Just got back from seeing Avatar, the latest movie from director James Cameron. Now, Cameron is known for the great effects and plenty of action. Think of Terminator and The Abyss. I wasn’t expecting profundity, but that’s what I found tonight.

On one level Avatar is typical blockbuster, supersized with amazing animation. But it’s subtext is pure shamanic journey, from the world tree to the reverence for the universal mother, to rites of passage and animal guides.

The story takes place on a distant world called Pandora where corporate mining interest come face to face with wondrous 10-foot-tall creatures called the Na’vi. The Na’vi are highly reminiscent of Earth’s own indigenous cultures, intimately connected to the land, the animals, the energy and the ancestors. They worship a mother goddess called Eywa.

The Na’vi live in a world with trees taller than many of our skyscrapers, mountains  that float and flora and fauna that shimmer with colour at night. It is Eden, but just as in our world here on Planet Earth, there are those who would put profits before people and they are willing to destroy paradise for it. To that end, the company that is so aggressively mining Pandora has the military, a thinly veiled and effective poke at the USA’s protection of corporate interests in other countries.

During the past year, I have been learning more about shamanism. For me, Avatar was familiar in that it strongly resembled a shamanic journey in non-ordinary reality.

Yeah, I know this is Hollywood and I don’t want to demean my own practice by comparing it to computer generated odysseys. On the other hand, I applaud that Cameron is bringing an important message to people who might not otherwise care to learn about shamanism. Avatar is clear — we are all connected, to each other and to our planet, whether it’s Earth or a moon called Pandora.

James Cameron said that “the Na’vi represent something that is our higher selves, or our aspirational selves, what we would like to think we are” and that even though there are good humans within the film, the humans “represent what we know to be the parts of ourselves that are trashing our world and maybe condemning ourselves to a grim future”.

I will write more about Avatar after I’ve had time to think about it more (and get some sleep) but I am inspired and still a bit in awe of this movie. For three hours I sat there in my 3D glasses, exploring a fantasy world, thinking of our own world and wondering what is going to become of us on Planet Earth if we don’t find the strength and spirit to protect our planetary home.

One of the best things about having a blog is that I get to rave about the people I think are remarkable. One of these people is jewelry artist Anne M. Kelly who will debut two exciting new lines at the upcoming Out of Hand Craft Fair on November 20 — 22 at The Crystal Garden in Victoria BC.

Anne, who truly is one of the West Coast’s best kept secrets, creates high-demand original pieces of jewelry, each with its own unique story. Because Anne is a published poet, the stories that come with the jewelry are works of art in themselves. Her two newest collections include a Native Species line featuring Shibuichi Roughskin Newts, and a Timorphic line created from pure repurposed aerospace titanium.

The Roughskin Newt Pendant is created using an ancient Japanese alloy made of pure silver and copper called Shibuichi. This metal was traditionally used in decorative and functional Samurai sword guards, called tsuba, which prevented the sword-wielding hand from slipping onto the blade.

Titanium cuff with silver clasp by Anne. M. Kelly

The Timorphic line, created from the material of space shuttles and deep-sea exploration uses historical chain mail weaves to create jewelry that is almost fabric-like. With silky texture and feather-light weight. The result is some of the most luxuriously wearable, glamourous jewelry you’ve ever experienced. With its ancient patterns and a futuristic edge, Anne refers to it as jewelry a time traveler might wear.

Anne is not just content with creating beautiful things — she likes her work to make a difference. That’s why part of all sales of her Native Species jewelry sales will be donated to conservation of native species and habitat and will also generate microloans to the world’s most impoverished women through http://www.kiva.org.

I own several pieces of jewelry by Anne. Whenever I wear them, I am usually surrounded by women and men who want to know about the artist. I met Anne almost 20 years ago when we were both in a poetry salon with poet Robin Skelton. I became fast friends with this beautiful and talented woman who, with her New Orleans background, always brings an intriguing sense of the exotic to any gathering.

