Sacred Tabernacles [part 6 of 9]: Lost Language of the Land
Stepping Into Grief
The fragmentation of our culture cannot be overestimated in terms of its impact on Nature. We can no longer deny the ways we have harmed indigenous people and the landscape. Modern culture, particularly American culture, has displaced native peoples, isolating them on “reservations” so we can take from the land without reciprocating.
In his book, The Beauty in the Primitive, Znamenski speaks to this trauma of indigenous people when they are disconnected from their native lands. Znamenski notes that "after natives were removed from their familiar environment or after the separation of families” (2007, p. 91) the indigenous people experienced traumatic emotional and physical symptoms that sometimes could not be alleviated.
Anyone of us who experiences this loss of the familiar suffers grief and anguish.
It is impossible to begin to imagine what it must be like for people so in tune with their environment to be suddenly, violently ripped from their Mother’s womb. To the indigenous people who were removed from their ancestral homelands, it must have felt as if their physical and energetic being had been dismembered. It had to have been terrifying to have loved ones and a beloved landscape taken away.
As modern people, we have separated ourselves from nature, each other, and our own true nature. We literally live the devastation on a daily basis, except that many of us are not awake to this great loss that leaves us all with such longing.
Consumerism has been the misguided answer to that longing; and it is our rampant addiction to fill a hole that can only be satisfied by rekindling our relationship with Nature.
Our deeply embedded consumerist culture shows up in Woody Guthrie’s famous 1940 folksong, This Land is Your Land. Guthrie’s lyrics, likely a critical response to God Bless America, were influenced by his encounters with North American landscape and Dust Bowl migrants in his travels across America. Guthrie’s song has been viewed as America’s alternate national anthem, with these verses about private property and the poor and hungry usually omitted:
There was a big high wall there that tried to stop me.
The sign was painted, said 'Private Property.'
But on the backside, it didn't say nothing.
This land was made for you and me.
One bright sunny morning in the shadow of the steeple,
by the relief office I saw my people.
As they stood hungry,
I stood there wondering if God blessed America for me. (Spitzer, 2012)
However, the song’s implications and acknowledgement about what we have done as a culture in this beautiful landscape are lost on most people.
We remain a culture of property owners: my land, my trees, my river. Our need to own property is an insatiable, obsessive hunger. In our compulsive act of staking our claim to improve the land, we fail to remember our history of desecrating the natural world and the lives of indigenous, brown and black skinned, and poor people. Our culture is built from a history of violence that we must begin to acknowledge and find appropriate and proportional apologies in our first acts toward an accountable relationship with nature.
Changing Our Language and Lens
Words are a powerful portages for change. The land does not belong to us; we belong to the land. Until we recognize the error of our inversion, our hunger and longing will not be satisfied. Belonging to the land, comfortable and forever in the palm of our Mother’s hand, is an act of surrendering ego and a commitment to listen to the land and those who know indigenous ways.
Simply shifting the words we use and the way we use them guides changes in our perspective and behavior. It is not feasible to truly stop owning land in our industrialized modern society. However, shifting our language ever so slightly from “my land” to “the land where I live” can change everything.
“My land” puts us in a position above the rest of nature and neighbor and is a barrier to the consideration of the possibilities of life within any given landscape. Instead of being in a position of authority and power over the land, “the land where we live” opens and invites us to join nature. Joining the landscape in the role of legal owner of property grants us the unique opportunity to preserve the land where we live and create a sustainable way of life more aligned with the ebb and flow of the natural world.
Joining the land is a shift in perspective toward a new world view, offering us another way to see the world around us and a curiosity to notice what is or is not in balance.
Where I live in Central Texas, water is often scarce. We have extremely dry climate followed by two, sometimes torrential, rainy seasons. So, having a plush, green lawn is not aligned with our ecosystem. Wildlife, deer particularly, will eat even “deer resistant” vegetation during drought. Taking a little time to notice the cycles over time or to talk to local arborists provide a foundation for seeing the beauty in nature’s design instead of what is promoted in landscape magazines.
When we turn toward nature, we begin to see how animals and plants live symbiotically and in balance, how diversity is protective. Changing our language can impact our idea of what is beautiful.
Language has many aspects that influence and indicate our intentions and actions. Plotkin (2003) advocates for sacred speech to deepen our conversations and our presence whether it be solemn or funny. Using our words to “speak from the heart and address what truly matters--our feelings, imagery, dreams, life purpose, our relationships, soul stories, … our meetings with remarkable humans, animals, plants, and places” (p. 160).
Just as powerful is the balance of what we say and what we do not. Plotkin asks us to use silence to complement our speech, as an offering to ourselves and the void to learn what is there in this space we have for so long avoided (2003).
Stepping into the Void
Finding out what is in the void, perhaps our own longing for more contact with nature and our own nature, might be the prompt we need to traverse through the next portage.
Taking a step over the threshold of our own doorway into the natural world just outside the doors of where we live offers an instant connection to nature. Even in the most concrete of urban areas, we can connect with a small potted plant on the front step, a patch of sky, or tree we pass on the way to the mailbox.
In the midst of a viral pandemic, many of us have become keenly aware of our longing for nature as public parks and green spaces have closed.
In contact with our grief and longing, and with a new language and lens for our landscape we might find a greater sense of belonging to the land. We become stewards of the natural world.
Another step might include planting (even one) native herbs, trees, and plants. Making an offering to the land that we take from so easily is also an opportunity to be creative and play in nature. When we find joy with our offering, we are likely to nurture our investment with our observation, time, and attention.
Composting vegetable scraps from our meals is another small step toward enriching the soil for gardens and reducing waste. Our cycle of life becomes more intertwined with that of the land.
When we do one thing in favor of our relationship with the earth, we find that we can do one more.
Rainwater collection serves gardens, trees, and animals and possibly the household. Looking outside to see the water level in the tank helps determine if we get a quick shower or the luxury of a bath, and we can relate to the rest of nature living on scarcity or plenty. When we understand the depth of our connection to the land where we live, we will not be so quick to cut it down or suck it dry.
This internal balance guiding our speech and silence brings with it a moment to contemplate and express acknowledgement, apology, and commit to taking another step.
