She has always been our precious gift, the one who almost didn’t stay. After 48 hours of labor, she drowned in meconium within the womb, stopped and started, a survivor. She has the presence of an enlightened master, her words, a seven-year-old’s whimsey, and the heart of Juliet. I am brought back 25 years, and like a child, I want to cry out in anguish to the gods, save her! Her birth was the beginning of a spiritual quest for our family, and now it all seems to hang like a single strand of spider’s silk in the air. What was so certain near months or years ago is suddenly, so fragile.

I’ve got this new-fangled vehicle that has lights which follow the rounding road. Like a voluptuous woman, it’s sexy. I’m enveloped by sheets of white, replaying our circumstances, driving slowly, but rushing. As I pull up, father calls me, desperate, why haven’t I arrived? “I’m PARKING, dad.” God, sometimes I really do sound like a valley girl.

I enter a frenzy. Dad is grabbing at her face; she’s trying to swallow the poetry magnets which have lived on the side of our refrigerator door since 1997. I can remember trying to come up with the most perverted poetry and she is trying to gag on the words. I fish three out of her mouth. I pry open my beloved sister’s jaws, and gently survey with one finger, trying to let her know, despite my firmness, that I care. She doesn’t bite me. She could have torn my digit off at the knuckle if she wanted. Like pebbles, they spill out. I bring her closer, wrap her in the biggest hug I’ve ever given, holding her down with my love. For a moment, we are still.

As simply as a waterfall succumbs to gravity, she cries. Sobs with a mouth like a jack-o-lantern, I hold her, stroking her hair, moving her over to the couch. It reminds me of when I was little and I’d dance with my dad by standing on his feet and swaying, to the real funky jazz. This was the warm up to the twirls and overhead maneuvers which would catch the whole bar’s attention. What was I doing in a bar? I don’t know, it was the 1980s. I am pretty sure I got the liveliest years of pop’s 3 sires. Now, he is missing a colon, and attempting a fast for a pilgrimage despite spending a night in the hospital three days ago, and since my step-mom is gone in Mexico, I am the last resort to stop my sister’s sudden unrelenting reign of self-harm.

I bring her over to the couch, set her down, holding her tighter than a straightjacket. She negotiates the terms of her death. “I don’t want another number, 25 is old enough, I want to kill myself.” Over and over. I stroke her hair, moaning my understanding, without agreeing, without abiding, this is a very distinct sound. A low hum, almost an echo, but careful not to condone her sentiment. She falls into my arms and heaves in tearful waves. Rests, then like a burst tries to escape. But she doesn’t realize I have a vice grip on my wrist and she cannot overcome my strength. Maya has always been fastidious, protected, joyful, reliable. What has possibly entered her like a poltergeist?

My beautiful youngest sibling, Sequoia, is in protective custody with my boyfriend. This whole mess is really shitty considering this is the week of her lead in the senior play, and she has always had to be the healthy child and my parents aren’t okay with her being trans and still call her he. I’m working on they pronouns with my folks which now seems an offensive goal to be honest.

I don’t want to mention the pandemic, but loss after loss has dropped, like when a weight is thrown over a height and one by one, the anchors snap. My cousin Robert last June hung himself. Only four months in. He was my favorite on my paternal line by far. We would talk about Viking cosmology and the revolution. He was caught up with a narcissist, he was going through BLM riots in San Diego as a young black man (his dad, already deceased, my uncle, like me, is white). He was hit over the head by a pig’s Billy club, short on cash, living in hotels, boozing and using the cocaine he used to sell as a side hustle. I couldn’t believe he didn’t call me. I would have moved mountains to be near him and beg him to live. His death was a punch to the throat. I couldn’t speak or breath. Only heave. For days.

Then Joe Traina. When the shit hit I was in New York City for the Bernie campaign. I was sent forcibly home to my Silverlake craftsman, where I wasn’t wanted, and that I quickly wanted to escape. Like a pair of jeans with a zipper and fly, it was just, no longer comfortable. I’m a community organizer and people needed help. My room mates were not okay with me leaving the house and coming into contact with others, especially high-risk others like our unhoused neighbors. Totally understandable. I was going to leave anyways after Bernie, and this early return was not-so-pleasant. So, I co-founded a collective with Joe and Blanca and Jonathan and X and Y and Z (who chose to remain anonymous). He drove across the country from Georgia and we moved from Airbnb to Airbnb and fed people and marched, and got things done. Then my cousin died, I fell in love, and hit the road. But he was still doing the thing, with the love of his life Jessica, who also happens to be the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. Her heart shines from the inside. He got Covid, bad, and no amount of prayers or the treatments available in South LA County in January 2021 could save him. We prayed, we pleaded, we cried, we organized and nothing could be done. Only 33 and gone.

