GAIA MANDALA
GLOBAL HEALING COMMUNITY
Becoming the Vase:
Reflections on the ETV pilgrimage to Washington D.C.
by Laurelyn Baker
I no longer want to identify as Native American. Not to anyone ever again.
This was the startling thought that entered my consciousness, not like a rumble of a coming storm on a distant horizon, but like the hailstorm I once drove through on the road from Fort Garland to Taos. There was no precipitation, then as cleanly as if a distinctly drawn line marked the entrance, I drove through that opening into a solid world of fiercely descending ice.
Once I returned home from our DC pilgrimage to plant the Treasure Vase filled to the brim with prayers for healing America, processing the events of our trip became a journey not unlike that.
Judith provided a perfectly planned itinerary for us. The visits to the Native and African American museums sparked a strong awareness of the link between the cultures and their fates at the hand of colonization. The interaction between the Black and Red Nations was presented in a way that caught my attention. Humans removed by any means from coveted territory. Humans imported to extract products from that fiercely squatted territory.
It made a deep impression on me.
This newly strengthened understanding mixed in my psyche with the current news of the day. The fierce battle so loudly broadcast of the Culture Wars waged on so many fronts by those determined to hold on to the brutal roots and harvest of that colonial mindset felt all the more beautifully summed up by the poem I had chosen to add to those Judith requested for ceremonial reading written by a female author whose name I have forgotten. I will share it here.
FLAG
It turned out I was there for the anthem,
not the cowboys, their hard smilesand dinner-plate buckles sending back the sun.
Somewhere between the dawn’s early light
and the ramparts, the horse
galloped by, it’s wake filling
with the turquoised voice of the anthem.
The horse dragged the song like a flag
until it overlapped at the edges
and burst open wide. Then everything got smeared
with America. Every horse that bucked
under the strap and every rider who fell or made it
became the country. Clowns came out
and then bulls and ropes and chaps, spurs,
hats, calluses, and boots. The announcer saying
we sat at the edge of the most dangerous
playground in the world. All its players grew up
with one fist forever fisted and the other
full of sugar just in case something pretty
with its head held high came along and needed
to be broken one way or the other.
My birthday is June 14th, Flag Day, so I have spent quite a bit of time reflecting on the symbolism of the Stars and Stripes. When I was a little girl, my family told me people flew the flag on that day because it was my birthday. I enjoyed the Pledge of Allegiance at school where it was linked to the idea of Freedom for All. Through the years studying the history of America, I became more inclined to associate it with Vietnam and so many other military invasions.
These days I see the Calvary waving it over smoking ruins of Native camps. I see spears on the ends of flag poles used by angry White men fighting to install a dictator. I dread seeing it flown in front of my daughter’s school at half-mast alerting us to another mass shooting at a school somewhere in the USA. I joke that I am going to invest in a flag pole manufacturer that only makes their product four feet tall since that’s where it always hangs now. I watch my daughter enter the building and say the same prayer each day. Please, Tunkashila, Mishomis, Grandfathers, protect her and all the children, teachers, principal, security guard. Protect this school building and all the property surrounding it. Unci, Nokomis, Grandmothers, make it invisible to shooters with a shield of swirling rainbow light.
The prayers I add to the Treasure Vase for D.C. are fierce. My prayers are for the people who do not view patriotism through the lens of sports fans. My team’s logo (flag) is better than your team’s logo (flag).
I, along with many others, also have a very conflicted relationship with spending time inside churches. To me they are representations of the buildings from which one Christian faith or another competed like sports teams to see which of them could “win over” the most heathen souls of the “savages” as they took over the lives of people forced onto reservations from sea to shining sea.
However, I realize there are amazing exceptions such as the one known as All Souls Unitarian Church where we joined the lovely Rev. Louise Green and members for an Earth Day Celebration, service, and book signing by Cynthia on April 21st. The labyrinth community Judith is involved with were adding their magic to the event by sharing a beautiful portable labyrinth in a large room of the church. The following is a conversation I had with Lola* in the sanctuary before the service while waiting for the large cloth designed with sacred geometry of blue lines to be rolled out on the floor in preparation for our walk.
Lola: “Can I ask you something? I have been wanting to ask you a question.
I feel like we know each other well enough now for me to ask you if it is okay, umm, what is your ethnicity? Because you just look soooo Norwegian, that I think when I hear you talking about your tribe, oh here is another white woman saying they are an Indian.”
She proceeds to show me photos of relatives by marriage of hers who apparently look the way Native Americans are supposed to look.
I counter with a picture of my Lakota daughter in her Jingle Dress at Pow Wow as if that strengthened my claims even though she is adopted.
