Tag: writing

A Powerful Founders Day in Metlakatla, Alaska

“The Power, Pride, and Healing of Founders Day”

There are days that simply pass by, and then there are days that etch themselves into your soul. Yesterday was one of those days here in Metlakatla, Alaska—a celebration of our roots, our people, and the heartbeat of our culture. Founders Day wasn’t just an event; it was a living reminder of where we come from, and a powerful glimpse of who we are.

Yesterday was Founders Day here in my hometown of Metlakatla, Alaska, and the history behind it all is truly amazing. This annual celebration honors our beginnings, and yesterday’s events were nothing short of honorable, heartfelt, and unforgettable.

Last evening, the Git Leeksa AKS – People of the Rising Tide – hosted an event at the Town Hall, where the 4th Generation Dancers also performed. The songs sung and the dances shared carried a weight of tradition and pride that could be felt deep in the soul.

When the People of the Rising Tide began their final series of songs, the drumbeats and voices shook the very walls of the building—and they shook me just as deeply. I could do nothing but smile, even as tears streamed down my face. The power of that moment, the connection to culture and history, was overwhelming in the best way.

Mr. David Boxley spoke from his heart, delivering words filled with wisdom, truth, and healing. It was all good medicine—something our spirits needed.

Last night was the perfect ending to August 7th, a day of remembrance, celebration, and community in this incredible place I am proud to call home: Metlakatla, Alaska.

As the last drumbeats faded into the night, I walked away carrying more than just memories—I carried a renewed sense of pride, connection, and gratitude for this place and its people. Founders Day is not only about honoring the past; it’s about keeping our culture alive in the present and passing its heartbeat on to the future. In Metlakatla, that heartbeat is strong, and last night, it was felt by every soul in the room.

0

🕰️ The Time to Journal Is Now: Begin to Document Your Life

Preserving the Past, Embracing the Future—One Journal Entry at a Time

There’s a quiet power in putting pen to paper—or fingertips to keys—and capturing the moments that shape us. Not just the milestones, but the in-betweens: the early morning thoughts, the fleeting emotions, the conversations that linger. These are the threads of our lives, and journaling is how we weave them into something lasting.

✍️ Why Now?

We live in a world that moves fast. Days blur into weeks, and before we know it, seasons have passed. But your story deserves more than a passing glance. It deserves to be remembered, reflected on, and shared. Whether you’re navigating a career shift, rediscovering your roots, or simply trying to make sense of the day-to-day—now is the time to start documenting.

Journaling isn’t just for writers. It’s for thinkers, dreamers, doers. It’s for anyone who wants to live with intention and remember the journey.

📚 What You Capture Matters

  • Your thoughts: Raw, unfiltered, and honest. They’re the blueprint of your inner world.
  • Your experiences: From the mundane to the extraordinary, they shape your perspective.
  • Your growth: Journals become a mirror, showing you how far you’ve come.
  • Your legacy: One day, these pages may speak for you—telling your story to those who come after.

🌿 A Personal Note

As someone who’s spent years in the skies and now finds grounding in storytelling, I’ve come to see journaling as a form of flight. It lifts the weight of unspoken thoughts and gives them space to breathe. It’s a way to honor the past, make sense of the present, and shape the future.

Lately, I’ve been researching the Tsimshian Nation and learning the stories carried along the Skeena River. The history is beautiful—layered with meaning, resilience, and spirit. Listening to video recordings of these stories being told in our language is deeply inspiring. It reminds me that journaling isn’t just personal—it’s cultural. It’s a way to preserve voices, honor ancestors, and keep traditions alive.

And speaking of new chapters—I’m about to begin a new role in aviation, and I’m truly grateful for the opportunity. The onboarding process is underway, and I’m looking forward to the adventure ahead. It’s a fresh horizon, filled with possibility and purpose. A chance to grow, connect, and continue writing my story with intention.

So if you’ve been waiting for the right moment to start—this is it. The time to journal is now. Begin to document your life, one word at a time.

Your story matters. Let it unfold.

— Alex

0

“Finding Light in the Dark Night”

Notes by Alex – By Alexander Atkinson

Through the Dark Night of the Soul

Today, I found myself slowing down—taking a real, honest look inward. It’s been a season of self-evaluation, reflection, and growth. But let me tell you, growth isn’t always beautiful. Sometimes, it feels like a storm, like wandering through a tunnel with no light in sight. I’ve come to call that time in my life “the dark night of the soul.”

