Have you ever been in the middle of something and realized that it was exactly where you wanted to be? It could be anything - the middle of watching a sunset; the last mile of a good run; cooking a great meal; watching your bizarre family argue and make fun of each other - anything. It doesn't matter what it is that you're doing, and in all honesty, it isn't really that important. It's the realization, probably on a subconscious level, that you are exactly where you are, in that specific moment, and that is the exactly the place you need to be. It has less to do with what's going on around you, or even what you're doing, and more with the awareness flooding in that says, "yeah, this is me, this where I am, this is right."
I have had this feeling a few times since my arrival in South Dakota. One I described in a recent post. The other two are described below:
1) There is something truly magical about attending a powwow. I sat in the bleachers surrounding the powwow grounds, belly full on a chili-dog and some popcorn, fresh from an afternoon of feeding hungry fair-goers, meeting tons of new and interesting people, talking spirituality with a cool guy I had met the day before. I settled in to my set, and simultaneously, settled in to myself. I started to pay attention to what was going on around me. I looked out and watched the dancers - colors whirling everywhere, bells jingling, feathers shaking. Faces, fierce as if they were still performing battle dances, totally absorbed in the dance, in each step, each movement. Bodies completely in tune to the beat of the drums. They dance as if the world depended on it - like if they stopped, the world would stope turning, the universe stop functioning, and looking at them, I just might believe it.
The drums. Pounding. Getting deep into my soul and reminding me where I came from so long ago. The heartbeat of the universe, replicated here by mere mortals. It's a heartbeat we all share and live in tune with - one to which we all dance our cosmic dance, playing our part and making it beautiful. The singing is more like screaming - primal and raw, like it was trying to speak the very language of the world, of the sun and stars, the fire and wind. "We come from you," it says, "we are you."
As I look out on the endless horizon of the Plains, at a sunset blood red pouring over the hills on one side, the enveloping darkness on the other, I sit in the middle of it all, grateful to be exactly where I am.
2) As I stumble out of bed, I wonder why the hell I am up so early in the first place. I hit the bathroom and make my way to the kitchen, ready to break my fast in style. When my roommates are up and ready, I pull on my jeans, step into my boots, tie on a bandana, and grab the car keys.
We drive south down BIA 1, and to the left of me, I can see the sun rising over the Plains. The softest of glows is creeping over the hills as the sun slowly makes it's way up int the dome of the sky. As we head West and leave sunrise behind us, the van begins to roll into early morning fog, drifting over the highway between the fields. Not a soul is awake, not even the birds.
When we hit Spring Creek, it's like we've entered some mysterious land, full of hidden secrets and beautiful uncertainty. The hills rise up suddenly, the mist drifts between the trees that line these hills, a striking difference from the sheer vastness of open plains. It is like old and sacred woods, a sanctuary for ancient and powerful beings - magic almost. As we cross the bridge over the Little White River, we have to stop. The sun, now a fiery orb, situated perfectly above the river, nestled between two wooded hills - it should be on a picture, on a postcard, except for that it could never capture the feeling of being right there, a part of it.
As we drove on and picked enormous amounts of wild chokecherries and plums in the morning glow and cool dewy air, I got it again. That feeling that I was just where I was, exactly situated and aware of my place, physical and spiritual, in the universe.
I don't know exactly what these things mean. I don't exactly know if my words hold any significance for anyone but myself. But I know that that feeling of being situated and located exactly where I am, and feeling blessed for it, is one that I will continue to chase and look for throughout the entirety of my life.
It's just too beautiful and too right to easily forget.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Friday, August 23, 2013
Laughter, It's Good Medicine
Yesterday, my housemates and I completed our Family Recovery Program with the rest of our staff at St. Francis Mission, complete with a certificate and everything. The program was designed to help us understand how in cases of alcoholism and addiction, recovery is not something only the individual suffering from these things must go through, but that the entire family must participate in. Often, family members are involved in the addiction just as much as the addict, whether it is through the restructuring of their lives to accommodate the alcoholic or addict, the resentment or damage that they have been cause in the process, or even taking up an enabling role. Overall, the program sought to show that recovery is a family process, one that the whole group of people should be committing to.
This training was a crucial part of my Orientation to the Rosebud. Alcoholism and addiction are a reality here on the Rez. It is not an easy fix, which is why this program is important. This people, and Native people across the United States (including native Alaskans), have suffered tremendously in our efforts to build America to the place it is today. The land that we currently call our own was forcibly taken from people who had been here long before us. Brutal policies were enacted in order to fulfill colonialist policies towards Native people, and the government repeatedly broke treaties, taking more and more land. Brutal, genocidal initiatives such as "Kill the Indian, Save the Man," were commonplace at the time. The boarding school experience forced upon Natives ripped young children from their families and culture and systematically sought to eliminate the language, spirituality, and family structure of this people. (A more in depth look at this can be read in the book Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, by Dee Brown, and in the documentary The Canary Effect, which can be viewed in full here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lD7x6jryoSA)
In other words, this is a people who have suffered unthinkable physical, emotional, spiritual, and cultural destruction throughout the last century, if not longer. This has led to vicious cycles of social ills on reservations, including alcohol abuse and addiction, abuse, neglect, violence, and early death. Young people are brought up in this environment, and it is easy to see why they might believe this is just the way life is, that there is no hope of anything better.
It is in light of this reality that I have come to be blown away by how much all of the people I have met here laugh. Constantly. Teasing one another, laughing about just about anything. During our training, people would tell stories of how they were beat as children, how they began drinking, drunk car accidents they had witnessed or participated in, deaths they had seen along the way - but throughout all of this, there was laughter, and joy. People even were able to laugh at some of the horrific things they had been through, that they shared in common with others in our group.
I asked one of the men about this, because it strikes me as being so different from my own American culture. We don't laugh about those kind of serious things in a healthy way. maybe we brush them off, or laugh it off in a way meant to minimize these serious things (at least in my experience). But when I asked about it, I was told that it's just who they are. As long as anyone can remember, Native people have been a people of laughter, of joy. "It isn't laughing in a way to minimize the problems or ignore them," I was told, "but it is how we deal with things. Our souls need laughter, especially given our environment. It's good medicine, Laughter."
