Tag Archives: gatherings

Through the Realms of Olokún

Inspired by her residency at the Centre in August, 2014, Mosa McNeilly later mounted an exhibition at York University in October, titled, “Through the Realms of Olokún.”  This exhibition is a meditation on accompaniment, on yearning to feel Spirit, and on longing to know the visceral quality of embodying the sacred.

 

Yemayá’s Tide Meets Sapelo’s Shores

mixed media assemblage on canvas

J’ai Soif

J’ai Soif (I thirst): a venture middle passage memory

Shimmering Fronds of Yearning

mixed media on canvas

Through the Realms of Olokún 1

Through the Realms of Olokún 2 

Through the Realms of Olokún 3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Residency Reflections Summer 2014

A mother and daughter pair teamed up for a three week stay at the Centre in August, 2014.  Their reflections follow.

By Malkah Darshana Félicité Uzima McNeilly-Abdulhamid

I was in Tobago because my mom, Mosa, was studying with Professor Alexander and she did not want to leave me behind in Canada. She wanted me to come so I could learn with her; so that we could both be students.  I am 11 years old and in sixth grade.

August 25th, 2014: I feel so peaceful here in Tobago. The hot weather is divine; up on the land is spiritual; the ocean is exciting and peaceful and beautiful; the biology is extremely fascinating!

The people are so welcoming and friendly. Every time you’re walking on the street, everyone is greeting you and calling you to come and say “Hi.” Most people seem so happy.

I’ve seen a little creature that looks like a baby wombat up on the land. I’ve seen many birds and found two feathers. I’ve helped plant, weed, water, write, pack up, keep the fire going and identify birds, plus much more. I think I’ve been very helpful.

September 20th, 2014: Everything is so connected in Tobago that if something goes wrong then everything would be in a shambles. If one animal dies then there won’t be food for another animal. And if that one dies, it won’t be food for another animal. And on and on. And if there is a forest fire and the animals’ homes are destroyed, then there will be wars between animals for the land and for homes and for food. Everybody needs food. Everything is connected in some way. One animal is food for the next. Even the top of the food chain might be eaten by something even bigger. The nutrients from one animal can give another strength.

All plants are sacred. They provide food and give us life. If there were no plants there would be no people. If there were no bees there would be no food. Bees are going extinct. We must find homes for them. This is one of the insects that is endangered. One that is very important to us.

Ants are strong little things. They can carry something up to one thousand times their weight. When I was up at the land, the ants carried lots of bits of leaves and flowers and sticks back to where they lived. They were all in a line. It was like one big traffic jam. If they were carrying something too big, they would wobble around and look like they had been at the wedding too long.

We met a man in a taxi who had maybe been at a wedding a bit too long, and could barely walk straight, just like the ants carrying something too big.

What I miss most is the ocean and the food. I miss seeing the fish and the sand and the bright blue colour of the water. I liked going way out deep and then coming back in and feeling the sand on my toes, and the smell of the salt water. I miss the salt fish and bake, the ground provision, all the fresh mangoes, the pineapple, watermelon and sugar cane. We used to get coconut water from a nice old man right at the Pigeon Point junction – and the breadfruit! How could I forget the breadfruit? And the fudge that we bought on the beach from a nice Grandma!!

 

By, Mosa McNeilly.

Mosa is a “celebrant and conjurer of beauty in a thirsty world.”  She is pursuing her MA in Environmental Studies at York University.

. . . The power of the Land makes me vulnerable. I succumb to Her strong presence. My senses heighten and it occurs to me that if I were to surrender, I could accept Her invitation and enter Her realm. With love.  With care.

I marveled at the stillness of vibrant life, the silent sounds of wind, insect and birdsong, the heady fragrance of the forest. In the time it took to climb the winding road up the mountainside, in the distance we covered each day on foot, I came to perceive, in fleeting glimpses, the veils of time parting like the layers and folds in Mama Oya’s skirts, yawning open in the unctuous air, in the caressing motion of the sensuous breeze, then rippling open in the swift dance of the sudden, lively wind. Lizard and hummingbird, caiman and bachac greeted us each day – the gatekeepers, the timekeepers – skittering across the leaf strewn ground; hovering and whizzing through living air; posing motionless in the muck and reed of the river so forlorn; marching relentlessly in the collaborative clockwork of the colony. These totems, they came to greet us, each day, one or the other, or two, or all, at the entrance to the Land, framed by an archway of towering bamboo.  They met us on the curve of the ascending road, deep in this verdant vegetation, at the threshold of timeless time.

They, the timekeepers, time givers away, time tricksters, time masterful makers and we, the welcome visitors, the dutiful stewards, the prayer makers and fire keepers, the laborers of love. Devoted makers of love offered to the Land, to ourselves upon the Land, through the attentive sowing of tiny, robust seeds, gingerly watering tender seedlings, reverently gathering soil, prayerfully weeding, carefully transplanting, singing all the while. We, the celebrants of seed turned to life, of miracles bursting forth, making of our presence on the Land a ceremony each time we came. In this naming and calling in of Spirits who inhabit the Land, in this giving thanks and praises to the Orisas who reign over the elements, in this Sacred communing, this daily honing of Spiritual consciousness, I beheld in Professor Alexander, a vessel of Sacred communion. We, her students, my daughter and myself, were her witnesses. She, Priest, servant, living altar, all at once and over time, at the crossroads of linear and timeless time. . .

