Love letter to Mother Nature


The soft whisper of wind speaking sweet nothings in my ears as I lay peacefully on the fertile bed of a field

Gazing up I am mesmerized at the birds swooping and the sun gradually drooping slowly…ever so slowly 

In this moment my mind wonders to you… 

I am amazed by the sound of your heart the veins pumping so violently as your crystal like blood crashes to the lowest points of your body and settle all around us. 

The blades of vibrant green and gold grass dancing angelically to the music of our ancestors. 

The sky is constantly changing as days turn to nights in an effortless cycle. Your children speak in the night with chirps and hoos as my mind trails to the sacred land you’ve provided. 

The joy I experience when you smile, it truly warms me to my core, it casts waves of love when my cheeks become painted with your lipstick kisses

Your devotion to constantly adapt to the makeovers we give your skin. Thank you for selfishly sitting there while we cover your face in the smudges of makeup you prefer not to wear.

In the daytime sun we spend time fighting with ourselves, But we are delivering ample amounts of hurt to you and spend days upon days trying to mend your scars. 

Don’t cry sweet affectionate mother, your tears will only melt the ice we need… we aren’t helping you by always giving you warm tight hugs. 

I’m sorry mother we cut your hair while you slept, we simply needed the strong trunks of your hair to warm ourselves. 

You created us from the bones of your body allowing us to marvel in your beauty if only for a short time we will soon mesh back into your being. 

Your awe inspiring views upon the highest cliffs and mountains are infatuating to me as I dangle my toes over the sheer drop feeling as if I could touch the cotton clouds over a valley that is teaming with life.

The ice palace of the cold plains has been a fond place to be as you can see crystals and diamonds frozen in the air although your bites on my nose are not favoured the sight is truly remarkable. 

Your rocky coasts stretching forever with endless treasures to find while beach combing through the sand.

sand-dunes in a dessert like environment appear as if frozen waves of gold ready to Crash again. 

laying in this field and shed tears for you.

I feel your kind hearted nature reassure my uneasy mind that there is still hope, with a tickle on my toes from the grain you’ve provided us a smile crosses my face and I close my eyes. 


Blog #3

A5BF6593-8A5A-4E94-AE07-4BB9C2B9D2C3Whoosh! I drive towards home completely entranced by the notes of the music swirling in my ears. My sight is graced with puffy clusters of snow, drifting ever so softly to the frozen pavement below. Nothing could ruin this drive, The snow glides across my window and settles on the ground blanketing the city for the rest of the year. I look to my right before I drive down the tree lined track into my neighbourhood. Something floating down the road captures my attention. A wrinkled jellyfish of a bag wobbles and spins, dancing ever so delicately in the snow as if the nutcracker dance had been ringing through its creation. For what feels like minutes, I become captivated by the bags manufactured beauty, mixed with the purity of the seasons first snow. HONK! Jokted from my trance, I pull down the path towards home but stop first to retrieve the dancing snow angel. I tick the car into park after finally reaching the comfort of home, where the scent of cinnamon buns becomes incased in my mind, but I become frozen like the pavement below the wheels as I look in the passenger seat to see the frail bag slumped there. The handles stretched to its one time used full potential while a slight rip in the bottom explains its journey of dancing with the wind. I knew the shiny waterproof case deserved so much more then the inevitable fate which plagues most of its kind. This bag was destined to rot away in the rolling hills of the cities litter, awaiting patiently until the earth took roots around it again. No, this bags purpose will change, it danced it’s way into my seat knowing too well that I would help it reach a new purpose.