How true is this? I can remember during my JVC Orientation, I had been tired after a long week. Constant presentations and reflecting takes a lot out of me. We had been discussing social justice issues all day, not the lightest of topics, and my brain and heart were on overload. I was carrying the weight of missing home, of doubting myself, of the realities and issues I was about to encounter - I was overwhelmed and weighed down. That night, however, we did contra-dancing, something I haven't done since third grade.
And it was perfect. I was sweating all over the place, out of breath, and laughing harder than I have in months. It was a release, joyful and free, uninhibited and unchecked - pure. I don't often know how to really lighten up and just enjoy myself, but it is so necessary for me to thrive as a person. In order to reflect well, to serve well, to engage with important and challenging issues, I need to be able to find release and real joy.
It is kind of ironic that the people who live in the middle of these insane conditions, who have suffered untold amounts at the hands of our government, are the ones who are teaching me how to really enjoy life.
This training was a crucial part of my Orientation to the Rosebud. Alcoholism and addiction are a reality here on the Rez. It is not an easy fix, which is why this program is important. This people, and Native people across the United States (including native Alaskans), have suffered tremendously in our efforts to build America to the place it is today. The land that we currently call our own was forcibly taken from people who had been here long before us. Brutal policies were enacted in order to fulfill colonialist policies towards Native people, and the government repeatedly broke treaties, taking more and more land. Brutal, genocidal initiatives such as "Kill the Indian, Save the Man," were commonplace at the time. The boarding school experience forced upon Natives ripped young children from their families and culture and systematically sought to eliminate the language, spirituality, and family structure of this people. (A more in depth look at this can be read in the book Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, by Dee Brown, and in the documentary The Canary Effect, which can be viewed in full here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lD7x6jryoSA)
In other words, this is a people who have suffered unthinkable physical, emotional, spiritual, and cultural destruction throughout the last century, if not longer. This has led to vicious cycles of social ills on reservations, including alcohol abuse and addiction, abuse, neglect, violence, and early death. Young people are brought up in this environment, and it is easy to see why they might believe this is just the way life is, that there is no hope of anything better.
It is in light of this reality that I have come to be blown away by how much all of the people I have met here laugh. Constantly. Teasing one another, laughing about just about anything. During our training, people would tell stories of how they were beat as children, how they began drinking, drunk car accidents they had witnessed or participated in, deaths they had seen along the way - but throughout all of this, there was laughter, and joy. People even were able to laugh at some of the horrific things they had been through, that they shared in common with others in our group.
I asked one of the men about this, because it strikes me as being so different from my own American culture. We don't laugh about those kind of serious things in a healthy way. maybe we brush them off, or laugh it off in a way meant to minimize these serious things (at least in my experience). But when I asked about it, I was told that it's just who they are. As long as anyone can remember, Native people have been a people of laughter, of joy. "It isn't laughing in a way to minimize the problems or ignore them," I was told, "but it is how we deal with things. Our souls need laughter, especially given our environment. It's good medicine, Laughter."
How true is this? I can remember during my JVC Orientation, I had been tired after a long week. Constant presentations and reflecting takes a lot out of me. We had been discussing social justice issues all day, not the lightest of topics, and my brain and heart were on overload. I was carrying the weight of missing home, of doubting myself, of the realities and issues I was about to encounter - I was overwhelmed and weighed down. That night, however, we did contra-dancing, something I haven't done since third grade.
And it was perfect. I was sweating all over the place, out of breath, and laughing harder than I have in months. It was a release, joyful and free, uninhibited and unchecked - pure. I don't often know how to really lighten up and just enjoy myself, but it is so necessary for me to thrive as a person. In order to reflect well, to serve well, to engage with important and challenging issues, I need to be able to find release and real joy.
It is kind of ironic that the people who live in the middle of these insane conditions, who have suffered untold amounts at the hands of our government, are the ones who are teaching me how to really enjoy life.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
No Words
There have been few times in my life where words have completely failed me. I often am not the best at describing things (more so verbally than in writing - with writing I have time to craft thoughts - verbally, I often use words that I assign my own arbitrary meaning to, which doesn't help much with communication). Today, though, I had an experience that defies words, defies definition, defies description. I'll try to apply all of those things anyway, because that's what you do when you try and share it with others, even though I know it won't come out right or come even close to capturing what it was like.
Today, after a long day of training and work at the radio station, my housemates and I headed out towards Rosebud (a nearby town) to help our boss at the radio station set up tables, tents, and other things for our radio station, KINIfm. Starting tonight was the Rosebud Fair, which is a big deal around these parts. Fairs are a pretty big deal in small town culture it seems, and this is no different. There are carnival games, rides, a rodeo, mud racing, softball tournaments, and most exciting of all, pow-wow. I have been looking forward to the fair since I saw it on my schedule, so it's arrival has been much anticipated by both me and the rest of the Rosebud Rez. Everyone is excited.
When we got to the fairgrounds and finally met up with our boss, we unloaded all the gear and set up the tents and other things. I met a guy who is friends with our boss and one of my other co-workers who was there to help set-up, as well as to set up his own tipi behind our booth. A lot of the Lakota who I met often joke with me, asking if I expected to come out to the Rez and still find people living in tipis and hunting buffalo. This was actually the first tipi I had really seen on the Rez.
As the guys were setting up the tipi, they called me over and asked me if I wanted to help out. Now, in order to really understand how I reacted to this (internally, cause I definitely kept it cool on the outside - I hope), you have to understand how big a nerd I am about this stuff. I am literally obsessed with Lakota culture. Any of my GO! project members to the Navajo Nation can provide examples of how many times I freaked out and nerded out while learning about different spiritual practices and cultural nuances. I absolutely live for this stuff, I love. So when they asked me to help out, I jumped right up and ran over, eager for instructions and to take part.
The brilliance of the design is really awesome, considering it's just some tarp, poles and ropes. The pattern of laying the poles in order while wrapping the ropes around them to keep everything stable, of watching the wrinkles of the tarp correct itself as the tipi becomes more and more complete - it is spiritual, really. It put me in a state of being more in tune with what was going on around me, with how I fit into things. I was just beyond excited to even be a part of the process, and to have the guy explain the meanings of the design on top of it was almost too much.