My whole family got Covid, my dad lost his colon and nearly died. Friends with cancer. My beloved ex-step-father Wendell, dead at 56 from a heart attack, leaving behind a 6 year old son. My college acting teacher, dead suddenly, I don’t know how. Everybody at each other’s throats, locked indoors, screaming online, breaking into the capital for some white bullshit, a cacophony.

In the middle of all of this, I found love like a sanctuary and we did all the things in short succession. Travelled, Covid style, and nested, from Airbnb to Airbnb and moved to another city where housing was more affordable, near my family, and bought a small home in a nice neighborhood so we wouldn’t be gentrifiers, and worked from home and tried not to be useless or silent or only together completely. But we were careful, and saw people in 2 week increments and as safely as possible, and cooked good meals, and went on long walks, and got pudgy and loved each other through it all.

But now, in November, things seem on the brink. Like whatever strength we had, that herculean rush which kept us outrunning the wave, is waning. Our economy, the climate, civilization, on the brink. My precious sister, on the brink and breaking in ways I can’t begin to understand. How does an innocent lose the will to live and even more disturbingly want to die with such a passion?

After three days in the hospital she returns home, and most of the time, her malaise, is a dark cloudy sky, but a relief. We will find some answers soon, we think. My dreams are vivid. I prepare for a new chapter. I feel like my body is being transported between two dimensions, through a torus. I’m doing work that I care about, and it is good work, but I don’t talk about it because everything is controversial and there are no clear ideologies anymore. Social media no longer interests me. I can walk four miles with just my thoughts. And sleep without trashy TV. And these feel like huge wins. I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. I’m just trying to talk some sense into people I love. I’m holding them, in my arms, like a straightjacket.

I was hoping I could get ten warm bodies to Standing Rock before the eviction on February 22, 2017. Ten people, from all the friends who had expressed interest and all the people who had been there and were feeling a call to go back in the final days of Oceti Oyate: the frontline NO DAPL encampment. I was hoping I could raise $11,000 to cover plane tickets for those ten warm bodies, rent a monster truck, a passenger van, and a couple recovery nights at the Prarie Knights Casino ten miles down the road from Oceti. Instead I raised just over $2,000 which went to help myself and one other activist get there, rent a monstrous truck for 10 days, buy supplies needed for the breakdown, tobacco for the folks at camp, and some financial support for the family who ran Oglala Kitchen, in a shocking turn of events on the day of the eviction. To everyone who contributed, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Every single dollar went towards helping clean-up in those final, epic and challenging days of Oceti Oyate.

I knew a lot of the water protectors who returned to camp to help in the final days. There were the Veterans Respond, the group at Red Lightning (who built the Dome which was used for many a meeting throughout its service), my dear friends with Digital Smoke Signals, who ran an epic operation of drone flights all over DAPL territory and a nonstop media production unit, Max Mogren and his road warriors who spent their days throwing hay on the roads in their noble attempts to keep them passable, and of course the familiar faces who had stayed on the ground for months, their cheeks weathered from frost and eyes bright with the innumerable sacred moments camp life provides: an epoch had passed since I’d been there two months before. Still, there were not enough hands. There were not nearly enough hands. People were evacuating and situating their own camps in new locations. There were two new camps at Sacred Stone known as 7th Generation and Eagle’s Nest, though these would meet their own demise just days after the military occupation of Oceti when BIA agents sent in by the Standing Rock Sioux Tribal Counsel forced their evacuation. Then there was the Cheyenne River or Four Teepees camp located just down the road on 1806 which was the only camp on safely leased property, with a population cap of 75.