Blog #2

Saskatchewan… Saskatchewan… Oh look Ontario! The new license plate was a friendly reminder of why I was making this journey. “Only 10 more minutes I swear.” My friend whispers loud enough to trigger my attention. We slowly turn from the highway onto the untamed, tumbling trail of small pebbles. My mind wanders to the appearance of crushed up stones used to carve our path through the plains. The stones appear as crystal flecks dancing from the sun, guiding our journey on the dusty road. A white, aged fence approaches the passenger side of the vehicle as we slow to a home tucked into the peaceful prairie. A woman joins us at the car window with her once dark leather boots now wrinkled and painted with a tan film of dirt and mud. I hop out of the car greeted warmly by the fresh, open air and retrieve my carton, ready to recover what I came here for. The woman leads me over to the coop where I hear a frenzy of clucking and movement from the walls. The woman suddenly disappears from my sight and I take in the views around me. I watch as the grains sway and dance in whimsical strokes, the bees settling in the flower bush nearby, and the cool, yet welcomed breeze carrying the smells of the farm across my face. Crash! I look startled at the coop where a figure emerges with a hand filled with the prize I have been waiting for. The perfection of the oval she hands to me is mesmerizing. I am surprised that it is still warm to the touch, and I wonder how such a magnificent object could come from an animal which was so frantic. I place the warm eggs meticulously into the carton in fear that I may crack the fragile armour which encases the liquid gold I crave.

This crazy world I have come to know makes experiencing these precious moments increasingly impossible. Cartons upon cartons shipped in with frigid pearly white ovals, within minutes from my home, but it is not the same. It would never be the same.

I have found the lost art of knowing where my food comes from. I have realized that I find controlling the packaging in which I use to be increasingly difficult. Having this experience made me reflect on how much product is used on ensuring safe transport of our goods, but is wasted once the products are consumed. A pop can is so easily transportable and wrapped in elegant art, yet is tossed to the dirt once consumed. Crazy glue used to fix a broken mug wrapped in cardboard, a pill like container and then the case in which provides easy precision, wasting in our soil, and finally an egg carton overlooked and tossed into the bin to meet an uncertain future far from the nursery it once cradled. Wasted resources, never to be used again, but intended to be tossed aside and forgotten until the next trip to the store begins.

Connecting to nature



The hot afternoon summer sun shines down on my freckled cheeks, kissing them more and more as the minutes pass. In a grubby sundress I take in the surroundings while a stillness sits around me. I find a dusty stain on the dress’ trim as I help pick peas from the garden. With the waves of prairie summer wave hello, my hair feels like it could be aflame. My blonde locks are hit by the rays, blinding the dullness into strands of red and gold. Two rows away, my grandmother is knelt down, picking the weeds out from the stems of her enormous garden. 

After what seems like hours in the hot sun, my eyes catch the bright packaging of birdseed slumped by the porch. I suppose my grandmother must have used it earlier to fill her collection of bird feeders. Sneaking over, I grab a hand full, stuffing it into the garden gloves I had been using. Within seconds, a dusty hand pats my shoulder. The jig is up I think, but grandma is just going in to get us lemonade. Rushing to hide the evidence, I lay the bird seeded glove under the coverage of a nearby rhubarb. Moments later grandma returned with a sweating glass of sour sweetness. As the flavours dance in my mouth, I notice the rhubarb being rampaged by birds. One of the birds looks right at me, seemingly thanking me for the cool spot for her to eat on the sweltering day.

Writing the self

As I identify my gender I realize my earliest memories have countered the normal narrative of the way a woman or girl should be. I never loved dresses and bows I purely thought of myself as Brooklyn. I grew up surrounded by boys 2 brothers, 3 boy cousins around my age, and most of my neighbourhood friends identify as males. Surrounded by boys I never really performed my gender perfectly. Yes I had barbies and dolls but I also had Tonka trucks and played football for years. This is seen in my gender blog post where I didn’t desire to perform my gender perfectly. As I read other students posts I see a trend that many of my other classmates who identify with being a women also haven’t always performed their gender perfectly. 
In Alyssa’s post titled “Girls don’t play hockey”, she explains the expectations put on her as a women. A man who came into her work didn’t think Alyssa could help find hockey equipment. In the intro Alyssa takes us through her childhood and shares how she was never really a girly girl. Hockey is considered a masculine or male dominated sport which could have lead the man to have a prejudice towards Alyssa since she was assigned the female gender she automatically couldn’t know anything about sports, even tho she has been playing for years. 

 I found in Paige Erick’s post on gender she shares that she too did not fit the gender norm. Like Alyssa she played hockey which is commonly viewed as a man’s sport. When she tells people she plays hockey people ask her if she meant ringette which is considered the female version of hockey. Which is very discouraging because gender shouldn’t imply what your hobbies and interests are. 