I got to talking with some of the guys about Lakota culture, about traditional ways and what they are doing to bring that back to the kids of the Rez who have suffered the effects of cultural destruction that so influenced their parents generation. Hearing about their own experiences and education with tribal elders was awe-inspiring.
Looking back now, I realize that somewhere in this whole experience, things stopped being real. Or rather, they became so real that it is almost unreal. Semantics, I know, but there is a reason that transcendent experiences seem to defy words and description. Somewhere in the course of my own learning and participation, I seemed to lose track of myself and all the thoughts that usually are flying around, only to find myself perfectly aware of where I was situated, of where I was and how I related to the things around me.
It had been raining for a bit, pretty hard with dark clouds swarming in on the area where we were working. As I stopped and looked out, the sun was setting in blue sky with bold clouds cushioning the horizon. The blood orange of the sun had a sort of warm, soft glow to it as the rain was still gently falling on my head, on everything, bringing out the smell of wet grass. All around me were still dark storm clouds, and as I basked in the glory of such a beautiful moment, I noticed that lightning was flashing all around, sending thunder echoing across the plains. I heard a wood flute playing, with the lightning and thunder in perfect harmony with the soft and beautiful noise, entering into the steady wind that had been blowing against my back the entire time I stood there, the notes a prayer to be carried by the wind across the whole world. There was a time in this moment where I stopped existing, and at the same time existed more fully than I ever have before. I didn't just feel, or think, but knew that I was a part of everything, and that everything was a part of me. There was a presence of something - of everything - of nothing - all at the same time. Perfect harmony.
I felt like I never wanted to leave. Ever. I would have been content to stay in that heaven, with the range of life and possibility inhabiting one space, for the rest of my life.
When I finally did leave, I was left thoroughly disoriented, thoroughly unsettled. Not in a bad way. Not at all. I just don't understand what happened. What it means for me. What it means for why I am out here. What my purpose is. I could almost feel myself changing. Feel that some movement and transformation of spirit was occurring in a way that felt almost instantaneous, physical even.
It has left me with more questions than answers, but I couldn't trade an experience like that for anything in the world.
Today, after a long day of training and work at the radio station, my housemates and I headed out towards Rosebud (a nearby town) to help our boss at the radio station set up tables, tents, and other things for our radio station, KINIfm. Starting tonight was the Rosebud Fair, which is a big deal around these parts. Fairs are a pretty big deal in small town culture it seems, and this is no different. There are carnival games, rides, a rodeo, mud racing, softball tournaments, and most exciting of all, pow-wow. I have been looking forward to the fair since I saw it on my schedule, so it's arrival has been much anticipated by both me and the rest of the Rosebud Rez. Everyone is excited.
When we got to the fairgrounds and finally met up with our boss, we unloaded all the gear and set up the tents and other things. I met a guy who is friends with our boss and one of my other co-workers who was there to help set-up, as well as to set up his own tipi behind our booth. A lot of the Lakota who I met often joke with me, asking if I expected to come out to the Rez and still find people living in tipis and hunting buffalo. This was actually the first tipi I had really seen on the Rez.
As the guys were setting up the tipi, they called me over and asked me if I wanted to help out. Now, in order to really understand how I reacted to this (internally, cause I definitely kept it cool on the outside - I hope), you have to understand how big a nerd I am about this stuff. I am literally obsessed with Lakota culture. Any of my GO! project members to the Navajo Nation can provide examples of how many times I freaked out and nerded out while learning about different spiritual practices and cultural nuances. I absolutely live for this stuff, I love. So when they asked me to help out, I jumped right up and ran over, eager for instructions and to take part.
The brilliance of the design is really awesome, considering it's just some tarp, poles and ropes. The pattern of laying the poles in order while wrapping the ropes around them to keep everything stable, of watching the wrinkles of the tarp correct itself as the tipi becomes more and more complete - it is spiritual, really. It put me in a state of being more in tune with what was going on around me, with how I fit into things. I was just beyond excited to even be a part of the process, and to have the guy explain the meanings of the design on top of it was almost too much.
I got to talking with some of the guys about Lakota culture, about traditional ways and what they are doing to bring that back to the kids of the Rez who have suffered the effects of cultural destruction that so influenced their parents generation. Hearing about their own experiences and education with tribal elders was awe-inspiring.
Looking back now, I realize that somewhere in this whole experience, things stopped being real. Or rather, they became so real that it is almost unreal. Semantics, I know, but there is a reason that transcendent experiences seem to defy words and description. Somewhere in the course of my own learning and participation, I seemed to lose track of myself and all the thoughts that usually are flying around, only to find myself perfectly aware of where I was situated, of where I was and how I related to the things around me.
It had been raining for a bit, pretty hard with dark clouds swarming in on the area where we were working. As I stopped and looked out, the sun was setting in blue sky with bold clouds cushioning the horizon. The blood orange of the sun had a sort of warm, soft glow to it as the rain was still gently falling on my head, on everything, bringing out the smell of wet grass. All around me were still dark storm clouds, and as I basked in the glory of such a beautiful moment, I noticed that lightning was flashing all around, sending thunder echoing across the plains. I heard a wood flute playing, with the lightning and thunder in perfect harmony with the soft and beautiful noise, entering into the steady wind that had been blowing against my back the entire time I stood there, the notes a prayer to be carried by the wind across the whole world. There was a time in this moment where I stopped existing, and at the same time existed more fully than I ever have before. I didn't just feel, or think, but knew that I was a part of everything, and that everything was a part of me. There was a presence of something - of everything - of nothing - all at the same time. Perfect harmony.
I felt like I never wanted to leave. Ever. I would have been content to stay in that heaven, with the range of life and possibility inhabiting one space, for the rest of my life.
When I finally did leave, I was left thoroughly disoriented, thoroughly unsettled. Not in a bad way. Not at all. I just don't understand what happened. What it means for me. What it means for why I am out here. What my purpose is. I could almost feel myself changing. Feel that some movement and transformation of spirit was occurring in a way that felt almost instantaneous, physical even.