Below are the birds which Malkah sighted  at the Center.

Blue-grey Tanager/Blue Jean

Blue-tailed Emerald/Hummingbird

 

 

White-Bearded Manakin

Short-Tailed Pygmy

White-Tailed Sabrewing

 

Smooth-Billed Ani

Amazon Kingfisher

Bran-Coloured Flycatcher

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fork-Tailed Fycatcher

Reflections on “Revelations” Gathering

Revelations with M. Jacqui Alexander

Revelations with M. Jacqui AlexanderThe William Doo Auditorium at the University of Toronto was transformed on the evening of March 23, 2012 from about seven to midnight as we descended, many unknowingly, into the hold of a ship of the kind that would have taken millions captive from the African continent over the course of five centuries.  The evening, called Revelations, featured M. Jacqui Alexander reading three excerpts from an unpublished novel of the same name.   At the center of the story is a woman, Kitsimba, who numbered among the enslaved, captured from the Kôngo and brought to Trinidad via Martinique in the late 1700s, resurrected that evening to tell something that is impossible to tell.

And it is with this that Jacqui began, after being introduced by Alissa Trotz and Lisa Yoneyama, reading from a scant 19th century document—two paragraphs to be exact— describing the imprisonment of  ‘Thisbe’ for “. . . witchcraft, poisoning by means of charms, knowledge of the black arts, . . . and consorting with the devil.”   There was no trial.  Thisbe was tortured, hanged and beheaded, her head paraded through the streets of (then) Port-of-Spain and later exposed on the plantation in Diego Martin, the remainder of her body burnt on a pyre.  That was 1801.  Not coincidentally, all 200 of us were gathered at that auditorium on the heels of an immensely haunting performance of Obeah Opera (written by Nicole Brooks and staged by Theatre Archipelago)— about the life of Tituba, which was similarly shattered by charges of witchcraft in Salem, Masschusetts.  That was 1692.

The evening revealed that the trumped up accusations actually hid Thisbe’s true name, Kitsimba, and hid as well the healing work that she did with medicinal plants, her intimate knowledge of the power of plant medicine and the delicate balance she lived between the poison (of oppression) and the antidote of healing.  These revelations, Jacqui noted, were divulged in ways that are not widely sanctioned in the academy.  As Tituba said in Obeah Opera,  “the Moon call me back ah mi yard; the moon give me visions inna mi mind; dreams in mih sleep.”  Images come through a scent, a split second’s glimpse of an entire life in the flash of the Spirit, a faint shadow lying under a village, the movement of a feather—all the different ways we are made to see and know what we have forgotten.

Jacqui read three excerpts: The Crossing; a reflection from the decapitated head that speaks as it is paraded through the streets of Port-of-Spain into Diego Martin; and Kitsimba’s own ruminations of the body count in the massive trans-Atlantic wreckage that still haunts as its seeks its own archive.

There is an odor that has seeped into the pores of wood that no vinegar or carbon or sulphur can eliminate.  That odor bled into our pores.  We smelled the same.  Even after leaving the ship we would be outdoors and a strong gust would stir up from ground and bring that scent right back to us; we would look around, recognize it, loose our bearings.  A scent of grief and suffering and unspeakable loss so deep it could not be uttered, only issued involuntarily, so strong it could not be contained in one place.  We could not bear any more than we were bearing. We needed Wind and Rain and Moon and Ocean and Sun and River and Love to caress and wash and hold us.  We needed the scent of infinity.

Ras Iville’s corn soup warmed us that night.  It was not cold, but we, too, needed to be held.  Our follow up conversation, magically facilitated by Gail Lewis and Angela Robertson, was probing, deep, tearful, as happens when we allow our Souls to do the searching.

We left the auditorium at fifteen minutes before midnight.  The port of disembarkation was the same as the port of entry five hours earlier.  The Middle Passage is an inheritance of each of us, ALL of us, according to Kitsimba.  For her,  “healing work is the antidote to oppression.”  Among plants, the poison and the antidote are found in the same place; so too oppression and healing work are to be found in the same place. These medicinal plant gardens that are the foundation of the Tobago Center are an ancestral mandate for healing in the present.

 

U of T students make and gift books to The Tobago Center

Students at the University of Toronto in the Department of Women’s Studies have made books on a wide range of medicinal plants.  These books were their final assignments in two courses: Migrations of the Sacred, and Aboriginal, Black and Immigrant Women in the Land of Dollars.  The students will present the books as gifts to the Tobago Center in a gathering scheduled for Wednesday, April 4 at 6:00pm.

Update: Read about the presentations and the students’ reflections here