In Sydney Vogt’s blog entry she goes through her memories of a her and her sister. They had varying ways of expressing who they are and her post fits well with the ideas that there is not just one way to perform your gender and won’t be the same for everyone. Sydney Vogt being a “girly girl” in contrast to her sister who identified more so as a “tomboy” 

I choose pieces written by people who identify as females to get my point across that there is so much more to the way we can identify and that society still labels us as one type of gender and that’s “the norm” that every girl can be listed under. but that’s not true we come in many varieties and don’t always fit the perfect mold we are expected to. 

Sydney’s writing doesn’t just counter my point but also support it. I started out writing about how I didn’t quite fit the gender norm. In Sydney’s writing she shows us she did fit that norm of pink, dresses, and feeling pretty and wrote from the perspective of the “girly girl” but we also can see her sister who’s a “Tomboy” and doesn’t fit that gender norm perfectly. And this shows there is that diversity in how we identify and that there is no perfect definition of a how a girl/women should be.

The hike

I first realized my gender was different on a trip to BC in the middle of summer. While in BC we visited my mothers best friend, her husband and their 3 children. This trip was my first time leaving Saskatchewan the thrilling sight of the giant rocks perfect for climbing thrilled me and my brothers. My parents decided to plan for a hike through the mountains with the other family for the next morning. 
We set off at the first sight of day full of excitement. The orange sky suddenly was the clearest blue as we reached the path. As we hiked on the other children and I would veer off the path to find the perfect walking stick and track the trails large animals that once crossed. As the sun grew higher and the air transformed into waves, we headed over to a sheer rock face that water cascaded over. Thrilled to see the chilly water we all rushed over to cool down. Once the cool water took the salty water that previously danced off my brow I sat down next to my brothers and my 3 buddies.

My stomach formed knots notifying me it was time to recharge. Before carrying on I watched as the three kids and my brothers removed their shirts. Following the trend that seemed very pleasant in the scorching heat I moved to untucked my shirt and join the other kids. 

I was stopped by my sister “You can’t do that!” She told me sharply. I stopped very puzzled… “I put sunscreen on don’t worry” I moved again to free my arm but was grabbed by my mother and her best friend. They told me over and over that “only boys could remove their tops in public..” but i didn’t understand both of my brothers could walk around topples why couldn’t I. After repeating over and over my mother pulled a pink and floral sundress that I’ve seen my sister wear on hot days at our cabin. “Try this instead” frustrated at not being able to match my friends and expected to be happy with the impracticality of climbing the trails in a sundress I refused and carried on in my shorts and sweaty shirt pouting ever time my mother, sister or mothers friend would acknowledge me. But what could I do I am a girl.

I am White

When I introduce my self it seems my race is just assumed I’m a white female born and raised by white parents who had white parents who had white parents… It goes back generation to generation with a slight variation of the type of white. Basically what I’m saying is I was raised as a white women but I never really saw race or skin colour as anything more than a gene passed down from parent to parent. I am in a relationship with a coloured man. I sometimes forget we have different skin tones because I don’t care what a person looks like. I never really grew up being taught about racism and because of that I never really payed attention to race. Other than in school when it was up for a class discussion my predominately white class got little to no education about race other than racism is bad. I think my elementary education was run this way because the teachers didn’t want us to feel awkward since I went to a school where there may have been 3 students of colour in the entire building. Until I introduced my parents to my (hyspanic/ indigenous) boyfriend I never paid much attention to it. As he walked into my house a silence fell… Perhaps it was shock. The guy I brought over to join in our family dinner wasn’t as Snow White as I am. At the moment I didn’t understand why until a few months ago when I finally asked my mom about that first meeting. She said “my reaction was because I was raised in a very racist school and home environment where anyone of darker origin was seen as inferior to the white population.” She also continued to tell me how I was always taught that skin colour doesn’t determine a persons value which I agreed because although I may not look the same on the outside as a person I am not better or worse. I personally didn’t see the colour of his skin half the time and when ever I do I just laugh because people make it out to be such a big difference when it’s not. So I am white but that doesn’t mean I’m better or different then other that aren’t.