My name is Paper Birch

It was a Sunday morning in mid July. We had just missed the Upper Arrow Lake ferry and were on our way back to our campground at Blanket Creek when someone noticed a secret road. Feeling curious and a little adventurous we pulled off to see where it went. To our surprise it led to a logging site. I had never seen an active logging site before and since it was Sunday, there was no one around. We parked the car and slowly got out. As my young sons marveled at all the machines in front of us, I was struck by an unsettling silence that enveloped the clearing. In that moment, surveying the expanse of destruction, the true magnitude of what was lost pressed down on me. I wasn't separate from this destruction; I was intricately linked to it.

The aroma of sap and sawdust filled the air. The clearing resembled a warzone. Piles of fallen trees lined the road, ragged stumps poked up from the dry ground and strips of birch bark were scattered everywhere. There was something about the way the bark was just lying on the ground that filled me with sadness. Discarded because it had no value. The whole scene, hidden from the road by only a few rows of trees, felt uncomfortable. A feeling of shame bubbled up in me.

The sun was relentless and with each step the air became dustier. A mix of helplessness and responsibility surged within me. I couldn't change what had happened here, but I could honour the trees. I slowly started picking up pieces of birch bark, like torn pages from a book.  'What will you do with the bark, Mommy?' my youngest son asked. 'I'm not sure yet,' I admitted, 'maybe we can use it for art.'

As I gathered the bark, I whispered a prayer to the fallen trees:

skin of birch

at my feet

with loving hands

i bring you home

I first met Paper Birch at Camp Kanawana, a YMCA residential summer camp in the Laurentian Mountains. It was 1987, I was seven years old, and this was my first year at camp. This heavily forested area with innumerable lakes and rivers felt a million miles away from my life in Montreal. The fact that this was one of the oldest mountain ranges in the world, made up of Precambrian rocks that are over 540 million years old, was completely lost on me. I found it hard to be at camp that summer, to be away from my family. One of the few memories that I have from those weeks is meeting Paper Birch.

It was after dinner and our counsellor asked us to line up in a single file on the forest path. We put on blindfolds, grabbed hold of a rope and began our slow walk into the forest. I was dropped off at a tree and invited to get to know the tree using the rest of my senses. Blindfolded, my world narrowed to the textures beneath my fingertips. The tree was small, the bark was smooth, with gentle curls peeling away. After a short while I was picked up and reunited with the group. We took off our blindfolds and then ran to find our tree. I went up to several trees, paused, closed my eyes and touched them gently. It turned out to be Paper Birch. I can still see her standing with all the other trees. I loved that she was mostly white, different from all the others, and had bark that looked like sheets of paper. I felt happy in that moment, this new companion had relieved me of my loneliness.

The sight of the discarded birch bark at the logging site stirred something deep within me that day. A distant echo of innocence and wonder from a time when trees were friends, not resources.  As I left the clearing, arms full of birch bark, I carried a renewed sense of purpose. Paper Birch had provided me comfort as a child and had always held a special place in my heart. Now, I would ensure their voices were heard. I took the bark back to the campsite, washed it carefully and started painting pieces with watercolour, transforming the strips of discarded birch bark into art. This day marked the beginning of a new chapter in my life. Birch bark paintings became a gateway to using art as a medium for processing my emotions and fostering a deeper connection with myself and the land.