It has left me with more questions than answers, but I couldn't trade an experience like that for anything in the world.
Monday, August 19, 2013
Ceremony #1
This past Saturday, my housemates and I were privileged enough to attend our first Lakota ceremony. One of our co-workers invited us to her grandson's Name Giving ceremonies. A Name Giving, as I have come to understand it, is when a Lakota person receives their Lakota name before their family and friends, before their entire tiospaye (extended family, the closest thing to which I have encountered in American culture is that of ridiculously large Italian or Greek families - the Lakota idea of tiospaye takes it to a whole 'nother level, where every first cousin is referred to as 'brother' and 'sister' and where aunts and uncles are seen as 'mother' and 'father.' While this has broken down to some degree with the onset of historical oppression and modernization, as well as family trauma resulting from alcoholism and addiction, it is still an extremely prevalent idea.)
For the name, a holy man prays with it in order to bestow it upon a person, or, the name is handed down as a generational thing. The name has significant meaning for the person, and makes a sort of demand on the person whom it is bestowed, adding responsibility and a sense of how the person is to relate and act in relationship with their tiospaye.
When we got to the ceremony, I have to admit, I was a little conflicted. I am a HUGE nerd when it comes to stuff like this. I am obsessed with Native rituals and ceremonies, and truly find them to be such powerful and rich traditions. At the same time, I felt pretty awkward. Besides my housemates and the priest who has lived here for close to 12 years, I was the only white person in the room and stuck out like a sore thumb. People looked at me with surprise and confusion, unsure of who I was and whether I had stumbled into the room by accident.
We all moved out into the courtyard where we stood around the medicine wheel, a sacred Lakota symbol that represents the four directions, four stages of life, and a number of other aspects of Lakota philosophy and worldview. See below if interested!
(http://www.yosemite-gifts.com/Medicine_Wheel_of_the_Lakota_The_Four_Directions_p/1632-medwhl.htm)
The person receiving the name sat in the middle of the wheel while we all prayed with the holy man, facing each of the four directions, as well as directing prayers to the sky nation and Mother Earth (any MidWest Jv's, remember the prayer we did in mass to the directions). Then the drums started. Drum circles and the singers play a large role in many Native cultures, and the Lakota are no different. It is an amazing experience to hear the drums pounding, symbolizing our own heart beat as well as the heart beat of the universe, to hear the men yelling in what sounds like the most natural and passionate prayer I have ever heard. It gets into your soul, into your bones, and helps you remember where you come from in the first place, what you're made of and how you're connected to everything.
It is a very powerful thing to be a part of, to be invited to participate with the people in something they hold so sacred, to participate in an intimate act for a person I have never even met. To make it even more incredible. the Lakota have a history of Give-aways, which is when a person or family goes through a ceremony (whether it is a name giving, or because they have lost a loved one and are mourning, or because they have completed vision quests), it is they who provide food and gifts for all who show up, not the other way around. Imagine it this way - after graduation, instead of receiving all of these cards and gifts and money, not only do you throw a party for everyone, but you also give all of the people who helped you get there gifts. Pretty powerful.
What was even more powerful was when we heard the people saying that they would like to present a gift to the JV's.
Uhm. What?
I have not ever met this person in my life and have known his grandmother for all of two days, and I am being presented with a gift? Granted, I recognize that we are completely riding on the coattails of the past JV's and the mission that we work for, but still. It just seems like too much. It is humbling, truly. it makes me wonder how I, who have so much in my life outside of JVC, can still manage to believe I don't have enough to share.
For the name, a holy man prays with it in order to bestow it upon a person, or, the name is handed down as a generational thing. The name has significant meaning for the person, and makes a sort of demand on the person whom it is bestowed, adding responsibility and a sense of how the person is to relate and act in relationship with their tiospaye.
When we got to the ceremony, I have to admit, I was a little conflicted. I am a HUGE nerd when it comes to stuff like this. I am obsessed with Native rituals and ceremonies, and truly find them to be such powerful and rich traditions. At the same time, I felt pretty awkward. Besides my housemates and the priest who has lived here for close to 12 years, I was the only white person in the room and stuck out like a sore thumb. People looked at me with surprise and confusion, unsure of who I was and whether I had stumbled into the room by accident.
We all moved out into the courtyard where we stood around the medicine wheel, a sacred Lakota symbol that represents the four directions, four stages of life, and a number of other aspects of Lakota philosophy and worldview. See below if interested!
(http://www.yosemite-gifts.com/Medicine_Wheel_of_the_Lakota_The_Four_Directions_p/1632-medwhl.htm)
The person receiving the name sat in the middle of the wheel while we all prayed with the holy man, facing each of the four directions, as well as directing prayers to the sky nation and Mother Earth (any MidWest Jv's, remember the prayer we did in mass to the directions). Then the drums started. Drum circles and the singers play a large role in many Native cultures, and the Lakota are no different. It is an amazing experience to hear the drums pounding, symbolizing our own heart beat as well as the heart beat of the universe, to hear the men yelling in what sounds like the most natural and passionate prayer I have ever heard. It gets into your soul, into your bones, and helps you remember where you come from in the first place, what you're made of and how you're connected to everything.
It is a very powerful thing to be a part of, to be invited to participate with the people in something they hold so sacred, to participate in an intimate act for a person I have never even met. To make it even more incredible. the Lakota have a history of Give-aways, which is when a person or family goes through a ceremony (whether it is a name giving, or because they have lost a loved one and are mourning, or because they have completed vision quests), it is they who provide food and gifts for all who show up, not the other way around. Imagine it this way - after graduation, instead of receiving all of these cards and gifts and money, not only do you throw a party for everyone, but you also give all of the people who helped you get there gifts. Pretty powerful.
What was even more powerful was when we heard the people saying that they would like to present a gift to the JV's.
Uhm. What?