We entered in a sacred way, and I got to know Robert White Mountain, as we made ties together for a beautifully hot, full, and long sweat that lasted past midnight. The prayer was powerful, intense, and strong. The weather, which had every structure iced into the ground, took a turn for the much warmer after certain geo-engineering. On my first day I helped the folks at Red Lightening free the dome from ice, and pull off the cover, a beautifully cinematic moment that took a crew of 6 eight hours to produce, and a team of 30 to actually pull off in the final moments. All day as I hacked into the ice I noticed planes flying above us, a chris-cross of chemtrails over the sky. Soon the temperature rose by 20 degrees, and the entire camp became mud. It was a good thing I rented the truck because it was one of the few working vehicles in the final days. And during our endless journeys back and forth across the mud lake, even it got stuck three times. It was used as a tow truck, it was used to evacuate a yurt to South Dakota, it was used to move wood burning stoves, and teepees, and food and gear to higher ground and out of camp. To be frank, most of the white allies seemed to have themselves pretty situated. Many of the indigenous families who had been there for months had less resources available to help with the evacuation. Also, collectively, folks did not know where to turn our attention.

Much useful energy was diverted in setting up new and beautiful camps that would soon be lost and preparing for the coming potentially violent military occupation, and less than optimal amounts of energy were focused on actually evacuating sacred objects and valuable gear. People were there in many capacities, doing important work on many fronts. I turned my attention to helping the Oglala, who had been promised a crew that seemed to never show up, too busy in their own operations at Eagle’s Nest. So we cobbled together volunteers and took down the most important structures, including a sacred longhouse, packed together the most important belongings, and moved them into two little houses on the hill above the flood-plane, Grandma Dorothy insisting they would stay past the eviction. I spent hours with trash bags by the river, finding Matter Out Of Place everywhere. You could spend an entire day just towing people out of the mud, it was that thick, the paths dangerous even in four wheel vehicles. Once the Army Corps brought in the heavy machinery, any hope of passing through at all was completely demolished. I was a road warrior, who drove like a maniac, surfing the mud like a monster truck derby, and praying every single time that I could make it to dryish ground by the sacred fire. We needed that truck.

The trailer I fundraised for and brought with team Sustain Standing Rock in early December became home again for those days. It sat on the horn, surrounded on all sides by lakes of mud. And as the weather shifted it became clear it needed a new home, or it would be stuck and impounded on eviction day. On what was truly the last morning with any ice over the mud, Joe, the head of construction, helped us tow her out. We practiced our route and went for it, getting all the way to the South Gate exit before his bumper fell loose on his trusty work truck. With a smile and a kick to the old rusted bumper he laughed that he was glad not to have to pull anyone else out of the forsaken mud. Of course at that very moment an elder drove by and offered to get our dear Canadian Bacon up to the Four Teepees Camp, and I gave him an entire pack of American Spirit Organics, like gold. So we unhitched her again, and set her up, door facing east, in a patch of corn and horse manure at the new campgrounds. She is safe, and currently residing in South Dakota, where a No KXL Camp is in the planning phase. It’s not official yet, but keep an ear out for a Keystone camp on Res Land, coming soon.

Every day there were meetings on the bridge with the Army Corps of Engineers, representatives from the Governor’s office and with Holy Elk, our chosen go between. She is such a brave warrior, a protector to the highest, that I will always admire and send thanks to. Through the end she stood tall and advocated for the most peaceful and humane outcome. I went to a few of the meetings, us relating human to human, every day the same response. The eviction date stood. Despite the weather, despite our seemingly miraculous progress considering the lack of people, despite the fact the flood they predicted was nowhere near, despite the fact that elders and children had no place to go, despite treaty rights, despite the first amendment of the constitution. In spite of everything, 2/22 was it, no matter what.

There had been so many false threats in the months leading up to 2/22, and many folks did not believe the camp would be successfully shut down. But as the situation became clearer, a steely gaze, a prideful prayer, fell into the eyes of those who chose to remain. They would come, the men with the guns and the tanks would come and many, many, would stand, even in the face of certain arrest and possible violence. The time around the sacred fire became absolutely precious, the gift of tobacco and sage, a salutation. The end of something can be so very, very beautiful and each of us soaked our moments up, tucking them away for safekeeping inside our hearts. There were two nights of no sleeping and ceremony for me in those precious ten days. There were two nights in a hotel, and three showers. There were countless hugs, countless bags of potato chips (that’s what you get for camping with a Vegan in the Dakotas), fry bread and the most tender Buffalo Stew you’ve ever had.