Japanese Lace Collar with Nine Row Earrings and Semispherica by Anne M. Kelly

In the 1990s a car accident changed Anne’s life. Following several years of rehabilitation and adaptation, she combined her distinctive style of graphic design with a love of fashion and natural history to create her first collection of jewelry. Watching her work is like watching alchemy — each piece she creates is imbued with such story and magic that is would be difficult not to feel magical each time you wear a piece of her jewelry. If the goddess incarnated, no doubt she would want to wear Anne M. Kelly jewelry.

Anne is a contributor to Chain Mail Jewelry: Contemporary Designs from Classic Techniques, published by Lark Books. Her jewelry is sold in The Avenue on Oak Bay Avenue in Victoria, at Mattick’s Farm Gallery in Saanich, and by private commission.

You can also see her work this weekend (November 20–22) at the Out of Hand Craft Fair, Booth #17, The Crystal Gardens in Victoria, BC, or on her website http://www.annemkelllydesigns.com.

Photo by fauxto_digit

The moon phases application on iGoogle said the moon was 100% full last night. Google is like God, right, so this must be true?

I swear I could feel the fullness even if Google hadn’t told me and I couldn’t see with my own eyes that luscious golden ball  in the sky.

My cats felt something in the air too — those boys were crazy last night, even without the catnip. The dogs down at the four way honoured the moon with wolfish howling. Teenagers pulled up the stop signs at the crossroads.

I’ve always loved this time of year, even when I was a kid and it snowed in the Kootenays. I always aspired to be a princess on Halloween but inevitably the cold weather meant I was re-dressed as a logger with mascara dots on my face for whiskers, a pillow stuffed beneath my t-shirt for a beer belly, and my Grandad’s old plaid flannel hunting jacket on my back. Every year. You think we would have learned.

In ancient times, this season, beginning with October’s Blood Moon and culminating with last night’s Mourning Moon, reflected the time of the hunt, the slaughtering of livestock for the winter and the storing of supplies for the leaner months ahead. Now, 24/7 factory farms have rendered the seasonal culling a forgotten rite on many farms — but the old imperative still remains in our DNA. This season — known by many names including Halloween, The Day of the Dead, All Soul’s Day and Samhain — leaves few of us unmoved.

Last night’s moon shone over Cordova Bay, illuminating sand and cold Pacific ocean. I almost felt  as if I could walk its path of light from Vancouver Island to the mainland. I could see the “man in the moon” clearly enough to know it was actually a woman looking back at me. The moon has a decidedly female energy.

At this magical time of the year, the laws of time and space are held in suspension. The veils between worlds thin, become permeable. The dead are close.

I have taken to honouring my dead at this time much as the Mexicans do on their Day of the Dead.

I light candles to those who have passed and place their pictures around my house with offerings of herbs, leaves, wine and memorabilia. It is my time for wishing them well and for letting go of that which weighs me down and holds me back.

Now that I am in my 40s, I sense the scales of my life shifting as more people I know pass to the other side. It’s both disconcerting and comforting. I suppose that once I am old I will truly understand why my Grandfather found so much solace in visiting the graveyard. As he said, “I know more people in there than the ones alive out here.” I’m not there yet.

In my home, I have a collection of Day of the Dead paper mache figures. Some I have purchased in my travels, some have been brought to me by knowing friends. I love these macabre characters for their dark humour. I love my friends for thinking of me (and humouring me).

These Day of the Dead figures include skinny Freddie in his yellow rocking chair, bouncy Betty with her bobbing skull wearing a swish Victorian hat, and Veronica the blonde bombshell with her boobs bulleted out like a 40s diva. She used to hold a cigarette in her left hand but I snipped it off when I quit smoking. I wasn’t ready to wind up like her yet. Dead Harry (never just Harry) lies smugly in his coffin. He’s smiling like he’s just had a satisfying rendezvous with a zombie. Hector, a tin cut-out from Mexico City,  resembles a deathly glitter-rock icon — skinny and ultra-cool.

