Previously
published in Real Estate Magazine, Ft Bragg, Ca, November 2014
When Europeans first
arrived in what is now the United States, Canada, Central and South
America, the indigenous people they encountered were virtually
disease-free because they lived in such profound balance with the
natural world. Even more remarkable is the fact that at the time of
first contact, what is now California supported the greatest possible
variety, vitality and density of animals, fish, birds, plants and
humans, all of them well-fed and thriving thanks to the skillful
management of the indigenous people here, with the knowledge that was
developed and passed down for over 10,000 years. 1
It’s easy to see,
even now, the exquisite vibrancy of this beautiful place. One can
only imagine streams so full of salmon that horses refused to cross;
flocks of birds so thick they blocked the sun; and, of course, the
towering, original redwood forests before they were clear-cut. I like
to imagine our beautiful stretch of coastline in its pre-conquest
state, everything humming and roaring, buzzing and singing in a
complex, interwoven orchestra of natural sounds. How silent would the
night be? How filled with sound the day, especially at dawn as the
forests, meadows, dunes and wetlands were waking up? I try to imagine
the depth of each unique soundscape and I feel sad that those of us
alive today will likely never hear the music of an intact biosphere.
The
Pomo, Yuki, Miwok, Wintun, and other native peoples inhabited this
area for countless generations before white people arrived. Their
original names for this area are beautiful and have special meaning.
For example, Mussel Rock, between Westport and Ft. Bragg, was known
as Lilem. It was a Coastal Yuki village used as a trading and
gathering spot for tribes from all over California, from the Chumash
in Santa Barbara to the Yurok in Humboldt. Katuli was above
the Navarro; Bokeya was the territory stretching from the
Navarro to Gualala, and Gualala is a Pomo word that means
‘where the waters flow down’. Big River was Bidapte;
Icheche was on the lower Garcia River; Kibesillah is a
Pomo word signifying ‘flat rock’ or ‘head of the valley’. 2
Notice how most of these names refer to a river, a watershed or a
place and describe a practical, lived meaning. Fort Bragg, on the
other hand, was established to keep order on the Indian Reservation
built here, and was named after a confederate general. As I drive
along I sometimes wonder what it would be like to use those original
names, to see the names on signs alongside – or instead of – the
names grafted on by outsiders who did not understand the complexities
of living in balance here, and did not honor their predecessors by
learning the local names. How beautiful it would be to see signs with
the names of the original settlements in the area. How would it shape
us to live with those names on a daily basis? Perhaps we would
identify more deeply with the landscape. Surely our hearts would be
nourished by the poetry of the words themselves.
The current system
of surveying land, dividing it into a rectangular grid and selling
off pieces of it, began with Thomas Jefferson after the Revolutionary
War as means of selling what was considered uninhabited land in order
to pay off the war debt and create a nation of yeoman farmers. While
this grid simplifies certain transactions, it also creates the
illusion that each piece is disconnected from the others around it
and superimposes a mental image of land divided from water and from
itself, rather than reinforcing the deep knowing of the ways the land
is connected and part of the whole. The indigenous understanding of a
unified, shared landscape that was life-sustaining and therefore the
responsibility of all was superseded by the notion of individual land
ownership. We have inherited the dilemmas that result from this shift
in thinking.
And
yet, one of the best things about living here is that so many people
love this place deeply. Our shared appreciation helps us navigate our
sometimes contentious local politics. Unfortunately, politicians
don’t always follow the will of the people as the system intended.
Now is the moment to rise above the influences of personal or
corporate economic gain by aligning with a larger identity as
citizens of the earth in order to ensure a viable, vibrant future for
our grandchildrens’ grandchildren. One way to accomplish this is to
expand the timeline within which we see ourselves from the human
timeline of months to decades to one that is aligned with the pace of
geologic transformation. This means learning to ‘think like a
mountain’ or, in this case, like a watershed - centuries to
millennia.
Like
many of us, I wonder how best to contribute to a peaceful, close-knit
community. As a parent, as a member of this community, and as a human
being living in these times of deep ecological loss and uncertainty,
I ask myself what role I might play in restoring a thriving
ecosystem. What does it mean, then -- now and for the future -- to
“belong to the land”?
Perhaps
it is time to come full circle, to create a fresh way of seeing the
land and understanding what we are looking at. With practice, we can
learn to see the unifying patterns and discern the unique rhythms of
this place, to appreciate the trees, wetlands, mountains, streams,
dunes, and rivers as part of a larger weave of that which sustains us
and deserves our care. By gathering together, sitting in Council,
sharing local food, good company and even better stories, we can
consider what it would mean to see ourselves as citizens of this
watershed rather than as individual landowners or residents.
Each of us has
lived the story of how we came to be here – even if we are just
visiting for the weekend. My own journey of be-longing began many
years ago on a trip to Africa, when I had the opportunity to camp in
the bush and experience a deep silence I had not previously known.
When I returned to Santa Barbara, where I lived at the time, I could
not sleep in the ‘noise’ of my quiet suburban neighborhood. I
even began to hear the electricity humming in the walls late at
night, when the rest of the city had gone to sleep. And so began a
quest for silence, or at least for a place where natural sounds
rather than human-made sounds predominated.
The story of that
trip is nested, in turn, within a larger story of my work in Liberia,
West Africa (the recent epicenter of the deadly Ebola epidemic that
is ultimately a result of human encroachment and destruction of
healthy natural habitat.) When I slept in that African silence, I was
traveling with a group of Liberian former child soldiers who, since
2006, have been part of the extended family of our peacebuilding
non-profit organization, everyday gandhis
(www.everydaygandhis.org).
