On Octo­ber 14, 2006, the stars lined up just right (in the align­ment of bad ocean con­di­tions) that we were tied to the dock on the day of a totem rais­ing. The news­pa­per explained this “Well­bri­ety” totem pole, going up at the South­East Alas­ka Region­al Health Consortium’s Mt. Edge­cumbe cam­pus, was hon­or­ing a process to heal the total per­son – phys­i­cal, men­tal, spir­i­tu­al and emo­tion­al well-being.

Just one year removed from tend­ing to Seattle’s home­less youth, I was still see­ing “my kids” night­ly in my dreams. The con­cept of Well­bri­ety deeply res­onat­ed. Before I could over-think it, I’d hopped off the boat and start­ed the 3 mile walk from the har­bor to the clin­ic. Anx­ious excite­ment curled in my bel­ly, I was almost run­ning by the end.

More than 300 peo­ple had turned out for the event. A steady driz­zle of Sit­ka sun­shine fell on chil­dren, elders, fam­i­lies. We stood in respect­ful qui­et – not silence, not with all those kids run­ning around – as the cer­e­mo­ny began. Tlin­git elders from the Raven and Eagle clans named the pole: Yei eek kwa neix. You are going to get well. 

Pho­to Cour­tesy of South­east Alas­ka Region­al Health Con­sor­tium (SEARHC)

Thick rope guide­lines stretched out from the 4000-pound pole. When we took our places, it was clear that the left guide­line had many young men, while the one on the right large­ly con­sist­ed of women. An old­er woman in front of me called, “Can we get some more guys over here?”

I heard a lit­tle girl’s voice pipe up from some­where unseen: “Girls can be strong, too!”  Someone’s rais­ing that kid right, I thought.

Our hands clenched, as if braced for a tug-of-war. But totem poles are sto­ries and sto­ries must be han­dled with rev­er­ence, not the teeth-grit­ted strain of com­pe­ti­tion.  In uni­son, under mas­ter carv­er Wayne Price’s instruc­tion, we began a slow march back.

Mas­ter carv­er Wayne Price. Pho­to Cour­tesy of SEARHC

Watch­ing intent­ly, an eagle perched on a near­by tele­phone pole, and a raven on the clin­ic roof.  As the pole ascend­ed, the out­stretched wings of Raven, carved at the top, caught air for their first time. The eagle began keen­ing, wel­com­ing Raven to the sky.

See­ing Yei eek kwa neix in its entire­ty, I saw all of my kids’ strug­gles and my hopes for them. A med­i­cine woman stood at the base, a bas­ket of heal­ing herbs in her hands. Above, a shaman and wolf spir­it helper pre­pared to plunge into the dark­ness, retriev­ing those lost in addic­tion, tor­ment and grief. Then, in a sprawl­ing run free of design, the free­dom to reflect and heal in the jour­ney from dark­ness to light. And there at the top hov­ered Raven, a gleam­ing brass disc of the sun held in his beak, guid­ing us to anoth­er way.

You are going to get well.

With the pole solid­ly in place, peo­ple broke apart into cel­e­bra­to­ry groups. I began a slow walk back to the har­bor, foot­steps heavy with reflec­tion. I thought about the grat­i­tude and hon­or I felt to par­tic­i­pate in a cul­tur­al lega­cy not my own, the pride of shar­ing a com­mu­ni­ty where Native cul­ture is not held hostage in a muse­um, a dusty-shelved shrine to the past, but is a liv­ing, breath­ing, singing, danc­ing present and future.

I’ve some­times felt that “South­east­ern Alaskan” is its own cul­tur­al iden­ti­ty. An evo­lu­tion of shared con­nec­tiv­i­ty that cross­es racial and eth­nic lines, forges bonds built of skunk cab­bage springs and crowd­ed cruise ship sum­mers, autumns where sea­son­al folk sweep out as win­ter winds whoosh in.  And I’ve sec­ond-guessed that pre­sump­tion, scoff­ing that it’s all too easy for some­one of dom­i­nant cul­ture to imag­ine con­nec­tion when we don’t car­ry the ances­tral scars.

A new friend has gen­tly cor­rect­ed me. “Your cul­ture includes the Tlin­git because you are a South­east­ern Alaskan. It includes liv­ing among an indige­nous peo­ples, inter­act­ing every day. There is val­ue in that.”

I think now about the grace in her state­ment, and recall the ini­tial expla­na­tion of the pole. Rober­ta Kit­ka, Chair­woman of the spon­sor­ing Kooteeyaa Project, said, “Well­bri­ety Kooteeyaa means heal­ing, hope, uni­ty and for­give­ness for Tlin­git peo­ple and any­one who is work­ing on the heal­ing of mind, body and spirit.”

We are going to get well. 

Does this ring true for you, sweet read­er? Are there places in your life where you’ve ques­tioned your role, won­dered if your pres­ence was ben­e­fi­cial or bag­gage? What does well­ness mean for you in your own life, and how do you cre­ate it?

Me, I think I’ll keep ask­ing ques­tions, and look to ravens for guidance.

Pho­to by Joel Brady-Power

[As with all totems, the Well­bri­ety pole is far more com­plex than a blog post could ever do jus­tice to, par­tic­u­lar­ly when writ­ten by some­one engaged in such a brief sliv­er of the jour­ney. A detailed descrip­tion of the project, pole, and carv­er is here. You can also read a pow­er­ful essay about this day in Heather Lende’s book, “Take Good Care of the Gar­den and the Dogs: Fam­i­ly, Friend­ships and Faith in Small-Town Alas­ka.”  My grat­i­tude to Michael Jenk­ins of SEARHC for grant­i­ng per­mis­sion for pho­to usage.]