On the last night I stayed late by the pow-wow at Two Kettles Camp, the drum a constant heartbeat there. In the wee hours I walked with a friend around the many bonfires burning across the plain, offering tobacco. I ran into Sonya who I knew from the Taos Pueblo Camp during my first trip, and we shared laughter and courage, her camp close enough to the DAPL lights that you could have shouting matches across the line, and they would. As the first crest of sunrise came up we were greeted by snow. I prayed by myself on the icy river. Two giant Hogons burned to the ground. I had friends that were supposed to be sleeping in one, so I ran to it in a panic, but was told the fire was controlled. However the tarpees behind the structure hadn’t been cleared and I woke up two friends of mine that were sleeping in them. It felt dangerous to me. Fires started all across camp, people choosing to burn structures rather than have them desecrated by the armed forces. We prayed the morning in at the seventh generation kitchen, and word had it that the very sacred White Buffalo Calf Woman Pipe and bundle was praying with us that day, for the first time in over 100 years. We passed messages person to person throughout the morning, as anyone seen to be a leader could be up for felonies for “inciting a riot” and we were under constant surveillance. There would be a safe-zone, there would be ample time to get out. The authorities were playing nice. We certainly all held a very strong and clear prayer.

I had been tasked with getting some youth to South Dakota, and it involved me borrowing a car to drive up the road and retrieve my truck, then driving on. I had left the rental outside of camp in case the road block turned hard in the morning. The Oglala packed up the last of their belongings and we got Robert White Mountain’s trailer out of the mud, everything seemed squared away except for the camp Love Water Truck, which would end up being impounded. When I had stopped by to tow it out two days before no one was there, and so it goes… The kids had to get the last of their things out, and I went to the sacred fire for the prayer and walkout. My dear friend Uncle Raymond Kingfisher had us in tears with his eloquence. Grandmother Dorothy plastered our cheeks with mud and buffalo blood. We sang and circled together, then we marched out the north gate and down the road, heads held high, tears tucked just behind the eyes. I held the line to keep the media back, facing the drummers and singers, holding space for them, walking backwards, the moment seared into my heart like a brand.

I barely noticed the ambulances go by, but as the march concluded I ran the long road to the North Gate, looking for my people, ready to leave before the 2 PM deadline. Then I heard the terrible news, that two of the children from Oglala camp had been injured badly in a structure fire. From what I was told, they were inside one of the tarpees (a tipi made out of plywood and thick plastic) getting some last things, and it had exploded in flame. Their relative was nearby and pulled the 17 year old girl out, putting her in the mud, but she had bad burns all over her face. The ten year old boy had burns on his face and hands. They had been taken to Bismark in an ambulance. The boy’s father and sister were still in camp. I of course offered to drive them to the hospital. I was enraged. I ran out into the mud-field, crying out in fury. How could folks be so careless, why was it children that had to be hurt? I screamed loudly and wanted to throw rocks, to run to the crowd in the distance and yell how fucked up they were. I was called back by a sister who calmed me down, breathing deeply with me. I had to help now.

At the hospital the family wasn’t allowed in to see the boy for quite some time. The girl had been airlifted to a special burn unit in Minnesota, and neither of her brothers had been let in the helicopter. It took over an hour for the boy’s father to see him, and everyone was questioned by federal agents. I called legal and got them out there to stop the intimidation. It was an accident, but the agents were very concerned about booby trapped structures and weapons at Oceti. There were none. Finally I drove the gang back to a South Dakota safe house, got a couple hours of shuteye, and then drove back to Bismarck for my early morning flight. The military invasion held off until the 23rd. On the 22nd they violently sent independent media running: arresting four and badly hurting one journalist’s hip when they threw him to the ground. Many of the elders left the next morning, as the tanks lined up and drove down the hill. There was plenty of time to escape if you wanted. However Grandmother Regina and protectors from the Veterans stayed: my friends Evan Duke and Ed Higgins arrested for her stand. The fire-keepers stayed, and there was fantastic visual media coverage by Unicorn Riot, who live-streamed for tens of thousands through a Facebook feed that day. I encourage you to watch and see for yourself the level of force used to arrest the 44 souls brave enough to stay until the very end.

