"We say that humans have the least experience with how to live and thus the most to learn—we must look to our teachers among the other species for guidance. Their wisdom is apparent in the way that they live. They teach us by example. They’ve been on the earth far longer than we have been, and have had time to figure things out.”
― Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants
The crescendo of Cicada's song foretold the rains. Their hums resonated in the canopy above, but once they suddenly stopped, the skies opened and poured.
Those sounds surrounded me about a year ago in the forests of Ecuador. Today I listen to a new orchestra: the dissonance of car horns, ambulance sirens, and the occasional outcry of excitement or frustration. I never imagined myself living in New York City, even though my familial roots extend here. This metropolis floods with stimulus, but as I try to make sense of it, I grasp for air when I plunge too deep.
In this overwhelm I often forget. I forget about gratitude. About lightness. Play. I forget that death is followed by rebirth.
I am reminded of these gifts from family, friends, and teachers, and I am incredibly grateful for my family and friends' support throughout this distressing year. If you are taking the time to read this and can find a sunny spot, please take a moment and imagine that those warm rays are my deep gratitude radiating out to you.
While I could write about this appreciation for hours, I would like to share some lessons I've learned from the teachers I've met since living here...
Sea Raven
I saw you diving for food in the River as the wind knocked me off-balance on a tempestuous, clouded day. Grabbing the rail to stabilize me, I stared into the choppy water and guessed where you'd resurface. A hooked beak emerged from the aggressive waves, followed by a fleck of orange and a long, dark neck. After just a few seconds of observing your head sail on the surface, you swiftly dove back in search of fish (and maybe the occasional crustacean or amphibian). We played this game until you strayed too far for me to find you again. You could stay underwater for 30-70 seconds at a time, and nearly reach the River's floor. Your agility underwater is because you secrete less preening oil than most other waterbirds, however, this also means that you spend long periods sunning yourself to dry your wings since your feathers are less water-repellent.
I've known you as Double-crested Cormorant, or Phalacrocorax auritus, and now I feel I know you more and would like to call you Cormorant, which is a combination of the Latin words corvus and marinus. Together they translate to "sea raven."
Juniperus virginiana
When most trees began to drop their leaves, you grew fruit. In the great slumber of winter, you provided shelter for birds, squirrels, rats, mice, and so many others. I saw Robins and Starlings satiate themselves on your pale blue "berries." It amazes me that these fruits are actually your cones, considering you're a conifer (which is Latin's conus, or cone, and ferre, to bear). When your seeds pass through the digestive tract of birds, they are three times more likely to germinate than those that fall to the ground. I understand why you treat them so sweetly.
The Lenape, who are the Indigenous people of the Northeastern Woodlands, use you in medicine and ceremony. Your wood has many uses in tools and crafts, and your needles, berries, and fresh twigs have treated a variety of illnesses, such as rheumatism and skin problems. In ceremony, your needles are burned and the smoke from them is used as a purifying incense. This commonly takes place after death, along with your water mixture to wash a widow/widower's head. You carry cedar camphor or cedrol oil, which is an insecticide, though it's also used in soaps, deodorants, and perfumes. Colonizers profited from the insect-repelling qualities of your wood, which was commonly used for clothes chests and closets to deter moths. You are resilient to unfavorable growing conditions, such as drought and cold, and take root in nutrient-lacking soils.
All of your names. Common names. Scientific name. Family. Genus. It's our fault entirely. You probably don't care what you're called, and neither do the Waxwings. We name you Juniperus virginiana, to label you as a juniper in the cypress family, however, you're more commonly referred to as "Eastern Redcedar" or simply, "Red Cedar"...
None of this matters, but I personally think of Donovan's "Jennifer Juniper" when I see you.