In my house, I also keep a growing collection of bones I’ve found (or friends have given me): elk vetebrae, a mountain lion skull, a seal’s shoulder blade, a humpback vertebra, caribou antlers, the leg bone of a very large unknown animal. I know some people find bones gruesome but I am drawn to the purity of bone once the flesh is gone. The artistry of nature. Bones are what define us and gives us structure. Without our bones, we would be nothing solid. When I touch a beautiful bleached bone, I like to think I am touching something closer to the truth.

So, ok, my decorating schemes are a little off centre. But in the midst of my Day of the Dead figurines and bones, surrounded by the artistry and remnants of death, I feel vitality. I understand why the Capuchin monks of Rome decorated their chapels with bones nailed to walls in intricate patterns, and created light fixtures and pyramids of bones.

In the midst such skeletal reminders, they were reminded of how short and precious our time here is. Does it change the way we live our lives to look death in the face? For me it does. I am more fully alive.

U2’s music has been with me through a lot of my life — births, celebrations, deaths, dances, epiphanies. Their music takes me to the same place I go when I’m writing poetry — the almost-undefinable, magical place where the poetry gets lift off and seems to write itself.

I’d like to think I’m different in some way from all the other U2 fans, but the truth is I’m just one of millions, unlikely to ever to meet Bono.

But last night in Vancouver’s BC Place, I did get to go up on stage with U2 as a small part of the band’s amazing 360 tour for their latest album No Line on the Horizon, which is fast becoming one of my favourites.

My story starts when I applied to volunteer for One.org, the global advocacy organization and campaign. Co-founded by Bono and other campaigners, One.org’s mission is to fight against extreme poverty and preventable diseases. The campaign has helped focus much-needed world attention on Africa’s plight in particular.

About 30 of us were chosen to volunteer and to spend the hours before the show asking concert-goers to add their voices to One.org’s two million other members (no, there was no money involved). As a special surprise for the volunteers, One’s energetic volunteer coordinator Matt announced we would not only get to watch the show from inside the circle, we would be in the show.

The plan was for us to join many of U2’s crew onstage during the song “Walk On”, an evocative, haunting song dedicated to Aung San Suu Kyi, a 64-old Burmese woman who has been under military house arrest for 14 years. In 1990, she was elected Prime Minister by 59% of the vote but her detention by the junta stopped her from taking office. She is still imprisoned.

We were to walk out onto the outer ring surrounding centre stage, each holding up a mask imprinted with the likeness of Aung San Suu Kyi — then turn and face the audience.

As we got ready for our entrance, I could not believe I was about to face 50,000 people. Then I heard the opening notes to “Walk On” and I held back tears. The song, with its lyrics “…all that you can’t leave behind…”, brought back the entire past year to me. I had watched my Mom die of lung cancer, taking with her the only thing she couldn’t leave behind — love. At least I truly hope that’s what she took with her.

I stepped onto the stage thinking not only of Aung San Suu Kyi but also of my Mom, now free of the prison of her pain. I felt like she was watching me there. And, ok, I thought of my best friend and my brother who were sitting at the back of the stadium beside the seat I would have occupied. There was a wee bit of guilt there for me.

Walking on that stage was a moment I’ll never forget, with the bass and drums thrumming, the clear, soaring sound of Edge’s guitar and Bono’s voice, so magically familiar.

I couldn’t see the band, but I briefly experienced what it must be like to see through their eyes — to look out at thousands and thousands of people with their hands raised in solidarity to human rights and the oneness that is possible when hearts and minds unite.

As we left the stage (trying to walk straight on the catwalk with the masks still held to our faces) I caught a glimpse of Bono in the shadows. Then it was over and we were back by the stage for the rest of the concert, having the time of our lives and rediscovering why these guys are the world’s best band.

Thank you to One.org for an amazing experience. I would have gladly volunteered anyhow (but, wow, what an unforgettable surprise!). One.org has shown that the Internet is a powerful tool for peacefully holding politicians accountable  and raising awareness of some of the most critical issues of our time. Protest in our times is alive and well —  on the web as well as in the streets.

Talking to people before the concert last night and signing them up was an enlightening experience in itself. People open up about what they cared about in the world, and what their hopes and fears about the future were. We are all more alike than different.