I was on a plane, watching through my phone, the final moments of Oceti Oyate. And though we scattered like seeds, the movement continues. The seed planted in those final days of camp grows in the hearts of everyone who shared those days together. Now we move towards other pipeline camps and to divestment campaigns in each of our own places called home, in each step we take onward. All of us (and this includes you) have waters and lands to protect, everywhere that we travel. The fossil fuel industry, supported by the US Government and Military, is coming for you: they are poisoning waters across the country and de-regulating our environmental protections. The indigenous tribes are bearing the brunt of the force now, but they will come for everyone. I encourage every single person who has read this far to think about what they can do to protect the waters and lands that give us all life, and how we will stand up for a future for our coming generations. I know that this is a cause I will carry with me for the rest of my days, in every step that I take from this day forward. The water protectors at Standing Rock will always be water protectors, we have been moved, and we will stand. Will you stand with us?

Standing Rock Cleanup Crew: the True Story was originally published in Extra Newsfeed on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I’ve just returned home, from Oceti Sakowin, the front line encampment at Standing Rock. The first central fire has been put out, and a new one has been lit, called Oceti Oyate, or “All People’s Fire.” The mission has entered a new phase, and the youth have taken the mantle of the fire, one held for unity of all peoples, all relatives, and for the sake of the children seven generations hence. As I sit here with the memories of my few short days in camp, the memories of the journey there and back, the memories of our efforts to fund-raise and to gather donations, that we offered and were accepted with full hearts, I think of story, of how to tell the story of one woman, one small team, the small but heartfelt impact we made at camp, and the huge impact being in that space of prayerful, peaceful, community activism has left on me. This is a story that exists on multiple levels: in the physical realm and in the spiritual. It is one that exists in practical terms, in the doing, in the going, in the gathering of supplies and support from our communities. It also exists in the synchronistic, in the call of the heart, in the prayer, in the gathering of sacred sage, in the meeting of kindred souls in the eyes of those we saw there.

I have long been on a path of learning in connection to indigenous wisdom and after years of experiencing native ceremony, my father’s ties as a shaman in the Huichol tradition of central Mexico, and my longtime participation in the Sacred Fire Community, my call to Standing Rock was hardly surprising. The uprising at Standing Rock is the convergence of the native sovereignty movement and environmental protection. There are the dynamics of continual betrayal of treaties by the US government, and the right of indigenous people (and by extension all people) to have consent when their water and land are threatened by fossil fuel infrastructure. With the invitation of the Standing Rock Sioux Nation, representatives of many, many indigenous nations and people from all over the world are coming together to stop the Dakota Access Pipeline. This invitation is also tied to prophesy from the Lakota people, the prophecy of the black snake. From this view, the black snake is the oil pipeline, and the seven tribes of the Lakota (which have had historical conflict) have come together to prevent this pipeline from crossing their river into their land. In some interpretations of the prophecy, the way this fight goes will determine the future for humanity, whether we rise together in unity, or fall to the forces of war and destruction. The stakes could not be higher.

In my own story, I was completely devastated by the results of the election. The outcome triggered fear, deep sadness, and plunged me into the shock of a world changed and yet unknown. The only similar comparison I could make would be the shock and devastation I felt in the aftermath of 9/11, when we entered the war against “terror” which has yet to close. Before the election I had reached out to dear friends with the intention of travelling to Standing Rock, yet, as the results streamed in and reality shifted, my conviction deepened. I also met someone election night, in the aftermath of that devastation, who would elevate our mission to a new level. Miller entered the story after buying a round of drinks at the Aria hotel bar, as the last stragglers of Hillary’s “victory” festivities streamed out. We hung out, raged angrily, and spoke of hope from what seemed the darkest point in the universe. I told him I was going to Standing Rock. He tilted his head sideways.

We decided to caravan back to Los Angeles together the next day, since hopelessness deserves company, even if it just means a car behind you making sure you make it all the way home. Over the coming weeks we stayed in touch, and I invited him to Standing Rock. When he decided to jump on board, he came up with the idea of bringing a winterized trailer there to provide shelter for long term protectors. Yes! Suddenly, we were buying a trailer to donate to camp, launching a Go Fund Me, and the project Sustain Standing Rock was in full swing, with a partnership forged in one of history’s most stunning moments. The way our mutual communities stepped forward with generous donations was incredible. Shortly our goal was surpassed and we had budget for wood burning stoves, propane heaters, wood, car repairs and a rack for an Oceti Snow Plow and security vehicle. Not to mention the incredible direct donations we gathered. My friend Shana put on a drive at her theater company and provided an abundance of winter gear and blankets. We received a beautiful propane stove, propane canisters, a drone, many blankets, much good winter gear, canned foods, gloves, hats, sub zero sleeping bags, and a dog kennel. We threw a righteous party at The Spirit Guild distillery here in Los Angeles to see us off. I resigned from my job, with sadness but with good wishes for the journey to come. We paid our own food, gear, and travel expenses. On the road we picked up Olive Oil, Oranges, and Beef from Miller’s family farms.

