Standing in at Standing Rock

One of the difficulties of being at Standing Rock is maintaining balance when dealing with all the misinformation, misinterpretation and missteps encountered while making a place in that very organic, organized chaos of a community of prayer and resistance, natives and non-natives, ages, families, working groups. It was impossible for me personally to be unaffected by almost everything I saw and heard. This microcosm of our world and of the native/non-native intersection was a powerful reminder to me, as an anglo, of what we miss or lack in our culture of exclusivity, consumerism, limited vision and disconnection from Mother Earth. I again felt the pang of envy for the songs I heard from native women or men as they sang to their Mother. Where are our songs for the water, the air, for the next generations? I went to the river and made up my own.

Overview of Oceti Sakowin with police presence on the ridgetop.

I had the privilege of spending five days at the camp between November 21st and 26th , observing, volunteering, assisting my hostess with bringing over water and tending the fire. Time slows down at the camp. The day is measured by the rising sun and the call of the drums and voices to get up and join in the prayers. Then the daily chores of camping out, offering assistance where needed and doing a lot of walking...from campsite to water, from campsite to portapotty, to the kitchen for food, to meet up at the community center or to what is commonly called Facebook hill or media hill, where the press corps hang out and everyone who needs to connect with the outside world heads to post their emails or make phone calls. It's a lot of walking. But feet allow you to connect with the Earth and with the others at camp.
And my meetings with folks here were always surprising and enlightening. One way or another. Lots of young people here and I took advantage of sitting around Sacred Fire with some of them to hear their experiences. There are seven Sacred Fires tended constantly; anyone can add wood to the firepit and be warmed by its heat. I was warmed by conversations as well.
Everyone want to know: "What's it like at Standing Rock? Was it safe? What about the police?"
First, I didn't encounter any direct violence but I did observe the aftermath of traumatic stress with several people who were in the event on Sunday and that gave me pause. Second, as a woman, I felt more respected and safe at Standing Rock than I do in many places. Women are greatly respected among Plains people and the Lakota, Dakota, Nakota. It was very sweet to be addressed as "auntie" or "grandmother" and offered help from the youth. Meals are served in this order: women with children, other women, then elder men and youth.

My journey to North Dakota along the pipeline route  has come to a close. At least the driving part is done. Coming to terms both internally, politically, emotionally will not be easy. Leaving the camp and my companion/sistar/warrior woman, Dell Hambleton, on Saturday morning was very hard. I took time to stand by the Cannonball River, pour out the blessed water I brought from the Oconaluftee River within the Qualla Boundary, Eastern Band of the Cherokee Nation. My spiritual support sisters and I hiked to a point where we could collect the running water in September, add our prayers for peace and reconciliation and awakening that I carried with me across the country.

With the now empty bottle, I scooped up some of the Cannonball River and her energy and prayers to take back with me. But when I arrived, first at the Ft. Yates burial site and then at the monument to Sitting Bull down the road, I was called to take the water with me as I looked out over the Missouri River. I imagined how he himself had plied these rivers, drunk from its waters and gazed upon the flowing grasslands that once teamed with buffalo and elk. I knelt facing the River and poured the Cannonball River water into the soil around his monument. I want to believe his spirit enjoyed the drink. Then it was time to face south east and journey home. Here is a video from his great granddaughter. 

I can't explain Standing Rock to you in a few blog posts. I may never be able to completely explain it to myself. Perhaps the following essay can help.

I have more photos and reflections in preparation. This journey isn't over.  It has simply taken a rest. Please stay connected.

Updated: Day 6 now includes the link to the interview at KHOI. Worth a listen, not just for me but several other voices on the issues surrounding the DAPL.

Day 7: Finding a tipi in a haystack (of tipis)

I know that most of you have been waiting for this post over all the others but I hope you took the journey with me. While Standing Rock is most often the focus of the world's attention, we have to look at how we got to this point and how the people, the Lakota, are here not only as the guardians of the water but as a possible last line of defense against increasing corporate greed and the trampling of our basic civil rights. They are warriors not only for protection of our precious Earth but for the core values of a humane and civil society.

This was the point where I felt I had entered another world: the bridge over the wide WIDE Missouri after Mobridge, South Dakota, and entering the area of Lake Oahe. The sign is blurred, I apologize, I am driver, navigator, photographer and barista on this solo venture.

It's about 40 miles to Standing Rock and the landscape is quietly undulating grasslands. The music from "Dances With Wolves" kept playing in my head. Yep, I know, trite, but true.