It was rough—probably one of the hardest things I’ve walked through. But the biggest takeaway I have from it is this: YOU CAN GET THROUGH IT.

When you’re in the thick of mental and emotional struggle, it’s easy to believe it will last forever. But growth often begins in the moments when we choose to take one small step forward, even when it’s hard. For me, that has meant actively working on my mental well-being, choosing not to sit in the darkness but to walk toward the light.

Growing through mental health isn’t just about surviving—it’s about actively nurturing ourselves, seeking connection, and using the resources available to us. Here’s what I’ve been learning:

1. Self-Care and Well-being

  • Mindfulness and Meditation:
    Even a few minutes a day of slowing down and just being present can make a difference. Mindfulness has helped me quiet the chaos inside and tune in to what’s real and true.
  • Physical Activity:
    A simple walk, moving my body, getting outside—it’s surprising how much it shifts my perspective and mood.
  • Sleep Hygiene:
    I’ve learned to value rest. Without it, the mind struggles to heal and reset.
  • Healthy Diet:
    Eating well isn’t just for the body—it impacts the mind. Balanced meals, less processed junk, and being intentional with what I put into my body have helped me feel more stable and energized.
  • Limit Substance Use:
    Letting go of things that numb me has allowed me to feel again—and feeling, though hard at times, is part of true healing.
  • Practice Gratitude:
    Gratitude has been my anchor. Some days it’s as simple as saying, “I’m thankful I woke up today,” and other days it’s a long list of blessings.

2. Building Connections and Support

  • Social Connections:
    We are not meant to walk this life alone. Spending time with friends, family, or just being around people who bring light helps chip away at the loneliness.
  • Support Groups:
    Finding people who understand—who get the struggle—has been powerful. There’s strength in knowing you’re not the only one fighting this battle.
  • Volunteering:
    Helping others, even in small ways, shifts my focus outward. It gives me purpose, and purpose is a powerful antidote to darkness.

The truth is, mental health isn’t just something we “fix” once. It’s something we cultivate—through small, daily practices, through seeking help when we need it, and through being gentle with ourselves in the process.

If you’re in that dark night of the soul, I want you to know that you are not alone. The road through it may not be easy, but there is a way through. And on the other side? Growth, resilience, and a deeper understanding of who you are.

“Even the darkest night will end, and the sun will rise. Healing begins the moment you believe you are worth the light.”

0

A Moment to Freewrite: The Beat of Our Culture

“Our stories were never lost—just waiting to be revived. Last night, the drumbeat echoed through the Longhouse, and with it, the spirit of our people.”
— Notes by Alex

Last night, I was moved in a way that’s hard to put into words—but I’ll try.

I’m just taking a moment to freewrite, letting my thoughts flow and my fingers type as they wish. Sometimes, we need that—a space to just be and create without boundaries. Last evening, we gathered at the Longhouse as two of our local dance groups performed: People of the Rising Tide and the 4th Generation Dancers. They danced and sang for a group visiting our community, and what they shared was nothing short of beautiful.

There’s something powerful—unshakably powerful—about watching young people commit so fully to something so meaningful. You can see the dedication in their movements, feel the conviction in their voices. And then there’s the drumbeat—steady, sacred, and alive. It resonates deep in your chest, almost like your heartbeat syncing with something ancient.

Some songs bring tears to my eyes. They’re sung in our Native language—words that carry more than just meaning. They carry memory, identity, history. They carry us.

The storytelling through song and dance is incredible. And what strikes me the most is that when I was growing up here, much of this wasn’t around. These traditions had been set aside… not lost, not forgotten—but buried beneath years of silence. Now, a new generation is unearthing them. Reviving them. Living them. It’s beautiful.

It gives me hope. It gives me pride.

My prayer is that this revival continues, that the stories keep being told, that the songs keep being sung, and that our dances keep shaking the ground beneath our feet. So that generation after generation can share in this sacred gift.

Let the drums echo. Let the stories live on.

— Alex

0

Thank You, Grandpa Harold

by Alexander Atkinson Jr.
Notes by Alex

Harold C. Hudson — my grandfather, my mom’s dad — was an amazing man.

He had that kind of quiet strength you never forget. A soul anchored in purpose. A presence that made an impression.