It’s easy to be cynical but it’s far more courageous to be hopeful, so thank you, U2, for the music and the message.

Our great group of One.org volunteers (me and Chris are second and third from the right).

Whenever our economy goes into a slump, arts funding always seems to come under the knife. It’s like the arts are some kind of cancer to be extracted by the political scalpel.

These cuts have happened federally in Canada to the tune of $45 million (and no, Prime Minister Stephen Harper’s piano playing doesn’t make up for it). They have also happened in British Columbia. Our poorly named BC Ministry of Tourism, Culture and the Arts will apparently cut 50% this coming year from arts funding, 90% in 2011, and 91%-94% the following year. According to The Hook, the cuts pulled funding from the Association of Book Publishers of British Columbia ($45,000), BC BookWorld ($31,000) and the BC Association of Magazine Publishers ($20,000).

Some people have asked, “Why should I have to pay for arts funding? I don’t read much. I never go to the theatre.” My answer to that is that I haven’t been to provincial parks in a while but I still see the value in funding them. Whether we are discussing arts or the environment, it is vital to look beyond our own lives and realize the impact on the greater good.

I’ve heard people say, “In a capitalist society, shouldn’t the amount someone is willing to pay dictate the true value of a work?” Tell it to Vivaldi who died poor on the streets of Vienna after his patron, the Church, abandoned him. Tell that to Gwendolyn MacEwen, one of Canada’s greatest poets. This two-time Governor General’s Award winner died in poverty. Imagine a world without the legacy of Vivaldi or MacEwen. We would be lesser for it.

At one time, fortunate artists may have had patrons to help support their work. Certainly Beethoven did, as did Michelangelo who received funding from several popes as well as the House of Medici, Italy’s first family of Renaissance arts and architecture. In fact, the Medicis were responsible for the majority of Florentine art during their years in political power. True, Michelangelo often cursed them, but without their funding he would not have had the funds to purchase his precious marble. Imagine a world without the art of Michelangelo?

Today, government has largely assumed the role of the patron in Canada but it is clear that this patron does not see the value of arts to our culture. It does not see that support for the arts is essential to our evolution as a people. Arts nourish our ability to appreciate other people’s points of view and to stimulate intelligent thought and discussion. The arts also nourish our economies and boost tourism. Would Paris be as compelling to visit without the Louvre? Would New York be the same without Broadway? It always amazes me that Canadians will travel far and wide in search of great art and architecture, yet the arts are sadly not well supported here at home.

In terms of arts funding, I know of no artist in Canada who has become wealthy on this funding alone. Believe me, the starving artist is alive and well in our country. They create because they are born to create. Indeed, they are compelled to do so. They enrich us all through their work. In his speech to the Federal-Provincial Culture Ministers Conference in Halifax in 2004, Simon Brault, then-head of the Canada Council for the Arts, perfectly captured the role of the artist in our society.

“These artists do their work, often without worrying about its direct and indirect impacts. This work is of value in itself, and we cannot, nor should we, “instrumentalize” artists for economic or social purposes, however worthy they may be. But it is our job to place this work in context and to show how it contributes to the well-being of individuals and communities. Now more than ever, arts and culture appear as the key to three basic skills: learning to be, learning to know and learning to live together.

We must do more to support our artists, to fully recognize their status, to provide high quality training at the initial and professional development levels, to ensure they are fairly compensated and to protect and celebrate their creative freedom.”

That speech was five years ago. What a shame the government did not listen and has chosen a short sighted approach. William Gibson, author of Necromancer, wrote, “As a futurist, someone with some experience in long-range scenario-based corporate and municipal planning, I’ve seen my share of jaw-droppingly shortsighted proposals. But these proposed cuts to support for the arts in BC (almost 90% by 2011) really take the cake. This is governance guaranteed to rot the fabric of our province’s future…”

In 1956, John F. Kennedy spoke at Harvard University about the arts.  I only wish I could find such inspiration from Prime Minister Stephen Harper or Premier Gordon Campbell. John F. Kennedy said:

“When power leads man towards arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the area of man’s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses. If more politicians knew poetry, and more poets knew politics, I am convinced the world would be a little better place in which to live.”

