Making kamiik in Iqaluit
It helps to drink tea when you’re chewing seal skin for the soles.
I have been a rather intense knitter since about 2004, and an Anglican minister since 2015. As I’ve grown in my faith and ministry, my love for crafting of all kinds has grown as well. But when our family moved to Nunavut nine years ago I embarked on a new crafting journey that connected me to God and my neighbor in a way I had never experienced.
Every craft discipline connects me in a different way to an aspect of God’s character, in a way specific to my experience and practice of that craft. Knitting is a way of redeeming time: I take my knitting with me everywhere, and it empowers me to be patient in many waiting situations. Spinning yarn connects me to the true ex-nihilo nature of God’s creation of the universe: with the right materials and tools, and a range of skills, I can create literally any yarn on my spinning wheels. Quilting, with its focus on efficiency and planning, makes me feel powerful, and connects me to God’s big-picture perspective as he works all things together for good. Weaving, in its repetitive strokes on my rigid heddle loom, reminds me of God’s intimate knowledge of every strand of our existence. “Certainly you made my mind and heart; you wove me together in my mother’s womb” (Ps.139:13, NET).
Entrusted with knowledge
Nunavut is a place where crafts are deeply valued. Traditional Inuit skills are precious: when you go to a craft show, you can expect to see a variety of products of all kinds, and you can expect to pay prices that reflect the value of the maker’s time and skills. Many women sewists take time in the fall to make whatever winter clothing their family needs, using both traditional and contemporary materials.
When we moved to Iqaluit, I started attending the Arnait Iqajuqtiuqataujut – the Anglican Church Women’s group. These Inuit ladies, many of them monolingual elders, met every Monday night, about eight months out of the year. They read the Bible, prayed, worked on their own crafts, and coordinated fundraisers to support the work of the church. They welcomed me, despite my slowness in learning Inuktitut. As a minister’s wife and a priest myself, I was privileged with respect beyond what I deserved, and I was eager to honour that welcome by learning as much as I could. If possible, I wanted to learn to sew pualuuk (mittens) and, eventually, kamiik: boots made from seal and caribou skin.
Almost nothing I knew about sewing applied to this new craft. I had to learn how to sew with a thimble, and my new friends brought me several types until we found one my awkward fingers would accept. My needles were all wrong: they supplied me with the correct sizes and types. Even the way I inserted the needle into the fabric had to change: my instinct was to point the needle away from myself, to better see where I was placing it; my teachers told me to point the needle toward myself, for better ergonomics while pulling the thread through. In their words, it has to be pleasant, or you won’t do it!
As I learned these skills, I became aware of what a treasure it is to be entrusted with this knowledge. Some techniques, which are necessary and practical, cause the average qallunaq (southerner) to have a negative reaction.
There’s no better example than the most exciting and unique part of making kamiik: softening and attaching the sole. The material of choice is the skin of an ugjuk, bearded seal. This home-tanned skin is incredibly tough. Imagine the consistency of 2-mm thick solid plastic, like the side of a large Tupperware bin. Through a combination of chewing, rolling, smashing with a homemade tool, and careful treatments with oil and seawater, the skin is transformed into material pliable and soft enough that it can be sewn into delicate folds and molded to shape a human foot. When complete, the untreated hide returns to its original consistency, perfect as a long-lasting sole.
I remember chewing on my first pair of soles, armed with plenty of tea. I had just become pregnant with my first child, so morning sickness competed with the new sensations. But I had waited years at that point to try this skill, so I didn’t wait. With lots of help and support, I eventually made five pairs.
When I reflect on what God taught me about his character as I learned this new craft, I think about Jesus’ incarnation. Craig T. Owens describes Jesus as the only “200 percent person”: he’s both 100 percent God and 100 percent human. As a person crossing cultures, at best I can hope to be a 150 percent person – 75 percent my old culture, and 75 percent my new culture. And that’s optimistic, in my case! Sewing with skins required me to become like a child. And to continue, I have to be willing to stay like a child: I will never catch up to the language and skills of my Inuit peers. But if Jesus was willing to “empty himself, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men” (Phil. 2:7), surely I can humble myself for the privilege of learning these special skills.
My creator made us in his image create things in our turn. As we grow in our skills, we have to guard against the temptation to worship the work of our hands (Jer. 1:16). But if we are willing to slow down and learn, using our hands to make things can teach us about God and connect us with each other.
