is quiet, touched with mist, and I stroke left then right, switching hand position each time. There's no set schedule for a Canoe Burial Ride. Instead, I listen to signs of an imminent approach. For example, bouts of uncontrollable weeping, typically inspired by a movie or beauty promp[ts me to address the next level, body sobbing. Once this portal is accessed, and my body shakes out holding patterns, the released deadness must be guided to the other side of soul death.
I visualize my dead soul self lying on the canoe ribs, wrapped in a white cotton cloth and bound with birch braids. I can hear the Chant Singers warming up at a distance, coming closer through the forest. First, a low hum, then light stamping building to reverb. They appear from the woods and gather, a diverse range of colors, sizes, and stances on the shore. "Judge ment j u d g e m e n t judge ment ment ment," they chant in bluesy open chords. This Canoe Burial Ride is dedicated to a soul self long buried underneath judgment, a ritualized death passed on through the generations.
The white-wrapped bundle begins to vibrate, a sign that a Resistance Storm is brewing…