In defending the arts, perhaps the poets are learning politics. When will the politicians learn poetry?

Land & Sea Murals at Ogden Point Breakwater, Victoria, British Columbia. Photo by Chris Holt Photos, http://www.chrisholtphotos.com

I took a walk with my family on Thanksgiving Day and, under a dramatically dark October sky, saw for the first time the spectacular murals on the breakwater at Ogden Point in Victoria, BC. With the addition of the murals, the old grey breakwater has become majestic. It doesn’t compete with its coastal backdrop but appears to emerge from it.

Graced with these murals, the breakwater spans out into the sea like a dream unravelling. The murals depict images of local chiefs and BC’s Lieutenant Governor Steven L. Point, and images of land and marine life. The meeting of land and sea life in these murals is fitting, for the places where land meets ocean (called biomes or lifezones) are nurseries for all kinds of life. They are rich with nutrients, biodiversity and possibility. So it is with these murals.

According to the Times-Colonist, the eye-catching mural panels are designed by local First Nations artists. They are part of an artistic project that will lead to 100 panels being mounted on the landmark seaside walkway. The first panels were created by Coast Salish artists Butch Dick Songhees First Nation) and Darlene Gait (Esquimalt First Nation) and a team of Aboriginal youth.

“The spirits of our ancestors live on in those of us who try to bring dignity and nobility back to our people through honesty, generosity and respect,” said Darlene Gait in a news release.

I am hardly qualified to comment on anyone’s art; I can only speak to the way these murals made me feel. Looking at the them, I did experience a sense of the noble. I’m not talking about noble as in the European lords and ladies, but of something older and more powerful, something distinctly of this place and time — perhaps the spirit of the sea itself.

When I became a creative writing student at the University of Victoria, I thought I should give the lofty CBC another try because so many of the writers I admired swore by it. I tried for years. My dislike was sealed again when a CBC commentator (maybe Peter Gzowski) visited a chicken bar on the prairies and recorded the sounds of chickens being slaughtered so we city folks could appreciate where our meat comes from. I abandoned CBC for years after that.

My business partner, Maggie Kerr-Southin, looooves CBC. On a car trip “up-Island” she convinced me to give it another try. “It’s got better. Really it has,” she told me. I found CBC on the radio and tuned in to someone playing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” on a teacup somewhere in the Maritimes.  I turned and gave Maggie a dead stare. “Oh, dear,” she said and pursed her lips.

But last year, something changed for me. As my mom was dying of cancer, I spent many hours on the road in my car, driving from the Tsawwassen ferry terminal to the ironically named town of Hope, often in the dark and the pouring rain. Listening to most music just made me cry so I turned to CBC. The voices were comforting as I drove through the winter rain to the hospice. I listened to Barbara Budd and Mary Lou Finlay. Their voices felt like the voices of friends, very smart friends.

I began to appreciate radio documentaries and how sound is so powerful to story — someone clearing their throat, rainfall, heels on the pavement, a barking dog, a breath. Depending on the time of day I would often tune into The Current with Anna Maria Tremonti (I can’t live without it now!), Quirks & Quarks with Bob McDonald and, well, almost everything. I hate to admit it, but I even listen at work. When some old guy is on the radio banging on a heritage fiddle I listen. “Ah, Canadian heritage,” I think to myself while secretly wondering what the hell is happening to me. I change the station for a while and check out Kings of Leon on The Zone just to prove it’s not an “age thing”.

At first, I would not admit I listened to CBC Radio. After all, I’d spent so many years dissing it. So I began to play a game. When all the CBC-lovers would gather to talk over the morning’s edition of The Current, I chimed in with my secret knowledge. “How did you know that?” they would ask. “Oh, I just heard it somewhere.” Finally, I confessed my new love. It was liberating.

I’m sure I make my friends gag when I now extol the virtues of CBC Radio One, but only one of them has said, “See, I told you so. You act like you discovered it!” And it’s true, I do act like CBC Radio is my discovery. In a way, it is.