Migration: Passing It Forward (Offering 13.3)
Art, hope, and what we leave in the hands of those who come after.
A mural in a building called Hope. A mountain lake and seven newts caught and released. Two endings that are really beginnings—both about what it means to carry something forward and let it go.
(If you’re new to Eclosion: An Artist’s Path to Power and Peace, start at the beginning. Or visit my Memoir Hub for a full table of contents with links.)
Nam’u qas
Even as the wilderness soothed and rooted me, it also prepared me for what came next. Carrying the clarity and connection I found in the wilderness, I stepped into a new form of integration—a collaborative mural project in Vancouver, Washington, led by Cowlitz tribal member and incredible artist Sarah Folden. The mural project took place in a new building that would house foster kids who were transitioning out of the foster care system, many with babies of their own. It was designed as a landing place—support built into the walls—for young people beginning to take flight. The building, called Nam’u qas, means Hope in the Cowlitz Salish language.
The smell of paint was strong as I reached up, pulling my paintbrush along the edge of the tree to create a crisp line, following Sarah’s design. At the far end of the hall, Sarah painted a magnificent bull elk—the sun rising between his massive antlers—with a youth artist. As they worked, Sarah passed on her knowledge, pointing out elements of the design that came from their shared Coast Salish culture.
As I watched this knowledge pass from hand to hand, I felt deeply humbled—honored to take part in this culturally significant work. In addition to myself, her crew consisted of three young Cowlitz artists and a young trans man, each of whom walked through life with wisdom and grace; each of whom had a story that both broke and expanded my heart. Sarah wanted to give these young artists their first opportunities in public art, and a chance to begin building their public art portfolios. We’d found each other through social media, meeting in person for the first time at Nam’u qas—paint cans between our feet, brushes in hand.
It was an ambitious project, including 16 murals on four floors, all designed by Sarah. Still, at four o’clock, Sarah told us all to call it a day. We sealed paint cans and washed brushes, readying the space for the next day. The well-being of her crew took precedence over productivity. I thought about the endless hours of work that my family modeled for me, and how this was so different. It spoke to a quieter way of doing things. It spoke of abundance.
Standing at the counter in the gorgeous house that Sarah rented for us to stay in, I flipped through a recipe book, consisting entirely of decadent things to put on toast. I listened as Sarah told one of the young artists some of the heartache that propelled her own journey to become an artist. Then watched him share back pieces of his own trauma. I was humbled to see how they lifted each other up, how I felt lifted in turn.
I turned 44 on the third day of the project. Sarah surprised me with a box of chocolates that morning and made the call to take off work early that day to celebrate—it was over 100 degrees outside, so we headed to the water. What a treat to submerge myself in a pristine mountain river on my birthday, surrounded by amazing humans, on what felt like an artist retreat. Pure bliss.
Passing of the Newts
I arrived home in time to draw Seren a giant chalk maze of a monarch resting on a flower for her birthday. As I sketched the pathways through the butterfly’s wings, I thought about the monarch’s generational migration: It takes multiple generations for monarchs to travel from Mexico, through the United States, to Canada, and back again. No single butterfly makes the entire journey—each one carries it forward, then passes it on.
The work we are doing to create a better world is the same—it’s more of a relay race than a marathon. Sarah passing on knowledge to youth artists with a paint brush. High school students choosing hope. Quasar and Cecily creating space for that discovery. Jen. Shon. Seren. All of us, carrying something forward. Healing little by little, helping each other along, and passing on knowledge so that the journey can continue.
When Seren awoke in the morning, she went straight to the window to see if there was a maze, squealed, and ran outside. She joyfully navigated the maze from the bottom of the stem, through wings, to the center—finally reaching her presents, she tore into them with delight.
We made her favorite, Chocolate Heart-beet Cake, and celebrated her with friends, including some we’d made during the mother child retreat. Seren led her friends on a bug scavenger hunt, then worked together to make a bug circus and insect hotel. In the late afternoon sun, Shon smashed a watermelon onto the trunk of a huge cedar tree in our front yard to peals of laughter. It exploded onto the fabric below and hands dove in, scooping up sweet chunks of watermelon, then licking sticky fingers clean.
August is our month—my birthday, Seren’s birth, and our anniversary all housed in the heat of summer. A few days after the party, Shon and I marked our eleventh wedding anniversary, eighteen years since our first date, with another adventure. Instead of a hard-core hike, the three of us did a very easeful backpacking trip, camping at our favorite secret lake in the mountains for five days of swimming, playing games, hiking, and eating delicious food.
I dove into the cool water of the lake, swimming downward after the wriggling tail of the newt. I gently scooped it in my hand and returned to the surface, gasping for air. I handed the newt to Seren, then dived again and again until I caught seven newts to celebrate Seren’s seventh birthday—a ritual we’d begun a couple of years prior. Seren played with the newts in a habitat she created. Then, she picked each one up like a living spell and released it back into the water. We watched as each newt swam from her fingers down into the depths until it disappeared.
After Seren was asleep, Shon and I watched the stars and reveled in the quiet, wrapped in each other’s arms.
When it was time to leave, we paused at the lake’s edge once more. I reached down, touched the water, and said thank you. As I walked up the trail to Shon, I paused and looked back. Seren still lingered at the lake’s edge, fingers trailing in the water. Her quiet voice sang out, “Thank you, Secret Lake. I’ll miss you. We’ll be back soon.”
What are you carrying that's meant to be passed on?