I have not ever met this person in my life and have known his grandmother for all of two days, and I am being presented with a gift? Granted, I recognize that we are completely riding on the coattails of the past JV's and the mission that we work for, but still. It just seems like too much. It is humbling, truly. it makes me wonder how I, who have so much in my life outside of JVC, can still manage to believe I don't have enough to share.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Breaking Point
Well. It was bound to happen sooner or later, and I guess it is better that it happened sooner rather than later, aggressively smacking any delusions I may have had right out of me.
Today was the day the full reality of what I'm doing, who I am, where I am, where I come from, and how all of those things are banging against each came into sharp focus. After a *minor meltdown* (anyone who knows me knows that I can, at times, be dramatic, so this is basically one of those melodramatic moments), I guess I started to realize that I am going to have a tough year.
Formative, life giving, beautiful, unforgettable, yes of course.
But it's going to kick my ass. I knew it coming in. Signing up for this program was partly the result of a realization that I was too comfortable with myself and my environment, with my spiritual journey, with my questioning and seeking. It was time for a change of scenery, and in a fashion typical of my sensibilities, I decided to pack and move half way across the country, with people I've never met, on a vey small budget to live ... in the middle of absolutely nowhere.
A person from South Dakota told me that where I was going wasn't quite the end of the world, but that I could see it from there.
At the time, didn't know what he meant. Now, I most certainly do.
Picture it. Just picture it with me.
I am a New York boy through and through. Movement is my comfort zone, chaos is my quiet, in the midst of swarms and swarms of people I can find myself, locate myself. I have more energy than anyone I know. If my legs aren't shaking, my fingers are tapping; if I'm not tapping, I'm humming or singing; my whole body is always in some kind of motion. My mind is the same way, constantly spinning, darting between ideas, concepts, experiences, questions, trying to make sense of everything at the same time. I know my parents, family, and friends from home are smiling to themselves, cause they know it's true. I've been this way for as long as anyone can remember. My mom said the thing she remembers most from when I was a kid was that I was always in motion, a blur shooting around the house. Everything vibrated around me.
I don't like being still. I don't like absolute quiet. Slow is generally not a speed I know. Solitude scares the crap out of me.
I normally judge my own quiet relative to the whirling chaos of the city around me. I can feel pretty laid back and slow compared to the general neuroticism of NYC.
Out here? In South Dakota? On the Rosebud Reservation among the Lakota people?
I'm nothing short of an alien.
Everyone speaks softly, deliberately. Slowly. [I'm flying my way through sentences, seemingly always the loudest one in the room]. Everyone drives, on miles of open road. at exactly the speed limit, seemingly taking their time and enjoying the ride. [I am going 100mph just to try and match the frenzied state of my inner self]. There is no city. Rapid City, which I flew into, reminded me of the suburbs of Long Island I grew up in, a far cry from the hustle and bustle of the Bronx and NYC where I have lived for the last four years. Going 40 minutes to Valentine, Nebraska today (where our nearest grocery store also is), nothing was open. I mean nothing. There was legitimately nothing to do.
I lost it. My head was scream "WHAT THE &*%# IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE??" Who in their right mind would ever want to live in a place like this?? Sure it's beautiful. It's absolutely amazing, some of the most incredible landscape I have ever seen.
I know what's really going on here. There isn't anything wrong with the people here, or even the place. It's my own perception. This isn't some kind of corny, pithy saying with a message along the lines of "99% of your experience is your attitude!"
It's something else. It's a realization that what I see around my is a reflection of my own inner landscape. The endless horizon of the Dakota's is frightening to me, the same way the endless questions of who I am, of what is true, of what I'm here for, continue to come and continue to scare me. The quiet that is so unnerving is a reflection of my own internal chaos, the discomfort and unease I feel at the prospect of my own soul quieting and resting. I don't know how to be in the presence of myself without feeling thoroughly disturbed. Solitude, standing on these plains and looking out for mils and miles without being able to see any other life but myself, assaults my psyche which is so used to bumping into people at every turn.
What I read in the landscape and people around me is really what I think and feel about my own inner landscape. I came out with the intention of learning how to "be," rather than simply "do." For my whole life I have been able to involve myself, and involve myself, and involve myself, to the point where activity has become necessary to my survival, to who I am. My identity is movement.
This isn't bad at all, as a matter of fact, it is one of my strengths, one of the things that people often appreciate about me.
But this is more for myself. Coming out here was intentional. It was meant to be a journey of spirit, one that pushed my own boundaries and limits, one that forced me to come face to face with something I fear the most:
being alone with myself, and what I will find there.
Today was the day the full reality of what I'm doing, who I am, where I am, where I come from, and how all of those things are banging against each came into sharp focus. After a *minor meltdown* (anyone who knows me knows that I can, at times, be dramatic, so this is basically one of those melodramatic moments), I guess I started to realize that I am going to have a tough year.
Formative, life giving, beautiful, unforgettable, yes of course.
But it's going to kick my ass. I knew it coming in. Signing up for this program was partly the result of a realization that I was too comfortable with myself and my environment, with my spiritual journey, with my questioning and seeking. It was time for a change of scenery, and in a fashion typical of my sensibilities, I decided to pack and move half way across the country, with people I've never met, on a vey small budget to live ... in the middle of absolutely nowhere.
A person from South Dakota told me that where I was going wasn't quite the end of the world, but that I could see it from there.
At the time, didn't know what he meant. Now, I most certainly do.
Picture it. Just picture it with me.
I am a New York boy through and through. Movement is my comfort zone, chaos is my quiet, in the midst of swarms and swarms of people I can find myself, locate myself. I have more energy than anyone I know. If my legs aren't shaking, my fingers are tapping; if I'm not tapping, I'm humming or singing; my whole body is always in some kind of motion. My mind is the same way, constantly spinning, darting between ideas, concepts, experiences, questions, trying to make sense of everything at the same time. I know my parents, family, and friends from home are smiling to themselves, cause they know it's true. I've been this way for as long as anyone can remember. My mom said the thing she remembers most from when I was a kid was that I was always in motion, a blur shooting around the house. Everything vibrated around me.
I don't like being still. I don't like absolute quiet. Slow is generally not a speed I know. Solitude scares the crap out of me.
I normally judge my own quiet relative to the whirling chaos of the city around me. I can feel pretty laid back and slow compared to the general neuroticism of NYC.