He loved to fish. It wasn’t just a hobby — it was who he was. A commercial fisherman, he spent much of his life on the water. But his talents didn’t stop there. Grandpa was also a gifted carver. He made some of the best cedar wooden spoons you’d ever see — all smoothed by hand, each with his unique touch. He’d carve deer calls, too. Many of those spoons and calls were given away to family — shared with love, with no fanfare. That’s just the kind of man he was.

He also loved sports. Never missed a basketball game. Baseball on TV? That was his rhythm during the season.

But if you really wanted to see Grandpa light up, let him sing.

One of his favorite hymns was:
“I Walked Today Where Jesus Walked.”

That song came to life in a very real way when Grandpa was in his 80s. He joined a group from our hometown of Metlakatla on a trip to Israel — a journey that deeply touched his heart.

I remember how proudly and joyfully he’d say:

“Yes, I walked where Jesus walked.”

He’d show us the Polaroid photos he took — Jerusalem, Jacob’s Well, the Garden of Gethsemane. That trip meant the world to him. You could see it in his eyes when he talked about it. You could hear it in his voice.

One time, while I was home from college, I was playing the guitar in the living room. Grandpa came out and sat with me. He began to sing. That moment — singing with Grandpa Harold, who was in his 90s — is one I’ll never forget. It was simple, but it was sacred.

He left a mark on my life.
I remember him reading the Bible.
I remember hearing him pray from his room.
I miss that so much.

Looking back, I realize just how much of a foundation he helped lay for my own faith — my own walk with the Creator.

So today, I simply want to say:

Thank you, Grandpa.

Your faith lives on in me.

0

Ride Now, Ride Now: The Call to Courage


When darkness gathers, it’s not the time to retreat—it’s the time to rise.

“Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden!
Fell deeds awake, fire and slaughter!
Spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered,
A sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!
Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!”
— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

There’s something in the human spirit that stirs when we hear a battle cry—not one born of violence, but of resolve. Tolkien’s words don’t just belong in the realm of fantasy. They live in us. They echo in our quiet moments of doubt, in the face of rising storms, in the still morning when the world hasn’t yet caught fire—but you know it’s coming.

We all face our own “sword-days.”
Moments where everything is on the line.
Where darkness tries to crowd in.
Where you feel the pull to sit it out, to stay hidden, to let someone else ride.

But we weren’t made for retreat.

We were made to rise.

Like the Riders of Rohan, sometimes we are called to charge—not because the odds are good, but because the cause is just. Not because it’s safe, but because someone must stand. Because honor, truth, and courage still matter. Because deep in our souls, there’s a warrior cry waiting to be released.

And here’s the thing: it’s not about war. It’s about courage.
It’s about how you face your battles—your setbacks, your disappointments, your losses, your doubts.

Maybe today your battlefield is a broken dream.
Maybe it’s a silent struggle no one else sees.
Maybe it’s leadership under pressure, or being a light in a weary family, a divided community, or a hurting world.

But no matter the shape of your battle, the call is the same: Arise.

Arise with love.
Arise with faith.
Arise with vision.
Arise not because you’re fearless, but because you’ve chosen to move forward anyway.

We may not ride horses to Gondor.
But we do ride into each new day—often with splintered shields and trembling hands.
And still we ride.

Because someone’s waiting on the other side of your courage.
Because your rising may awaken another.
Because light is stronger than darkness—and it travels fastest through the willing.

So whatever today holds, ride boldly into it.

Ride now. Ride now.

– Notes by Alex
A place for reflections, reminders, and the quiet roar of courage.

0

Unity in the Village: Why Love Still Matters in Small Town Life

“Choosing Unity Over Division in the Place We All Call Home”
By Alex Atkinson Jr.

I’ve lived in a small town most of my life. Metlakatla, Alaska, is home—and like many small towns across the country, we carry both the beauty and the burden of close-knit living. We know one another. We share history, hardship, and hope. But like any community, we also face our fair share of challenges.

Not all small towns are the same, of course—but many of us experience familiar themes. Tensions rise, misunderstandings brew, and sometimes, unfortunately, divisions set in. And to be honest, that’s the part of small-town life I find hardest to watch.

“We don’t have to believe the same to love the same.”

Division can come from anywhere—a disagreement, a difference in how we do things, or a clash of beliefs. Maybe we see the world through different lenses. Maybe our upbringings or faith journeys aren’t identical. But in the end, none of that should keep us from being united.

