Growing up, I watched my family—uncles, cousins, and kin alike—transform right before my eyes into Coyote, senklip (pronounced SIN-kleep), during the summer when our community would engage in land-based storytelling. They would carefully tie coyote fur to their bodies, slip into their moccasins and buckskin outfits, and paint their faces. In an instant, they became the trickster, teacher, and protector of our syilx/Okanagan homelands.

(The colonial name used for my people is “Okanagan.” When settlers first met syilx peoples, they asked who they were. The response was “sukanaqin”—pronounced soo-ka-NAW-kayn, meaning long-distance runners who carried messages from valley bottoms to mountaintops. The settlers anglicized the name to “Okanagan,” a term that later came to describe our homelands and the syilx, which is pronounced something like SEE-ulh, where you pronounce the “h” sound after the “l”. A note on language protocol: Teachers of nsyilxcen—syilx language, pronounced en-SEE-ilh-chin—use lower case when writing our words, and I follow this practice. It reflects syilx egalitarian values, emphasizing that no one thing is more important than another.)

Coyote is a central and important being in our syilx ways. When I was a child, my family and community would gather to reenact senklip stories on our land, which still happens today through our storytellers. These plays opened our big, curious eyes to the wonderment that is Coyote. Our people, of all ages, would tell these stories on the very soil where they happened, soil that recognizes our footsteps and voices as sqilx’w (SKAY-ulh), meaning those torn from the land, of the land: Indigenous. 

This syilx understanding—that when we were gifted life here, we were torn from the land to become a creation of it—is what makes sqilx’w people an extension of the land. It enables sqilx’w peoples to care for the land through its processes and protocols. 

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Storytelling is a powerful tool. During these times of storytelling, we commune with the spirit, working with the unseen forces, which some may understand as inanimate energy. Embodiment practices play a large role in knowledge transfers between generations. We believe that by physically engaging their bodies and flooding their minds with story, we help our children internalize our teachings.

“To learn, we must do,” is something our young people are told in their formative years, to help them understand that there is no learning that can be done purely by listening, but must be experienced, repeatedly. This hands-on approach ensures that our teachings are not only learned intellectually but also experienced and felt. They then live deeply in our core memories and seep into our bones. We become one with them.

In syilx understandings, senklip represents our humanness and ego—the mind if it were detached from spirit and heart. We are taught that senklip is always around, in every room, always listening and waiting for direction. One of the first teachings we had came from our aunts, who would remind us, “Be careful what you say; your words are powerful, and senklip is always waiting to take your words as prayers.”

This mindfulness led to deeper teachings later in life about the power we hold as individuals. We learned that as human beings we are shapers of energy, and, since our voices emit energetic frequencies, we are constantly speaking things into existence.

 There is no learning that can be done purely by listening.

When you are born sqilx’w, it is believed you are torn from the land itself, with your DNA matching the DNA of the land that called you to be here. As such, we are responsible for caring for the land as we do our own skin, co-creating with its energy in ceremony to ensure the well-being of all life in our homelands, including visitors, by praying for healthy watersheds, snow, and all that sustains the people and the land.

By understanding and embracing this responsibility, we can better care for our world and each other, always mindful of the power of our words and actions.

To first share these teachings with children, we use senklip stories. In our stories, senklip is often pompous, selfish, jealous, prideful, funny, egotistical, but also caring. He gets things done in ways that might seem “unethical.” We love him, though. In all our stories, the other Animal People and Creation always showed him love. They might get annoyed and crack jokes about him, but they’d always say, “Oh, that’s just Coyote,” and then bring him back to life after he did something he knew he shouldn’t. He had endless lives in our stories.

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As a storyteller, I honour the protocols of our stories by creating new ones that help others understand the teachings of our land in the same way, but without exploiting our oral stories that should be passed on in a very specific way, following protocol. Please feel free to share this little senklip story I wrote for you all with your family. Stories are where we first learn the power of our words.  

Long ago, when there were only Animal People, senklip, Coyote, was doing what he did best: poking his nose where it didn’t belong. Perched on a ridge overlooking the valley, he had his ears perked, twitching like he was trying to pick up a radio signal.