Liberia was settled
by freed slaves from America that were sent back to West Africa in
the early 1820’s. They suffered greatly, even as they subjugated
the indigenous people there, usurped the most fertile coastal lands
and installed themselves as the ruling class, forcing people off
their ancestral lands. As in so many places around the world,
including here, unhealed trauma is passed from generation to
generation. In Liberia’s case, this trauma was compounded by the
cold war, machinations of the CIA and continuing resource extraction
by multinational corporations with little regard for the environment
or local people. In 1989 a civil war erupted that lasted until 2004.
It was a war that became infamous for the widespread use of child
soldiers, with over 20,000 children forcibly conscripted by both
government and rebel troops into lives of violence. Many people today
find a parallel in gang violence.
Since
2006, peacebuilders from everyday gandhis have been working
with several former child soldiers in Liberia. These young men were
forcibly conscripted when they were 11, 12 and 13 years old. They
were drugged and starved and forced to commit atrocities. When we met
them in December of 2006, they were emaciated, deeply traumatized,
and drunk or high most of the time. Their healing journey has been
remarkable in that they have dedicated themselves not only to their
own healing but to becoming peacemakers in their community. They call
themselves the Future Guardians of Peace, a new identity that frees
them from the confinements of the either-or labels of victim and
perpetrator. As a result of their war experiences, they have a deep
commitment to peace and healing. Now, Lassana and Varlee, two of the
original ‘Future Guardians of Peace’ are studying at colleges
here in the US, with the unshakeable intention of returning home to
contribute to the healing of their beloved Liberia. These two young
men visit me often here in Mendocino. Some of you reading this
article may have met them or might meet them soon. In fact, last
winter they were here on the coast. During that visit, the loss of
their childhood was particularly poignant when we went to a friend’s
house on New Year’s Day. Her grandson was there playing with his
new Lego set. Lassana and Varlee were mesmerized! It was their first
experience ever playing with toys. My friend told me later, that as
we were leaving with goodbyes and kisses at the front door, Lassana
gave her a warm hug and said, “I have never just sat and played a
game like that. I have never even thought of sitting like that and
playing a game.” She said it drove home the home of the
heartbreaking loss of their childhood more than anything else she had
heard – and guess what they got for their next birthdays: Lego
sets!
There
is much talk these days of the ‘global village’. But what does
this actually mean, in terms of our understanding here in the US? One
of the most beautiful experiences of life in Africa is the experience
of community. As in Nature, each individual and each group is part of
an extended kin-net. Our friend, Sawo, a former member of the
everyday gandhis staff in Liberia, once tried to explain some
of these kinship relationships to me: Sawo’s tribe, the Lorma, is
considered to be an ‘uncle’ to the Mandingo tribe. Thus, Sawo is
an uncle to Mamedi, a Mandingo man on the everyday gandhis
team. But Mamedi is older than Sawo, thus he is Sawo’s father and
Sawo is therefore also Mamedi’s son. Since Mamedi and Sawo are both
‘leopard taboo’ (ie Leopard is their totem animal, another
relationship with particular protocol and responsibilities), they are
also brothers. And, because the Mandingo and the Lorma fought against
each other during the civil war, they were at one time enemies. Last
but not least, there are religious affiliations: Sawo is Christian
and traditional/animist, Mamedi is Muslim. Just between these two
men, then, there are at least five distinct, overlapping
relationships. I wonder how many words they have in their language
for relationships. My Zapotec friends once told me they have over 150
distinct words for various family relationships. Sawo and Mamedi may
have that beat. In the larger community, there are also additional
layers of relationship within initiatory spiritual societies, clans,
chiefdoms, quarters, districts, counties, business associations and
intermarriages. Thus in Liberia individual identity is subsumed by a
collective and complex ‘we’, which explains, in part, why the war
as well as the peace process - and now the Ebola epidemic, could
spread so fast. Add to this the historical and post-war trauma of the
people and of the land itself, the trees, soils, water and animals
that have been fought over and now violated by mining and timber
concessions (not unlike our beloved Mendocino) and we begin to see
that, rather than only being ‘me’, we are all, literally, part of
the larger ‘We’ – including the fact that every human being on
Earth is descended from common African ancestral DNA.
We
are the ‘we’ who bask in these delicious, alarmingly warm autumn
days. (I am barefoot and the rhododendrons are blooming!). We are the
‘we’ who are thankful for rain even as the drought persists. We
are the ‘we’ who gaze at the sea that reaches all the way to
melting ice. Perhaps We have native roots, or We are immigrants or
children of immigrants, fleeing violence or seeking a better life. We
are the ‘we’ whose forebears came to this land and could not see
its fullness nor the complexity and expertise of the people who were
already here. The ‘We’ whose forebears bought and sold slaves and
sent them to colonize the descendants of their distant relatives in
their original homeland. The ‘We’ who buy redwood and drive cars.
The ‘We’ who have come here seeking respite, seeking healing,
seeking to create change.
There
is a Zen saying: If you ask the right question you don’t need an
answer. If we ask the right questions, if we inhabit the
questions as the central organizing principle of our lives, we will
know how to live. As this year draws to a close, we have an
opportunity to take certain questions to heart that will guide and
sustain us into the New Year - and beyond.
Who
are We - to ourselves and to each other?
How
do We express our love for this place, and for the Earth as a whole?
What
does it mean to belong to a watershed?
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