I’m not here to say we all have to agree on everything. That’s not unity—that’s uniformity. What I long to see is something deeper: honor and respect. Even when we do things differently. Even when we believe differently. A place where you can be you, and I can be me—and we still choose to love each other anyway.

No jealousy. No hidden agendas. Just a genuine attitude of care and kinship.

That’s what family is. That’s what community should be. Not perfect. Not always peaceful. But deeply rooted in love—the kind that ties us together in the storms, not just the celebrations.

In a time when the world feels more divided than ever, maybe our little town can stand out—not for how we argue, but for how we stay connected through it all. Love still matters here. And maybe if we choose it, again and again, we’ll help write a better story for the next generation watching us.

0

“The Blanket, The Dream, and the Song”

By Alex Atkinson Jr.

There are moments in life that are too exact, too timely, too profound to be coincidence. I want to share one of those moments with you—an experience that has stayed with me for years and still stirs something deep in my spirit.

I was living in California at the time. One night, before our regular home group meeting, I had a vivid dream—so vivid it woke me up and lingered in my thoughts the next morning. In the dream, a man stood before our group, speaking. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but I saw him clearly. He called me forward and “protocoled” me—something I wasn’t raised with or fully understood at the time. In the dream, he draped a large wool blanket over my shoulders, one with Native designs, vibrant and heavy with meaning. As he placed it on me, he spoke of how the Creator had called me to lead our people. Then, just like that, the dream faded.

I woke up thinking, What was that?

The next morning, I arrived at the house for our meeting. People were getting the coffee and donuts ready—everything smelled like breakfast and fellowship. As I walked in, I noticed a man behind the counter. I’d never met him before. But when our eyes met, we both froze for a second.

“I know you,” he said.

“I know you too,” I replied. “You were in my dream last night.”

We both laughed, a little startled, a little amazed. His name was Reesey. We sat down, and he began sharing about his journey—how he had been learning about Native American culture, about honor, land, music, and story. And just like in my dream, he stood up, spoke to the group, called me forward, and protocoled me. He reached into his bag, pulled out a Native American wool blanket, and draped it over my shoulders.

He spoke about the calling our Creator had placed on my life, calling forth things that had been buried, dormant—things that were waiting to awaken.

I was wrecked. In the best way. It was one of those moments you don’t forget, that marks you for life.

Then Reesey shared another story—one that shook me even more.

He told us about a group of First Nations people from the Pacific Northwest who had traveled with a woman named Linda Prince to British Columbia, and then all the way to Jerusalem. They sought permission to sing and honor the land and its leaders at the Western Wall. With permission granted, they approached the wall in full regalia, singing the songs of our people—the drum echoing through the holy site.

As they sang, the rabbis came out, visibly moved.

“Why are you singing the songs of our people?” they asked.

“These are the songs of our people,” the leaders replied. “Songs buried for generations. We believe now is the time to bring them back.”

The rabbis, stunned, responded, “You don’t understand. You’re singing in ancient high Hebrew. These are songs of worship given by the Creator.”

Let that sink in.

The rabbis told them: You might be the lost tribe of Israel.

How do you explain that?

You don’t. Not with logic, anyway. Only the Creator could orchestrate something so layered, mysterious, and beautiful.

That story has stayed with me just as much as my dream about Reesey. It awakened something in me—something ancestral, something holy, something deeply tied to identity, purpose, and land.

I believe these songs, these stories, these blankets of calling are rising again. And I believe our Creator is on the move.

“The songs of our people are being awakened again.”
—Alex Atkinson Jr.

0

From the Docks to the Sky: How I Became a Seaplane Pilot from a Tiny Native Village in Alaska

Notes from Alex
By Alex Atkinson Jr.

I grew up in a small Native American village tucked away in the breathtaking wilderness of Southeast Alaska. Metlakatla—our only Native American reserve in the state—is a close-knit fishing and lumber town on Annette Island. That’s home.

In Metlakatla, the rhythm of life follows the tides. Fishing isn’t just a job—it’s a legacy. Many of my family members made their living on the water, and when the lumber mill was running full steam, others worked there too. As for me, I spent time working with my parents and family at the fish processing plant—Annette Island Packing Co. That was my world growing up. The salt air, the sound of boats returning from the sea, the bustle of the dock—that was normal.

But even then, something in me stirred for something… different. Bigger. Higher.