Me: then responding as is my habit with humor to disarm an uncomfortable situation, take the Tribal ID card issued by the Little Shell Tribe of Pembina Chippewa Indians of Montana out of my wallet and hand it to her, saying “Well, I’m a Norgibwa!” I am Norwegian and French on my mother’s side and my father is Ojibwa. I do my best to explain for the thousandth time in some version of the speech I have memorized for just such an occasion. “I am an enrolled member of a tribe of Métis Indians who intermarried with French Fur Trappers as early as the 1500’s, and more recently with Norwegians who settled around the Great Lakes area in the 1800’s”, blah blah blah…
Lola: “Oh you didn’t have to show me this ID. I’ve never seen one of these. Oh, your hair was dark in this photo!”
Me: grabbing back my ID card, weakly laughing my old survival laugh, “This conversation is over.”
Let me tell you it was one long walk in that labyrinth. I was aware of walking for all the invisible, erased people in my family line who were forbidden and or ridiculed for participating in any Native based cultural, spiritual, artistic endeavor they may have felt instinctually drawn to.
I remembered the times my father who was abused at the Catholic school he attended as a child for looking too Native, favored my sister over me because she had his darker coloring. He told her she was a Child of the Universe because she would be welcomed into so many different cultures while at the same time telling me I would have to wear makeup when I was older to hide the flaws my lighter skin showed. Later when I was attempting to make contact with relatives on Turtle Mountain Reservation, he told me in no uncertain terms that I would NOT be welcomed by anyone there, and I would be a fool to try. No one wanted to know me.
My feet slowly turned as I passed others on their prayer walks. Liza Jane comforted me with a touch of her hand when we met. I thought of the vase I crafted at Ghost Ranch dedicated to the Little Shell tribe which was with me on this trip that is waiting to be planted in our newly received land in Montana. I had brought it along to D.C. to honor all of the delegations who had come here before to plead for land and basic rights to live. Most notably, my intention was to honor one of the old-time leaders of my Tribe, Chief Thomas Little Shell who came wearing the Medallion Lincoln had given his father in 1862. His petitions went unanswered as he was representing a band of many “half breeds.” Due to the jostling for increasingly diminished land allotments, his people were far too often written off by their own “full blood” relatives as not deserving of a fair share. Those in government positions in charge of bestowing land ownership agreed, and it took 157 years of fighting legal battles and proving over and over again to scoffing officials we were a valid culture.
When we were finally given Federal Recognition on December 20, 2019, I was the only woman who participated in the long-awaited pipe ceremony to commemorate the event in Great Falls Montana. It didn’t take long after that for the old blood quantum rivalries to show up again. With news coming from the tribal chairman that there was fighting to the point that death threats had been made, I knew that the prayers for healing that trauma of betrayal, banishment and exclusion the vase was designed to hold were more important than ever.
As I walked around another turn on my way to the center of the labyrinth, I remembered that even during the creation of the Little Shell Vase at Ghost Ranch I had been confronted by a woman I had assumed was an African American. She started a conversation with me like this:
Moira*: “I owe you an apology. I have been hating on you this whole time.”
ME: willing curiosity to speak instead of responding with a quickly rising outrage, “Oh really? Why is that?”
Moira: ‘Because you were given a pipe. Why would they give a white woman a pipe, but not me?”
ME: proceeds to take her under my wing and explain it. “I am an enrolled member, Spirit and my ancestors want me to carry this”, blah blah blah until she feels better.
The thought arose as my feet slowly walked around the circle of the time I was walking my neighborhood in Boulder canvassing for Obama’s first campaign. I had been paired with a woman with a very strong German accent. The subject of race came up as we were so excited at the prospect of the possibility of a first Black president. When I made the mistake of telling her about myself, the conversation took on a shockingly painful stern air—as if she considered it her duty to defend true Natives from the likes of me.
GERMAN WOMAN: “You do not look like any of the Native Americans I do ceremony with, They have dark skin and thick black hair. I have met them and know what they look like. Not at all like you.”
ME: quietly, “Well, it’s just on my father’s side.” Change subject.
Another circuit between the blue lines that had been rolled out on the church floor, and this memory comes up. I am so proud and happy to be taking my one year-old adopted Lakota daughter to her first Sun Dance as I had promised her birth mother to keep her connected to her culture. I had been a Sun Dancer myself for many years so felt comfortable in the setting. TEENAGE NATIVE GIRL: yelling out for all to hear as we arrived in camp “Who did you steal her from?!?”
ME: shocked and humiliated, then angry when I recognized her as the daughter of the man who had actually made me the antelope skin bag my pipe was carried in, say nothing.
