Not all change is the same. Within the ever changing permanence of the natural world, winter kisses the spring that conceives the pregnant summer, which then delivers the fruit of an abundant fall – only to do it all over again. Native Americans have an eternal understanding of this principle and it is a large part of who they are. Perhaps that is why they consistently speak for the earth.
VOICE OF THE EARTH
We arrived at the Oceti Sakowin Camp near Cannon Ball, North Dakota on Saturday, Dec. 3, 2016, a part of the Veteran’s assemblage. Throughout the rest of the day and all of Sunday, the camp continued to swell from the steady stream of incoming traffic. On Sunday afternoon, during the culmination of a camp wide prayer circle, which took all day to organize, word came that the Army Corp of Engineers would not be granting the easement required for Dakota Access LLC to complete the pipeline. Historic is the only word to describe what had taken place. Never had so many tribal nations convened around a common cause. That was historic. So too were the number of social and economic conflicts that Standing Rock symbolizes across the globe. Other nations had finally begun to take notice, due largely to that resonance.
As the significance of the just announced decision began to sink in, I recalled the many discussions I’d had over environmental issues. One stood out. In that debate, I had just made the case for sustainability when my opponent flatly stated, “I don’t have any kids. When I’m dead, I don’t care what happens.” I was dumbfounded. What mistake of genetics could possibly account for such a sociopathic attitude? How could any member of a living community become so detached? If the earth had a voice, what would it say to this individual?
Then I realized just how articulate the earth can be. The voice of the earth whispers to us on the wind and commands our attention in the snap of a lightning bolt, and through its thunderous roar. The voice of the earth washes over us like summer rain and, with the sound of running water, shows us where to live. The voice of the earth beckons us with the clarion call of the Sandhill Crane, teaching our Spirits how to soar.
Among humans, indigenous people are most qualified to speak for the earth. Over the millennia, their lives have been unfailingly linked to the cycles and rhythms of nature. The Great Spirit that Native Americans revere is synonymous with nature. Meanwhile, modern cultures continue to challenge the natural order through technologies that frustrate the ecological balance and exact a harsh penalty in lost diversity.
The idea of a Great Spirit implies a continuum or gradation that ends with at least some Spirits who are less than great. What is this Spirit that belongs to some more than others and that seemed so lacking in my debate friend, mentioned earlier? We all have wants and needs. They make up a huge part of the bubble we call ourselves. But, for most of us, there is more. The part we care about, though it lies outside the bubble of our well-being; that must be Spirit.
In the quest to achieve something beyond our reach, such as a great pyramid, a great America, or even greater sustainability toward the future, there’s a need for great altruism. Spirit is the reserve for that altruism. As I stood in that sacred prayer circle, filled with hope for a distant future, I looked out over the Oceti Sakowin Camp, but all I could really see was Spirit.