You see, in our village, there were only two ways to leave: by boat or by seaplane. And those seaplanes—they captured my imagination from a young age. Every time I saw one skim across the water and lift into the air, my heart lifted with it. Fishing might have been in my blood, but my mind? It was always in the clouds.

When I got to high school and we took the SATs, I struggled. Sitting in a classroom, grinding through test prep—that just wasn’t me. The advice I got wasn’t surprising: “Stick with what you know. Maybe go into fishing or lumber.” That’s what people expected. Based on my test scores, they said becoming a pilot might not be in the cards for me.

But you know what? I didn’t care.

I knew what I wanted.

I was going to become a pilot. A seaplane pilot.

So after high school, I took a year to regroup, then enrolled in flight school. Seven months later, I had earned my Private Pilot Certificate, my Commercial Pilot License, my Instrument Rating, and my Seaplane Rating. I didn’t stop. A little over a year after that, I was flying online—earning a paycheck—as a commercial seaplane pilot.

And you know what? I did it. No matter what anyone else said, I made it.

I’ve now spent the majority of my career in aviation, and I wouldn’t change it for anything. Aviation gave me a life that started in a small Native village and took me to the skies above the Tongass National Forest, the Inside Passage, and beyond.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:

Don’t let someone else’s opinion of your potential define your path.

I’m living proof that ambition and persistence can overcome low test scores, limited opportunity, and even small-town expectations.

Aviation isn’t just my career—it’s my life. And it all started in a little fishing village called Metlakatla.

0

“Fading Light, Rising Words: How the Wilderness Inspires the Page”

“How the Evening Wilderness Awakens the Writer Within”

It’s late evening now. The kind of late that’s still not quite dark, not in Southeast Alaska. The light recedes slowly here, like a shy guest at the end of a long gathering, lingering near the doorway before slipping out unnoticed. Above the forested slopes and jagged ridgelines of the Prince of Wales-Hyder region, the sky burns with soft fire—rose golds and dusky lavenders blending into a cobalt sea overhead. The sun has dipped, but its memory lingers, casting long blue shadows across the spruce trees, across the tidepools, across me.

This is the hour that often sparks something in me—the quiet ignition of an idea, a phrase, a scene I didn’t know was waiting. It’s as if the land itself is whispering: Are you ready to write now?

And it begins with sound. The world hushes in the absence of engines and voices. A raven croaks from somewhere unseen, its echo bouncing off the cliffs like an old drum. The breeze carries the faintest tremble of the ocean—distant, steady, like breath. And then there’s the intimate rustling of leaves, the kind that almost sounds like a conversation between the trees. The wind moves through alder and cedar, stirring branches like fingers running over old piano keys. Nature, at this hour, becomes composer and orchestra both.

The air—what a strange, wonderful thing it is. Sometimes in July, it holds a ghost of warmth, especially inland. But more often, as night sets in, it breathes cool across your skin, reminding you that summer here is always borrowed time. It smells like salt and sap and earth—like wet moss, like a tide gone out, like rain that hasn’t fallen yet. I close my eyes, and it feels like a sigh against my face, a promise of another morning just beyond the trees.

My boots press into a forest trail damp with dew, the ground soft but solid beneath me. I run a hand across the rough, flaking bark of a cedar tree—the kind of tree that has seen more sunsets than I’ve seen seasons. The moss at its base is thick and bright, spongy like it was made to remember the shape of your step. Stones along the trail are slick and smooth, worn down from years of storms and glacier-fed runoff. Everything out here holds history, even if it doesn’t tell it outright.

And then, there’s this one small thing.

A single wildflower—monkshood, I think—growing from the edge of a rock. Its hooded purple bloom glows like a secret in the fading light. Most would walk by without noticing. But something about it stops me. The way it leans just slightly toward the west, catching the last amber sliver of sunlight. The way it holds its space—fragile, maybe, but not weak. That’s a story, I think. Not the flower itself, maybe. But the way it stands alone, defiant and delicate, in the dying light. The way it refuses to be swallowed by shadow.

This is how inspiration works for me. It starts outside. It starts with watching and waiting and listening. It starts in the fading light.

What about you?

What places stir your thoughts into motion? What time of day helps you find your voice? Do you wait for silence, or do you write amid the noise of life?

Here in Southeast Alaska, in the stillness between the tides, I find mine.

And if you’re ever searching for yours, maybe come stand in the hush of this wilderness. The story might already be waiting for you.

0

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