Mimickingbird
“Once upon a time, when women were birds, there was the simple understanding that to sing at dawn and to sing at dusk was to heal the world through joy. The birds still remember what we have forgotten, that the world is meant to be celebrated.”― Terry Tempest Williams, When Women Were Birds: Fifty-four Variations on Voice
I heard you. Over the traffic of the West Side Highway next to us. Above the pounding of jackhammers and excavators constructing the newest luxury high-rise. Through the chatter of lunchtime exercisers and the clatter of dog collars running along Hudson River Park. Into my ear canal that was obstructed by headphones transmitting a loud audiobook. I heard you.
Your songs are infamous in lullabies and literature, but which ones are yours? I heard Sparrow's trill from your beak. Then Robin's chitters. I did not expect the hammering rhythm and cadence that parodied the nearby construction. They are all yours. Like many songbirds, you wear muted colors. Unlike many songbirds, you boldly project your melodies in open spaces that draw attention to yourself. Although I'm sure you use your contrasting gray upper plumage and white underbelly to camouflage with the environment, it never takes me long to spot you because you place yourself on open telephone wires and bare tree branches. You don't seem to mind being noticed. By making your presence known, you unapologetically defend your native land with a call that's unique to you which warns invaders to back off.
Mimus is Latin for "mimic" and polyglottos is Ancient Greek for "many tongue/harmonious." But you never mock, Northern Mockingbird, just observes and adapt.
Mugwort
What is a "weed"? An unwanted plant? Undesirable? In the wrong place? Invasive. I was tasked to pull you. To rip you from the ground, even though I know your extensive root system often stays behind and leads to more growth. The garden beds transform into battlegrounds when horticulturalists see your hairy, pinnately lobed leaves break free from the soil, but this annual "war" seems pointless. Your arrival each spring inevitably leads to some of your flowers reproducing in early fall. You've befriended the wind and can release up to 200,000 small seeds that easily disperse in a breeze.
I have never felt more humbled than when I stood in your forest and gripped the base of your stems that extended feet beyond me to uproot you with all of my strength. There were times you resisted and dug yourself deeper, making me fall back onto the earth. You left marks on my arms and soreness in my hands, leaving no question as to who is stronger. You're native to Europe and eastern Asia, so you were introduced here. Intentionally and unintentionally, this story repeats itself in our narrative of trade, colonization, industrialization, and more.
A jar of you sits on my counter, next to other dried herbs, flowers, and roots. I've sewn you into pillows and regularly drink your tea during different parts of the moon and my cycle. With lucidity and remembrance, you lead me to the dream realm. Christine Blystone's poem about you on Velvetback's Plant Ally Talismans card articulates it best.
By volunteering yourself in disturbed natural areas, you prevent erosion and restore soil life. You just do it really, really well...to the point where you outcompete other plants that may be better suited for the area. So that's why I filled wheelbarrows with your tall, hardy stems, silvery leaves, and rhizomatous roots last fall. I'll see you again in a few weeks.
Hibiscus
I saw you safely cocooned with your eyes closed tightly, then investigating with wonder
rupturing, apricating, radiating, exposing, and when it was time to let go
I saw you return.
But I never imagined I'd be able to admire all of your cycles at once.
The River that Flows Both Ways
These moments hold lessons, and those lessons hold me.
It's extremely important to acknowledge that these reflections have been greatly influenced and inspired by teachers within the human species that I'd also like to honor. Robin Wall Kimmerer is an expert bryologist (the study of mosses, liverworts, and hornworts), a Distinguished Teaching Professor of Environmental and Forest Biology at the SUNY College of Environmental Science and Forestry, the founding Director of the Center for Native Peoples and the Environment, an enrolled member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation, a mother, and much more. Dr. Kimmerer's books Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants and Gathering Moss: A Natural and Cultural History of Mosses have introduced me to Traditional Ecological Knowledge (TEK) and the intersection of Indigenous wisdom and scientific perspectives. Each page holds a revelation, as does her presence in lectures and shorter essays, such as THE SERVICEBERRY An Economy of Abundance.