There are details of the journey I feel precious about preserving on some level. The long drives seemed to always get started in the blue light of late afternoon, as the days shortened in the approach to winter solstice. There was always more to do to prepare: more supplies to buy, more winterizing to be done, which had us leaving in the early afternoon and driving late into the night again and again. The sight of frozen December skies, the magenta sunsets that crossed the red rocks of Utah, etched themselves into my heart. We had a day of rest in Salt Lake, to catch a weather window, which had me flat with food poisoning, but only after an epic gear buy, and dry heaving in the parking lot of Wal Mart. Our friend Ana Christina’s car died in Moorcroft, Wyoming so we picked her and her friend James up, packed all their belongings into the trailer, and continued the journey as four. Finally we arrived at the Prairie Nights Casino in Cannonball, bringing a cell phone to camp leaders, and meeting them briefly as they worked late into the night.

And then there was the explosion of our entry into Oceti, this eagerness to give what we had, felt urgent. And I longed to linger in it, to have each passing of supplies have meaning and purpose. Both ways have their own touch of privilege in them, their touch of ego, and I recognized that as part of the lesson. How do you flow with how camp is held, under tribal authority and learn to be an effective ally? To neither unload your offerings in typical haste, nor treat your offerings as something so important and special. For there are thousands who have put their lives on hold to see this peaceful stand through until the lights of Dakota Access are removed from the sacred Turtle Hill. The memories of our time there swirl within me, in non-linear imprints of connected and present moments. On our first evening we met with two more soul sisters, Andi and Courtney, as we converged from four corners of the United States, and shared a meal of cheddar cheese and salami together in the yurt of Sonya, who is Taos Pueblo and living there for the long haul. I recall the abundant joy, bouncing back and forth over our three days between Oceti and Rosebud camps to give our gifts. The amount of gear I had to wear, my face poking into the cold, looking like a full white moon.

I remember the prayer: prayer, multiple times per day. A handful of sage, pressed with tobacco and cedar. Praying at the seven council fire, and at the central fire, to start and finish each day, and often several times a day in between to connect to heart and spirit. This journey is a pilgrimage done in service, done to give, to learn to be an ally, to stand in prayer. To come in prayer is to plant good seeds for our future. This journey a mark of the next chapter, connected back to the three year old in me who picked up the dandelion and blew: making wish after wish after wish. I brought her with me to the sacred fire, cupping my small handful of sage in my left hand near my heart, tears full of joy, of the fullest hope, of deep longing, tears of absolution and deep grief. Tears of apology to our great mother for our separation, tears that brought me back in relationship to my heart, with her, with the unknown. As I listened to the guidance of prayer, I felt myself falling into trust and vision, a blue light around the firewood, a blue light around the moon.

During the days we distributed supplies people had been praying for. Many Eagle needed sage when I arrived for my first prayer at the Seven Council Fire, and as I gave her a large bundle picked in the Topanga Mountains, we hugged and shared gratitude. Oglala camp kitchen was in desperate need of wood when we arrived with a heap-ful of already split California Oak. We came with this idea of Sustaining Standing Rock, and here we were, fed the most sustenance in the giving that I could imagine in my wildest fantasies of sustenance. I am brought back to my prayer when I picked that mountain sage in the Topanga mountains, to bring as offerings for the fires, and the young yearling bucks gathered around, and my prayer to mama ocean as I gave her the bouquet of flowers from our sendoff party. The prayers we took with my shaman Alan at his fire in Santa Monica, asking for forgiveness for all the thoughtless misdoings of our people as we crossed these giant sacred land forms, the prayer of our journey, the grace of our passage. Trading stories of connection, confusion, and despair and laughing our asses off, the fullest giggles wracking our bellies again and again. Sonya gifting me a braid of sweet grass, which sits now on my alter at home. The smell of that sweet Topanga sage as it burned on the fire.

