Two week ago, I sat with a group of American Indian Elders. And listened. What I heard, and didn’t hear, I’ve never heard and not heard before.
I met them along with Laurie Young of the DNR to discuss land, parks and trails, and Legacy funding (see this April post). We’ve had seventeen meetings with Minnesotans throughout the state—wonderful, thoughtful meetings. But the core of these meetings was business stuff—how much to spend it, where to spend it, why to spend it.
The Elders did not talk about these things. To them, land and water are spiritual beings, with as much right to exist in their pure form (unpolluted, unexploited, undisturbed) as humans. There is equilibrium and harmony between humans and nature.
Yeah, well, that’s great you might say. But how the blazes does that help us plan for parks and trails? Here are some of the pertinent questions that arose for me:
-- Can we imagine a system of “public” lands, where public is not defined as owned and operated by the government, but rather, as held jointly in stewardship by all Minnesotans to enjoy and care for, with the only proviso that the land be respected?
-- Is “recreation” too narrow a word? Throughout Minnesota, people spoke of their favorite outdoor recreation—hiking, camping, snowmobiling, horseback riding—all of which are “to do” in nature. Shouldn’t we broaden this to “to be” or “to commune” in nature? The American Indian Elders spoke of the importance of land to their scared ceremonies. In other meetings, Hmong Elders spoke of the importance of land to community gatherings. If we want to instill a deeper sense of connection to nature, are we handcuffing ourselves by limiting our thinking to "recreation?"
--The Elders spoke of memories and traditions gifted to them f
rom their parents and grandparents. Likewise, Minnesotans across the state told of cherished childhood memoires that aroused a love of nature. Over the next 25 years, what traditions do we impart, what gift do we leave that personally touches each and every Minnesota child?
A few words about what I did not hear, for the silence was as loud as the talking. The Elders shared vivid memoires of repression—land takings, language takings, religious takings, cultural takings. Yet they told these stories without rancor. They left no doubt they felt brutally wronged, but also made clear by the absence of vitriol that no brutality can disturb who they are as a people. It was this sense of understanding and purpose in heir lives that shaped the telling of their stories, not spite.
And, I’m afraid I’ll never be in another gathering like this again. When an elder was speaking, everyone else listened. They listened as if every word was filled with wisdom. Indeed every word was filled with wisdom because it came from a place of truth in the speaker’s heart. Imagine if we all listened like that!
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