In her article Nature Needs a New Pronoun: To Stop the Age of Extinction, Let’s Start by Ditching “It”, Dr. Kimmerer informs: "In English, we never refer to a person as 'it.' Such a grammatical error would be a profound act of disrespect. 'It' robs a person of selfhood and kinship, reducing a person to a thing." She later advocates for a new pronoun to describe living beings on Earth, and suggests the words "ki" (singular) and "kin" (plural). This echoes a term that Dennis Martinez, the chair of the Indigenous Peoples' Restoration Network (IPRN), coined: "kincentricity." His full interview, Native Perspectives on Sustainability: Dennis Martinez, can be found on Queer Nature's website in the Resources & Further Reading list. Below is an excerpt from Martinez's interview that describes why he created this word:
"...we are constantly evaluating or describing the world in an 'either/or' way. Either we are biocentric, say Deep ecology, or we’re anthropocentric, major exploitive, extractive industry, like logging. And kincentricity is that middle or gray area between, the middle way, where we have a relationship not only with our immediate biological family, our extended family, our tribe, our clan, our community, but also with plants and animals out in the natural world, so relationship is the key idea in terms of kincentricity, Kin." ― Dennis Martinez, Native Perspectives on Sustainability
In addition to shifting our perspectives about nature, TEK has a vital role in modern ecological management. After centuries of colonizers denying and criminalizing many traditional practices from Indigenous communities around the world, western science finally begins to catch up to their ancestral knowledge. So what's caused this change? One of the biggest changes our and future generations face: climate change.
Ron Reed, who is a Cultural Biologist, Traditional Dip Net Fisherman, and member of the Karuk Tribe states: "We are trying to get back to an intact world. Climate change can be a vehicle for that because of the awareness it brings to so many about limitations in the current management practices. We believe there is genuine interest in Karuk perspectives about how to care for the land, we offer these explanations in the hopes that this is true."
The Karuk Tribe's territory extends along the Klamath River in California and is one of the many land areas and communities that have been experiencing more devastating fire seasons in recent years. These changes in fire behavior are results of both climate change and poor management actions that have excluded traditional practices, such as cultural burning. The terms "controlled" or "prescribed" burns may be more familiar, however, they have been appropriated from many Indigenous communities who have used fire to tend to the land for thousands of years prior to colonization. Using them without acknowledging their Indigenous origins perpetuates the systemic racism in science and erasure of Indigenous culture.
In 2019, the Karuk Tribe released a Climate Adaptation Plan that weaves TEK together with western science to address climate change solutions in the mid-Klamath region by restoring Karuk tribal management. These efforts feature the partnership between tribal, federal, state, NGO, and local partners, which is a crucial model for environmental regulation moving forward. There are many other examples of this collaboration and restoration/expansion of tribal management for climate resiliency, such as the Yurok Tribe, who are also located along the Klamath River and extends to all adaptation strategies.
Back across to another river, I walk next to the waters where Sea Raven dives, Juniperus virginiana fruits, Mimickingbird sings, Mugwort runs, and Hibiscus blooms. These lessons observed on the ancestral land of the Lenape, Lenapehoking, continue to ground me in perspective and patience. The Lenape of Manahatta (what is now "Manhattan") were the original stewards of the ground I currently stand on, and learning their history, diaspora, and where they are today is essential.
This publication from the Smithsonian National Museum of the American Indian includes a comprehensive history and the information below to learn where the Lenape communities are today:
Delaware Nation
Anadarko, Oklahoma
Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape Indians of New Jersey
Bridgetown New Jersey
Ramapough Lenape Indian Nation
Mahwah, New Jersey
Delaware First Nation/ Moravian of the Thames First Nation
Thamesville, Ontario, Canada
Delaware Tribe of Indians
Bartlesville, Oklahoma
Steeped in gratitude, I am thankful. Thankful to my family who support me, to my friends who inspire me to continue learning, to my teachers of all species who challenge me, and to the kin who surround me, such as the River once called Shatemuc, meaning "The River that Flows Both Ways" (where dolphins were seen just yesterday).
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