I remember Ronda and Emmanuel, who had a tent we thought was abandoned and Miller drove the trailer very close to its front door. By afternoon they were over for snacks and a warm up, talking about their personal histories with their native traditions, the legacy of colonialism, punishment and cultural destruction perpetrated by whites and continued by family, telling us their old ways, and why they are here now, to stand in their place as native relatives. Helping to pack them up and giving them a propane heater. Offering more gear for the winter. Alex, a young Northwest Native woman, who helped coordinate giving our bright security gear to the front and back gate security, and us happening upon her storage tent in time to save it from folks at camp who thought it was one of the abandoned in the last blizzard. Giving another wood burning stove to Winona Kitchen, as they expand. Giving a wood burning stove to the water heating hut at Rosebud, to keep fresh water ready and available to everyone who needs it. Meeting with the women security team, and outfitting them personally with snow pants and gloves, many still in need of gear improvements. Taking shifts at the composting toilets at Rosebud, and having so much fun doing it, it’s a party in there. The beautiful white Buffulo artist Reggie had made and showed us, allowing us to help wipe the powdered snow off his ice body, the giant full moon rising as we did.

As we prayed at the close of the first night, we saw a burning teepee and we jumped into action. The men pitching shovel after shovel of snow onto the fabric until the fire went out, the man inside finally coming out, full of shame and separation, yet surrounded by community sprung into service. The camp has come through the unexpected early winter storms into a space of strength, of solidarity and community. I recall walking with Sabrina to find a firekeeper late at night, getting invited into Seth’s teepee, and admiring how warm he kept it. On our last morning we found a home for the dog kennel, just the thing the animal tent had needed, as they take in dogs that need shelter from the brutal weather. Then to Southwest Kitchen, where we left the Olive Oil and Oranges, and who we were leaving the last of the beef we hadn’t gifted to folks on a personal basis. As we walked in, they were just folding into the Morning Prayer, and it was clear we needed to join, despite our previous intention of a quick exit. As we circled the cooking fire with our sage, each would offer a prayer for the collective, and then make a second circle, going outside and facing east, with a pinch of cornmeal, our personal prayer, a touch to the tongue and sprinkled into the wind, back to the mother, back to the circle, then sharing from the heart. The group prayer took nearly an hour, but had us each so centered in our hearts and in our bellies as we shared a breakfast feast of oranges and tamales together.

On our way out we brought Susana Sandoval (senate candidate in Illinois in 2016) the ingredients for restorative tea, took showers, and engaged in conversation at the Casino before the long journey home. My heart did not want to leave. My heart was already longing to return. We spoke with Susana about how this trailer we gifted will be used in the future, as actions spread, as we the people of the United States, we the indigenous in blood, we who stand with the indigenous, we who want a world for our seventh generation speak up and stand together. She is an operative with experience in the sacred and in Washington, and I couldn’t be happier to have brought together our collective energy to help her team at Standing Rock. Now it is what next, when will I go back, and how can we continue our mission to be of service, to Sustain Standing Rock, to add more to the collective system, to be a boost and not a drain. I was very happy as we left with our one trash bag of waste, which ended up providing shelter for luggage through the snows of our return journey. And that journey its own story: finding mountain sage on the side of the highway, making a bundle and offering tobacco, burning it and praying with Standing Rock again and again as we drove. We dropped off Ana Christina and James in Denver, got caught overnight in snowstorms on 70, hitting a beautiful white fox with the truck, shedding a tear at its loss.

And now I am home, travelling some, planning my trip to Washington in January for the Million Women’s March, to meet with and recruit more water protectors there. My heart has found a rock to stand upon, a place where humanity is not backing down, a place of prayer and community and peaceful action for the good in this world. Dedicating my support and my heart to Standing Rock is the greatest blessing, it brings me peace and purpose, knowing that I can make a small difference, knowing that even if it is a small fire in a world that seems to be barreling towards self-destruction, at least I can place my own little light with that fire, and burn, burn bright as I can for this moment, this place, these people I believe in. This is what I can give now, and I give it with all of my heart.