Just across the river and a right turn is the very welcome sign "Entering Standing Rock Reservation." It was at that moment I felt a sigh of relief and a calm sense of safety. With all the stuff packed in my tiny car I wanted to stay away from any possibility of a ticket so I kept the Blue Viber at the exact speed for hundreds of miles. Now I could let her run a little.

Pass the Casino and up 1806 I called my friend Avram Friedman, of The Canary Coalition in western North Carolina, to review the directions for getting into camp. Avram was here last week with supplies, during very cold days. It was good to hear his voice. It reassured me that I would find a particular tipi when I got to camp and unload all the donations and gear at last.

WELL.....well....coming up the rise and down into camp beside the Cannonball River is a vast panorama of yurts, buildings, lean-to's for many purposes and....tipis. Lots of tipis. Well, duh! Like every other campsite was a tipi. Nomadics in Bend, Oregon, has donated many of their tipis to be used by the more permanent campers. Entering the main camp, Oceti Sakowin, I'm met by the folks directing traffic and the people at the guardhouse where I asked directions to the medical tent. It has a similar feeling to getting into the state fair only friendlier. There are people coming and going in cars and on foot with no discernible logic to an outsider. I maneuvered my car past roped off areas, squeezed beside a camper, and made my way to the medical yurts.

 It was heartening to see all the donations being sorted from clothes to building supplies to medical supplies. I found this everywhere in camp: donations are available for every purpose and if you need something and it's at the donation station, you are welcome to use it. My contact here, Dell Hambleton, had not picked up on my text messages so I was left with asking for help to find her. Not able to connect with Facebook I had to recreate her message from memory and all I remembered was it was very near the medical tent, it was the only tent with a green band at the top with a bear painted on it. I got out of my car and scanned the horizon of tipi poles jutting up above the sea of life and felt lost for the first time on this trip. There is no map at Standing Rock. 

Folks at the medical yurts did not know her. They were busy sorting large piles of donations. I turned to walk into the camp and after a few minutes gave up when I didn't notice any tipis with green bands. As I was walking back to my car, the look of frustration prompted one young man to call out "Hello Auntie, do you need something?" The term 'auntie' or 'grandmother' used here by the native people is a term of respect and it warmed me in this moment of frustration and self-doubt or more importantly the prospect of car camping in really cold temperatures among a car full of bags and boxes. I told him who I was looking for and then he asked the right question: "Which camp is she in?" Then I remembered: Rosebud. There are three camps here and knowing which one is important. The fellow smiled and said it's over the bridge.

 Following his directions out of this ordered chaos, I made my way into Rosebud, parked my car and stopped the first person I saw and asked if they knew the only person whose name I had carried with me. Sean not only knew her, had helped her re-set her tipi and took me directly to her tent. And my heart and spirits pitched up several octaves. I had found the tipi among hundreds. I now claimed the title of Mighty Tipi Hunter as well as Black Snake Tracker.

Dell has made a space not only in her tipi and her life and her heart for me, but in this camp, introducing me everywhere we go, explaining what is where and why (to the best of her ability.) Although she was here in August, things change quickly in these camps. We walked up to Sacred Stone Camp and she noticed what had changed in just a few months. Exciting changes, too. People come for awhile and leave. Teams come to build the yurts or more permanent structures like an indoor kitchen or the school building and cycle out. Medical personnel may fly in or drive in giving up their personnel days to help out. Folks give up large pieces of their lives 'back wherever' to create a sense of unity out of our diversity. What at first appeared as a collection of refugees from Burning Man (and I do believe there are some of those among us) are, for the most part, people awakened by this travesty and the conviction that this is OUR last great opportunity to unite and demand a world not built on draining every ounce of oil from our Earth and destroying our health in the process.

They watch from the hills our every activity.

My introduction to what is commonly called 'DAPL goons' or the local and other forms of "law enforcement" were the vehicles on the hill overlooking the camps and the planes and helicopters that fly over at will--watching us down here, taking pictures.

Close enough that I could wave and snap this pic.

There are infiltrators, I'm sure, because this is a welcoming camp. DAPL wants nothing more than to break the power of this resistance and using covert activities and bright construction lights and flying overhead to intimidate are the least acts of aggression. Even after the near deadly actions by the local law enforcement agency on Sunday night, and the permanent damage caused to one young woman by their violent and illegal actions, the resistance will continue. Some of us will go home and there will be five more to take our place.  People of all races and colors and nations will continue to be here. We have fire tenders now all around the world praying with us here as the Elders are asking. The sacred fires will not go out.

For more information on the events from Sunday night follow Democracy Now! or The Young Turks or as it comes available I will post from reputable news sources from the camp.You all have a lovely Wednesday. And no, I have not seen or heard about Jane Fonda being here tomorrow. More to come....