Out here? In South Dakota? On the Rosebud Reservation among the Lakota people?
I'm nothing short of an alien.
Everyone speaks softly, deliberately. Slowly. [I'm flying my way through sentences, seemingly always the loudest one in the room]. Everyone drives, on miles of open road. at exactly the speed limit, seemingly taking their time and enjoying the ride. [I am going 100mph just to try and match the frenzied state of my inner self]. There is no city. Rapid City, which I flew into, reminded me of the suburbs of Long Island I grew up in, a far cry from the hustle and bustle of the Bronx and NYC where I have lived for the last four years. Going 40 minutes to Valentine, Nebraska today (where our nearest grocery store also is), nothing was open. I mean nothing. There was legitimately nothing to do.
I lost it. My head was scream "WHAT THE &*%# IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE??" Who in their right mind would ever want to live in a place like this?? Sure it's beautiful. It's absolutely amazing, some of the most incredible landscape I have ever seen.
I know what's really going on here. There isn't anything wrong with the people here, or even the place. It's my own perception. This isn't some kind of corny, pithy saying with a message along the lines of "99% of your experience is your attitude!"
It's something else. It's a realization that what I see around my is a reflection of my own inner landscape. The endless horizon of the Dakota's is frightening to me, the same way the endless questions of who I am, of what is true, of what I'm here for, continue to come and continue to scare me. The quiet that is so unnerving is a reflection of my own internal chaos, the discomfort and unease I feel at the prospect of my own soul quieting and resting. I don't know how to be in the presence of myself without feeling thoroughly disturbed. Solitude, standing on these plains and looking out for mils and miles without being able to see any other life but myself, assaults my psyche which is so used to bumping into people at every turn.
What I read in the landscape and people around me is really what I think and feel about my own inner landscape. I came out with the intention of learning how to "be," rather than simply "do." For my whole life I have been able to involve myself, and involve myself, and involve myself, to the point where activity has become necessary to my survival, to who I am. My identity is movement.
This isn't bad at all, as a matter of fact, it is one of my strengths, one of the things that people often appreciate about me.
But this is more for myself. Coming out here was intentional. It was meant to be a journey of spirit, one that pushed my own boundaries and limits, one that forced me to come face to face with something I fear the most:
being alone with myself, and what I will find there.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Painting the Picture
Today was a wild experience in the old SoDak. On the schedule of Orientation events, my roommates and I saw that we were to head out to White River in order to go to a local Recovery center there. After giving the guy who was to host us a call, we were told that we could come early in order to help celebrate a sobriety birthday, marking one of the members 26th year of sobriety. Definitely honored and humbled to be asked to such a personal event.
We were, however, tired. Orientation has proved to be long, and we are all feeling the effects of little sleep, long days, and lots of sitting. Though genuinely excited and moved by all that we have been learning, it can be extremely draining to constantly be in "learning and listening" mode.
After trekking the 30 minutes up to the Recovery Center for an Open AA meeting, one in which guests and visitors are allowed to sit in, I can honestly say that this was the place I needed to be tonight.
The reality of life on the Rez includes high rates of alcohol and drug abuse. Alcoholism is extremely present here, as is the addiction to meth. This is intimately tied in with issues of familial breakdowns, domestic abuse (in physical and psychological forms), and a host of other issues among the Rosebud community, as well as among many other Native populations throughout the States. It's the reality for many of the men, women, and children.
But it's not the whole picture.
I have, and will continue, to try and be conscious about the portrait I paint of this community of the people who live here. It is not responsible to simply say that the community is only broken, in shambles, and in need of saving. To do so would be both highly paternalistic, as well as insulting to all those working hard to restore and bring life to the place they love. On the other hand, it would also be dishonest to try and minimize the serious effects that these plights have had in this community. It the stark reality that, while riding my bike around, I will see people stumbling their way down the highway, that while driving home at night I will see packs of drunk or high people roaming the interstates. It is what I have have been told numerous times to be the truth by people within this community. And it saddens me. It causes me pain. Real, deep, pain.
But tonight, listening to the stories of those people in the AA meeting, hearing the courage with which they stood looking into the abyss of their own existence and came out on the other side stronger and full of hope, I found myself full of hope. To see people working through such a devastating reality, speaking words of love and hope for those still struggling. It gave me a lot to think about, a lot to try and digest.
There was a challenge there for me. What am I called to be doing here? I can't save the world, and as a matter of fact, I don't know if I even want to try and bring that pressure on myself. I won't make all these things better, even if I had a million years to do it, but even so, I'm here. What am I to do?
In this meeting, people who didn't know me, had no reason to trust me, opened up and shared their lives with me, shared their stories. People living in the the second poorest county in the United States were concerned for my welfare, concerned that as a JV on a limited budget that I might not be eating enough, insisting that I take more food, even take it home with me. These people who have less than me are every day teaching me what it means to really love and give of oneself. They are a challenge to me. There is more I can be doing, better ways for me to be loving. I am hoping each day that I am going to have the courage to answer that call.
We were, however, tired. Orientation has proved to be long, and we are all feeling the effects of little sleep, long days, and lots of sitting. Though genuinely excited and moved by all that we have been learning, it can be extremely draining to constantly be in "learning and listening" mode.
After trekking the 30 minutes up to the Recovery Center for an Open AA meeting, one in which guests and visitors are allowed to sit in, I can honestly say that this was the place I needed to be tonight.
The reality of life on the Rez includes high rates of alcohol and drug abuse. Alcoholism is extremely present here, as is the addiction to meth. This is intimately tied in with issues of familial breakdowns, domestic abuse (in physical and psychological forms), and a host of other issues among the Rosebud community, as well as among many other Native populations throughout the States. It's the reality for many of the men, women, and children.
But it's not the whole picture.
I have, and will continue, to try and be conscious about the portrait I paint of this community of the people who live here. It is not responsible to simply say that the community is only broken, in shambles, and in need of saving. To do so would be both highly paternalistic, as well as insulting to all those working hard to restore and bring life to the place they love. On the other hand, it would also be dishonest to try and minimize the serious effects that these plights have had in this community. It the stark reality that, while riding my bike around, I will see people stumbling their way down the highway, that while driving home at night I will see packs of drunk or high people roaming the interstates. It is what I have have been told numerous times to be the truth by people within this community. And it saddens me. It causes me pain. Real, deep, pain.