I am furious at the media on many levels. I think the discourse has turned into a sideshow act: blaming and dehumanizing and discounting each other’s points of view, distracting from the real issues that are facing our nation and all of humanity in these extremely chaotic and potentially transformational times. We vastly underestimated Trump and his supporters. By labeling them deplorable we eliminated curiosity and we eliminated listening. It’s as though the country is speaking two different languages, and that MUST end. There is a real portion of our population that is simply fed up with the system, and I don’t blame them. And the moment we labelled them other, we disassociated our ability to reason with them. The truth is bigotry and misogyny are NOT the only reasons people voted for Trump. Many people chose to compartmentalize those aspects of his character (even if they find those attributes deplorable) because they found his anti-establishment voice so enticing. And if you claim to have no blind spots despite your points of privilege, then please, throw the first stone.

I, too, am terrified of a variety of worse case scenarios, and the potential roll-back of decades of social progress. I am terrified of an increasingly violent globe, militarization of our police, and a run towards consumption rather than conservation of our planet’s precious resources and limited carrying capacity. I am truly devastated at the ways we are destroying our planet. And almost everyone I know is complicit, myself included. I am also angry that Democrats have yet to successfully tackle these issues that are most important to me.

So here we are. Here is the shiny (and possibly poisonous) apple that the right has dreamed of: and even though they have been nothing but obstructionist, corrupt and blind bastards when the left has had mandates, I am not confident that Democrats will have the will to do the same. If there is any solace in a bleak four years it is that many who think of themselves as Republicans will finally realize that the Republicans do not actually serve conservative values but those of corruption and profit above people (I am also not convinced that the Democrats don’t serve the same forces of greed and self-centered self-interest). That doesn’t mean I don’t want to stand up for the principles I care for. I do. And I absolutely will. But that means I am going to have to be willing to make personal sacrifices and work harder and care more than I have in the past. That I, and hopefully we, will no longer be so complacent.

First and foremost we need to have more open dialogue, and we need to soften our hearts to the way the scary “other” sees the world. We need to work together towards real global solutions that are more inclusive rather than divisive. I am so grateful for my political science education at Northwestern University (a rather centrist curriculum compared to my ultra-left Bay Area upbringing) because I was for the first time able to see the root of the War Hawk mentality, even though I still believe that humanity must work to abolish this within ourselves as hard as we possibly can. There are real global threats out there, threats to our way of life and the freedom we enjoy. That doesn’t mean that I won’t fight against the military lobby which has become a mechanism of global violence for the sake of feeding the largest sector of our economy: weapons.

I know that we, the privileged and educated left, have been both superior and blind to so much. I think we need to start asking what the poor and disenfranchised actually need, rather than being so patronizing and prescriptive. Now we have the opportunity and time to look at ourselves, our party, and to get more involved in actually raising standards of living to serve the people we claim to represent. How dare we harass our key voters every two years for their support, and then fail to fight for policies that will actually improve their lives and education? This is not the outcome we wanted. It is absolutely crushing. But it may be the outcome we deserved, because we have failed to be the change we want to see in the world.

So what do we do now that we are gutted? My plea is that each of us as individuals assess our participation in that which we deplore, and that we take actions to shift our support towards causes of peace, unity, and conservation. Since free markets are going to have their reign, and there will be a war on environmental protection and regulation, we must fight back using the tools that we have: our dollars and our actions. We must stop consuming so much: so much meat, water, oil, and processed foods. We must divest from banks and funds that support the engine of the military machine and the march towards environmental decimation. We must create funds and markets that actually support the interests of our ideals, and we must, in mass, support them. We can change the world with our pocketbooks. We already are. I am really curious about the dialogue around alternate markets and creating value outside of profit margins, so if this interests you, please reach out and let’s talk and let’s do something real and massive to shift the march of exponential growth that will send humanity off the cliff if left unchecked.

Artists: our time has come. Art has the ability to transform and to connect. Now all the artists must share their vision for a future brighter than the darkest timeline we appear to be on right now. Love will win, but only if each of us finds the capacity within ourselves to forgive each other and to love each other fiercely, even if we see the shadow of the enemy there. Even if we are afraid.

I love you. I also love those some of you may call the enemy. I am sadder than I have ever been in my life, but this is only the beginning if we fail to act now. We must shake off the inaction of our generation’s latent nihilism and hopelessness, and act now to protect the future of our great nation and this beautiful world we call our home.