The People below were loud that day, flinging their words around like stones in a river. senklip smirked. “Huh,” he muttered to himself, tail wagging mischievously. “They’re out here talking like words are just noise. Looks like it’s time for your favourite and most best-looking teacher to step in.”

Now, being the trickster, senklip wasn’t about to just hand out the lesson like a nice, neatly folded blanket. No, no, no. He had flair. He had style. He transformed himself into an Elder, complete with a wool coat and aviator sunglasses that made him look wiser than he actually was (not hard to pull off when you’ve been around as long as he had).

He strolled into the village, leaning on a walking stick he didn’t need but thought added to the vibe. The People, curious as ever, gathered around.

“Elder,” one of them said, bowing slightly. “What brings you here today?”

“Oh, just my feet,” senklip replied with a sly grin. “But while I’m here, let’s talk about your words. You’ve been throwing them around like rocks, but did you know they’re more like seeds? Some of them sprout flowers, some sprout thorns, and some…” He paused for dramatic effect. “Well, let’s just say they sprout trouble.”

The People exchanged nervous glances. Trouble? That didn’t sound great. “What do you mean, Elder?” a young girl asked.

senklip’s grin widened. “I mean, your words don’t just hang out here in the valley. They fly off into the Spirit World, into Creation, and, oh, you know, into my ears. I hear everything.” He twirled his stick for emphasis. “And let me tell you, I’ve been bored lately. So, what do you think I’m doing with all those careless words?”

The People blinked at him. One brave soul ventured, “Uh… what?”

“Oh, I’m taking them and turning them into lessons!” senklip’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “You know, a little chaos here, a little wisdom there. Keeps things interesting.”

Let’s talk about your words. You’ve been throwing them around like rocks, but did you know they’re more like seeds?

The People were starting to squirm now, which senklip revelled in. “But don’t worry,” he said with a wink. “I’m feeling generous today. Let’s do a little demonstration.”

He led them to a patch of soft dirt and handed them each a stick. “Go ahead, speak something into the earth.”

The People hesitated, then started murmuring. Words of kindness, anger, hope, doubt. The dirt began to shift and sprout. Flowers bloomed, thorny bushes clawed their way up, fruit trees emerged, and tangled vines spread everywhere, making a mess of the place.

The People gasped. “What does this mean?” one of them asked.

“It means,” senklip said, flicking his tail, “that your words have power. They don’t just sit there in nothingness—they grow into something. And trust me, I’ve seen some of you plant real doozies.” He wrinkled his nose for effect. “Like that time you called your neighbour down. That grew into a thorn bush so thick I’m still untangling it.”

“But Elder,” another said, “how do we know which words to use?”

“Oh, easy,” senklip replied with a shrug. “Be like Fly.”

“Fly?” The People looked at each other. “That buzzing little pest?”

“Yep, that’s the one,” senklip said, grinning. “You all know the story. Fly was small, sure, but when it mattered, he had the song that brought Brother Black Bear back to life. Proved that no voice is too small—although, personally, I like mine big and loud.” He howled for good measure, making a few of the kids giggle.

“Here’s the deal,” he said, leaning on his stick again. “Speak wisely. Speak kindly. And remember, I’m always listening. Don’t make me turn your careless words into a lesson you won’t forget.” He gave them a cheeky grin. “Or do. I could use the entertainment.”

With that, senklip strutted off, tail high in the air, leaving the People to ponder their words and the mischievous teacher who never really left them alone.

And somewhere, high on a hill, senklip sat back down, ears twitching, waiting for the next careless word to come his way. Because after all, a coyote’s work is never done.

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This story reminds us of the power our words hold. Just as your words plant seeds in the earth, so too does the land speak back to you. The land carries your words, your thoughts, your actions—it holds them in its roots, in its waters, in the wind that blows across the hilltops. Every word, every action, leaves an imprint, just as you leave footprints in the soil. Be mindful of what you leave behind, for the land, like the spirit world, will always remember. It nourishes what you sow, so use your words as carefully as you step upon the earth, for it too will grow what you plant.

Again as my Aunt would say, “Be careful what you say; your words are powerful, and senklip is always waiting to take your words as prayers.”