But tonight, listening to the stories of those people in the AA meeting, hearing the courage with which they stood looking into the abyss of their own existence and came out on the other side stronger and full of hope, I found myself full of hope. To see people working through such a devastating reality, speaking words of love and hope for those still struggling. It gave me a lot to think about, a lot to try and digest.
There was a challenge there for me. What am I called to be doing here? I can't save the world, and as a matter of fact, I don't know if I even want to try and bring that pressure on myself. I won't make all these things better, even if I had a million years to do it, but even so, I'm here. What am I to do?
In this meeting, people who didn't know me, had no reason to trust me, opened up and shared their lives with me, shared their stories. People living in the the second poorest county in the United States were concerned for my welfare, concerned that as a JV on a limited budget that I might not be eating enough, insisting that I take more food, even take it home with me. These people who have less than me are every day teaching me what it means to really love and give of oneself. They are a challenge to me. There is more I can be doing, better ways for me to be loving. I am hoping each day that I am going to have the courage to answer that call.
Take What You Think You Know And Shove It
When my housemates and I stepped off the plane in Rapid City, SD for the first time (off a prop-engine airplane I might add, very different from some of the oceanic flights I have taken), we were greeted by Jimmy, one of the JV's from this past year. He was on his way out, starting a new chapter and phase in his life (shout out to Jimmy here for leaving us with a good bit of food to start!!). It was good to meet someone who had been through the experiences that we were all about to enter into, especially as we were first arriving. Overall it was to talk with him, hear some of his thoughts and experiences, and begin to shape our own, more concrete ideas of what was to come.
One thing he said, however, I couldn't quite understand. He asked us if, during Orientation, the presenters and Program Coordinators would present something, only to qualify by saying - "This doesn't really apply to y'all out in St. Francis." Our placement moved offices, and were are now based out of the Detroit province for the first time, so no one really had too much of an idea of what we were walking into.
"Last year," Jimmy said, "during Orientation, any time we heard some advice, or some statistics, we were aways the exception. Things are way different out on the Rez than anywhere else in the country."
Well, I had no idea what he was talking about. Besides, I was still just overwhelmed by the beauty of the landscape to give any real in depth thought to what he meant.
Yesterday, however, gave much needed context to Jimmy's words. After our Orientation yesterday, as well as our experiences over the last few days, I think we can safely assume that we are completely unprepared. it's to take what we think we know and throw it out the window - make room for new truths to come in.
What do I mean by all this?
Examples. During Orientation, we did a whole exercise on how to speak with people. The idea was that eye contact, steady and encouraging, was the best to show the person speaking that we are engaged, that we are listening, that we want them to go on.
No so on the Rez. Among the traditional Lakota, such constant eye contact is considered rude. They would think that we are just staring at them the whole time! Instead, you are to look away, nodding to show attention, only occasionally glancing at the person and making eye contact. This is a sign of respect. Also, in mainstream American culture, it is rude to not face someone when they are talking - it is best to assume a posture that leaves one open, providing good body language that invites further discussion. It is the opposite for traditional Lakota. To face directly at a person is a confrontational pose, and is taken as a threat.
Another big difference is the handshake. In American culture, you are expected to give a firm handshake, to really let the person know you are there. Numerous times I have heard that a person's handshake can show what type of character they have. In Lakota, to firmly grab someones hand would be to crush it, to aggressively take what they offer in peace. Handshakes out here are extremely gentle, just placing your hands together almost in the lightest of embraces. It is a sign of gentleness, of trust for the other person. The same goes for voices. They are soft, gentle, like the light breeze that passes over the area most of the time, just lighting on your skin for a minute to cool you off and refresh your spirits.
I came into this year have been on the Navajo Rez in NM, have taken a class on Indian culture and philosophies, and so I guess to be really honest, I thought that made me pretty knowledgeable compared to most folks - and I guess it does. But in reality, compared to the people whose way of life it is, whose culture it is, whose lives it is - I don't know anything. It's time to throw out all my book smarts, all the things I've read, all the things I think I know, and just experience it, just listen.
How many people can say the have the opportunity to hear this straight from the people who live it and love it?
One thing he said, however, I couldn't quite understand. He asked us if, during Orientation, the presenters and Program Coordinators would present something, only to qualify by saying - "This doesn't really apply to y'all out in St. Francis." Our placement moved offices, and were are now based out of the Detroit province for the first time, so no one really had too much of an idea of what we were walking into.
"Last year," Jimmy said, "during Orientation, any time we heard some advice, or some statistics, we were aways the exception. Things are way different out on the Rez than anywhere else in the country."
Well, I had no idea what he was talking about. Besides, I was still just overwhelmed by the beauty of the landscape to give any real in depth thought to what he meant.
Yesterday, however, gave much needed context to Jimmy's words. After our Orientation yesterday, as well as our experiences over the last few days, I think we can safely assume that we are completely unprepared. it's to take what we think we know and throw it out the window - make room for new truths to come in.
What do I mean by all this?
Examples. During Orientation, we did a whole exercise on how to speak with people. The idea was that eye contact, steady and encouraging, was the best to show the person speaking that we are engaged, that we are listening, that we want them to go on.
No so on the Rez. Among the traditional Lakota, such constant eye contact is considered rude. They would think that we are just staring at them the whole time! Instead, you are to look away, nodding to show attention, only occasionally glancing at the person and making eye contact. This is a sign of respect. Also, in mainstream American culture, it is rude to not face someone when they are talking - it is best to assume a posture that leaves one open, providing good body language that invites further discussion. It is the opposite for traditional Lakota. To face directly at a person is a confrontational pose, and is taken as a threat.
