Under the Cover with Jadyn Williams, author of The Land Speaks

I have always wanted to write a story that honoured my relationship with my identity, culture, and connections to my family. My grandfather passed away in 2019. As an intergenerational Residential School Survivor, I was not raised with a strong connection to my culture, but when I visited my grandfather, those were the moments where I felt closest to it. Even so, I was often reluctant or hesitant to fully embrace the opportunity to learn from my Mosôm in a culturally intentional way.

After his passing, I began a journey of reconnecting with my identity and culture—a journey I wish my grandfather could have witnessed. As a teacher, I have also recognized a need for resources that support educators in accessing and understanding land-based learning. This book became a way to imagine what my relationship with my Mosôm might have looked like if those opportunities for connection had been nurtured despite the impacts of colonialism, my own hesitation, and the barriers that existed.

This story is also a reflection of what I have learned by slowing down, observing the changing seasons, and recognizing how much the land can teach us about ourselves and our own lives. Throughout the book, I intentionally incorporated animals, settings, and symbols that hold personal meaning for my family and are rooted in memories of my grandfather.

The magpie has a continuous presence throughout the story. It is a bird that many people have learned to dislike, including my grandpa. After his passing, however, my family and I began noticing magpies more frequently. They seemed to visit us often, sometimes leaving behind feathers or appearing when they needed a little assistance. With a touch of humour to help us navigate our grief, we began to wonder if these magpies might be my grandfather’s spirit, gently reminding us that he is still with us. Throughout the book, the magpie appears quietly in scenes when my grandfather is present and becomes more prominent after his passing, symbolizing the enduring connection my family continues to share with him and our black-billed counterparts.

Another deeply personal element of the story is its setting. My Mosôm’s house is recreated as closely as possible, including the fireplace where we spent countless summer evenings during our visits to the George Gordon First Nation powwow. One spread is dedicated entirely to his impressive garden, which he cared for every summer well into his later years. Some of my favourite memories are of picking raspberries and digging up potatoes alongside him, and I wanted those moments to live on within these pages. At the back of the book, I included photographs of the real places that inspired the illustrations. They serve as both a glimpse into the landscape behind the story and a time capsule preserving my family’s memories and my grandpa’s legacy.

Ultimately, I wanted to honour the journey of grief I have experienced since my grandfather’s passing and the ways I continue to feel, see, and connect with him through the animals, stories, and teachings of the land. My hope is that this story encourages readers to slow down, listen closely, and discover the relationships that are possible when we learn from the land and from those who came before us. It is through these relationships that we can continue to feel connected, supported, and guided by those who are no longer physically with us.