To my teacher

To the Woman Who First Put Cedar in My Hands

There is a story I must tell, because silence has sat beside me for too many years.

When I was nineteen, I met Holly Churchill.

She was the first to place cedar in my hands and teach me how to see it truly.

She showed me the red cedar. She showed me the yellow cedar. She taught me these were not simply materials, but living beings with purpose, deserving of respect, patience, and the right relationship.

I began going to her home to learn. I took classes at Totem Heritage Center here in Ketchikan, again and again finding my way back to Holly’s teachings, her techniques, her steady guidance.

Holly is my teacher.

Her knowledge, to me, is unmatched.

When I look at my baskets, I can see her.

I see her design influence. I see her techniques. I see the discipline of her hands living in mine.

And this is where I must speak honestly.

For many years, I stayed quiet.

I wove. I kept to myself. I lived inside my own thoughts.

Social anxiety froze parts of me that should have spoken, connected, and recognized more openly what had been given to me.

It is hard to explain what it is like to carry knowledge while not fully knowing how to carry yourself.

So I said little.

I kept weaving, never believing what I was doing was anything particularly special.

But lately, I have been studying Haida stories, Haida thought, and deeper ways of being.

And I have come to understand something difficult:

A person who has not yet found respect for themselves may struggle to fully honor the value of what has been entrusted to them.

Not because they do not care.

But because self-respect and recognition are tied together.

If you do not believe your own hands are worthy, you may carry teachings quietly, almost apologetically.

I think I have done this.

And in doing so, I failed to properly recognize what Holly gave me.

Not only knowledge.

Not only technique.

But possibility.

Because the truth is this:

Without Holly, this path may not have existed for me at all.

She held me up, with no questions.

She gave me a place to learn.

A place to keep returning.

A foundation I could stand on, even when I did not yet know how to stand fully in myself.

And now, as I study what it means to be Haida—not only in making, but in thinking, in relationship, in reciprocity—I understand that carrying teachings properly means naming those who lifted you.

Knowledge is not meant to sit silently.

It is meant to be carried with humility, gratitude, and right recognition.

Holly, you were my first true glimpse into what being Haida could feel like.

And now I understand that honoring my teacher also means honoring what she saw in me before I could see it myself.

The old teachings remind us that sometimes understanding comes after many winters.

This is mine.

Eliasica TimmermanTo the Woman Who First Put Cedar in My Hands

There is a story I must tell, because silence has sat beside me for too many years.

When I was nineteen, I met Holly Churchill.

She was the first to place cedar in my hands and teach me how to see it truly.

She showed me the red cedar. She showed me the yellow cedar. She taught me these were not simply materials, but living beings with purpose, deserving of respect, patience, and the right relationship.

I began going to her home to learn. I took classes at Totem Heritage Center here in Ketchikan, again and again finding my way back to Holly’s teachings, her techniques, her steady guidance.

Holly is my teacher.

Her knowledge, to me, is unmatched.

When I look at my baskets, I can see her.

I see her design influence. I see her techniques. I see the discipline of her hands living in mine.

And this is where I must speak honestly.

For many years, I stayed quiet.

I wove. I kept to myself. I lived inside my own thoughts.

Social anxiety froze parts of me that should have spoken, connected, and recognized more openly what had been given to me.

It is hard to explain what it is like to carry knowledge while not fully knowing how to carry yourself.

So I said little.

I kept weaving, never believing what I was doing was anything particularly special.

But lately, I have been studying Haida stories, Haida thought, and deeper ways of being.

And I have come to understand something difficult:

A person who has not yet found respect for themselves may struggle to fully honor the value of what has been entrusted to them.

Not because they do not care.

But because self-respect and recognition are tied together.

If you do not believe your own hands are worthy, you may carry teachings quietly, almost apologetically.

I think I have done this.

And in doing so, I failed to properly recognize what Holly gave me.

Not only knowledge.

Not only technique.

But possibility.

Because the truth is this:

Without Holly, this path may not have existed for me at all.

She held me up, with no questions.

She gave me a place to learn.

A place to keep returning.

A foundation I could stand on, even when I did not yet know how to stand fully in myself.

And now, as I study what it means to be Haida—not only in making, but in thinking, in relationship, in reciprocity—I understand that carrying teachings properly means naming those who lifted you.

Knowledge is not meant to sit silently.

It is meant to be carried with humility, gratitude, and right recognition.

Holly, you were my first true glimpse into what being Haida could feel like.

And now I understand that honoring my teacher also means honoring what she saw in me before I could see it myself.

The old teachings remind us that sometimes understanding comes after many winters.

This is mine.
Eliasica Timmerman

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