Another big difference is the handshake. In American culture, you are expected to give a firm handshake, to really let the person know you are there. Numerous times I have heard that a person's handshake can show what type of character they have. In Lakota, to firmly grab someones hand would be to crush it, to aggressively take what they offer in peace. Handshakes out here are extremely gentle, just placing your hands together almost in the lightest of embraces. It is a sign of gentleness, of trust for the other person. The same goes for voices. They are soft, gentle, like the light breeze that passes over the area most of the time, just lighting on your skin for a minute to cool you off and refresh your spirits.
I came into this year have been on the Navajo Rez in NM, have taken a class on Indian culture and philosophies, and so I guess to be really honest, I thought that made me pretty knowledgeable compared to most folks - and I guess it does. But in reality, compared to the people whose way of life it is, whose culture it is, whose lives it is - I don't know anything. It's time to throw out all my book smarts, all the things I've read, all the things I think I know, and just experience it, just listen.
How many people can say the have the opportunity to hear this straight from the people who live it and love it?
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Rez Life
A few days ago, I arrived in the sleepy town of St. Francis, on the Rosebud Reservation in South Dakota. My housemates and I drove down from Rapid City (where we flew in and met up with some Former Jesuit Volunteers, FJV's for short, who hosted us). Needless to say, this down-state New Yorker was slightly blown away by rolling hills that stretched for miles, a must-see tourist attraction on Interstate 90 that was a giant drug store that handed out free ice water, skyline without any interruption, and speed-limits of 75.
This is sure to be a cross-cultural experience for me, which is good, given that this is one of the main reasons I decided to participate in this program. There will be a ton to write in the future about the Rez, the people, the history of the Lakota, and all that I am doing and experiencing.
For now, I will settle for my first impressions. This is a people who have been here a long, long time. An old people. They are a people who have suffered a great deal throughout the last 100 years, and who continue to suffer. Rosebud, located in Todd County, South Dakota, is one of the poorest counties in the United States, making poverty a stark reality for many of it's inhabitants. Alcohol and drug addiction has rocked this community and caused much pain.
But this is old news. This is all we ever hear in regards to reservation life, to the "plight of the Indian." Don't get me wrong, it's here and it's reality, a reality I have already seen with my own eyes within my first few days here.
What we don't here often enough, but what also rings true, is that this is a people of hope. There is tremendous hope in this community. There are many who are seeking to build up their people, not through donation and additional dependency, but from the ground up, allowing all to participate in the creation of their own future. This is a people who has brought back many aspects of their traditional culture, calling on their great past in order to affect this present time. This is a beautiful place. A beautiful people, who know how to laugh and tease each other, who come from a reality completely different than my own and have much to teach me.
And believe me. I am all ears.
This is sure to be a cross-cultural experience for me, which is good, given that this is one of the main reasons I decided to participate in this program. There will be a ton to write in the future about the Rez, the people, the history of the Lakota, and all that I am doing and experiencing.
For now, I will settle for my first impressions. This is a people who have been here a long, long time. An old people. They are a people who have suffered a great deal throughout the last 100 years, and who continue to suffer. Rosebud, located in Todd County, South Dakota, is one of the poorest counties in the United States, making poverty a stark reality for many of it's inhabitants. Alcohol and drug addiction has rocked this community and caused much pain.
But this is old news. This is all we ever hear in regards to reservation life, to the "plight of the Indian." Don't get me wrong, it's here and it's reality, a reality I have already seen with my own eyes within my first few days here.
What we don't here often enough, but what also rings true, is that this is a people of hope. There is tremendous hope in this community. There are many who are seeking to build up their people, not through donation and additional dependency, but from the ground up, allowing all to participate in the creation of their own future. This is a people who has brought back many aspects of their traditional culture, calling on their great past in order to affect this present time. This is a beautiful place. A beautiful people, who know how to laugh and tease each other, who come from a reality completely different than my own and have much to teach me.
And believe me. I am all ears.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Threshold
In a few short hours I will embark on a yearlong journey out to South Dakota to live among the Lakota on the Rosebud Reservation. I have known the moment was coming for nearly 4 months now, but the last few weeks have been especially ripe with excitement, anticipation, and restlessness.
I feel that I have said goodbyes in a good way. Some more difficult than others, but all pointing toward something, hinting at some reality that I was not yet aware of. There was some realization looming just beyond my ability to comprehend, just out of my reach.
Today, as I rode home from a farewell lunch with an old friend, it hit me. I am ready to go. I have been for quite a while, I think.
But. The I also had the distinct feeling that my life was changing. That I was leaving a history, a way of life I had grown comfortable with, behind. I felt that I was stepping into the threshold of my own future, of my own life, taking a step that was decisive, not just for this year, but also for the direction I hope to be heading in my near future.
There was an understanding that as I step onto the plane this morning, it is not just to head toward South Dakota - it is to head toward the unknown and unwritten future that patiently awaits me. This step is the first real act I am taking in writing that future - my future. Hopefully one full of growth, of travels, new experiences and people, untold treasures.
It is somewhat awful (in the sense that it fills with awe) to stand before that, to sit with that. It brought me to silence in mind, body, and soul. I had to sit still and just take a minute to let this realization sink in.
Watching your own life unfold before is something that seems almost magical.
I feel that I have said goodbyes in a good way. Some more difficult than others, but all pointing toward something, hinting at some reality that I was not yet aware of. There was some realization looming just beyond my ability to comprehend, just out of my reach.
Today, as I rode home from a farewell lunch with an old friend, it hit me. I am ready to go. I have been for quite a while, I think.
But. The I also had the distinct feeling that my life was changing. That I was leaving a history, a way of life I had grown comfortable with, behind. I felt that I was stepping into the threshold of my own future, of my own life, taking a step that was decisive, not just for this year, but also for the direction I hope to be heading in my near future.
There was an understanding that as I step onto the plane this morning, it is not just to head toward South Dakota - it is to head toward the unknown and unwritten future that patiently awaits me. This step is the first real act I am taking in writing that future - my future. Hopefully one full of growth, of travels, new experiences and people, untold treasures.
It is somewhat awful (in the sense that it fills with awe) to stand before that, to sit with that. It brought me to silence in mind, body, and soul. I had to sit still and just take a minute to let this realization sink in.
Watching your own life unfold before is something that seems almost magical.
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