Nearing the end of the Labyrinth, I recalled the time I was on a pilgrimage in Taiwan with my Feng Shui teacher Grand Master Lin Yun. I saw a group of Chinese students gather together occasionally glancing at me as they chatted.
CHINESE WOMAN APPOINTED TO APPROACH ME WITH THE QUESTION: “We are all curious if you are an Indian because you look so much different from the other Americans on the trip.”
ME: “Yes, my father is Native American.”
She excitedly reported back to her friends when my answer proved them right, but none of them said one more thing to me the entire week-long tour. I wondered if anyone won a bet.
Another circuit, another thought. I had driven 875 miles to meet a cousin discovered through extraordinary means of a Feng Shui cure I had to rely on since my father refused to give me any information about who I was related to. On the Sundance grounds of the Turtle Mountain Chippewa Reservation in North Dakota where I first saw the smiling face of Rose Baker, she embraced me and exclaimed “You look so much like our family!”
As I walked out of the long and winding road, I was approached by a local woman connected to All Souls, “I hope this is appropriate, but can I ask a personal question? You look very Native, and I wondered what tribe you might be from.” I thank her and say that of course it is fine to ask. “I am a member of the Little Shell Chippewa Tribe of Montana.”
Reflecting on how I experienced the power of the Labyrinth in the Church of All Souls in D.C. to condense the inner spiritual alchemy of self-realization into a twenty-minute jewel is a gift I cherish. There were many other brilliant gems to be collected as the pilgrimage moved towards the burial of our mighty little vase. But I was not out of the hailstorm yet.
That night during the Sealing of the Vase ceremony, Cynthia and Judith were involved with the cloth coverings, ties and wax when Rasul spoke up to say that Elizabeth Christine had called her earlier to share her opinion that Shanetta and I should take part in helping with the ceremony as representatives of Native and African Nations. Cynthia agreed. We looked at each other and came forward.
Though it was a surprise with no formal instruction, I have conducted countless ceremonies in my time. I am well versed in Native, know something of Tibetan ritual, and have participated in the sealing of two other vases. So, I was not worried about how to do this. A big part of my Feng Shui practice involves the Creative and Controlling cycle of the elements as they are represented by color. Blue Water feeds Green Wood feeds Red Fire feeds Yellow Earth feeds White Metal. This is a basic module of training for my students. I have presented this at the Southwest School of Acupuncture. I always dress my vase with the “correct” sequence of elemental colors to ensure a creative cycle.
However, as I requested Shanetta to hand me each cloth in order, I miscalculated which color to start with to get to Cynthia’s request for green to be on top. I realized the way I orchestrated the sequence as I put cloths on in a way that started out as Creative and put Red Fire under Green Wood which is Controlling. Fire burns Wood. OMG, Laurelyn! No time to be OCD orthodox about things! Cynthia was voicing different color meanings according to Buddhist Virtues anyway. I caught myself Coyote tail chasing and let it go. But we all know that once a Coyote jumps in, they like to stick around to play awhile.
Judith asked me to tie the multicolored cords around the vase as she said I had done such a nice job of it after our visit to the White House. Yes, I had! But as I tied them, it left one end of cord too short for Cynthia to easily drip wax over both ends at once. We laughed as I clumsily retied them in a sort of curly-cue kind of pattern. She kindly said it was perfect the way it was, I felt as pleased as a little kid hearing their mom tell them they tied their shoes just right, wax was dripped, and the seal was made.
Afterwards, I saw that try as we might, there was no way to neatly arrange colors for the Vase to Heal America. There just is no “Correct Way” to bring “Order” to the spectrum we citizens represent. And so, you can see the photo of the Most Perfect Union we all created.
Others have spoken of the beautiful burial in the woods, so I will leave that part of the story out in the interest of sticking to a theme.
On the day of my flight home, there was plenty of time to spare in order to have a peaceful
re-entry to Boulder. I was sorry to miss the opportunity to spend the day at the retreat Rasul had arranged for those who had another day in the area, but I determined to make the best of the day anyway. I bought a pass to the United lounge so I could join the Full Moon Zoom call before boarding my flight. It was good to check in with the group from D.C. to report the successful burial of the vase and hear about Rick’s upcoming journey to the Himalayas.
My fears of weather delays did not come to pass, and our boarding took place as scheduled at 4:30 that afternoon. Blue skies ahead for a 6:30 arrival home. After waiting for 15 minutes, the captain made an announcement that we would have to leave the plane for a short delay as the weather detecting equipment was not passing check for take-off. Minutes turned into two hours as we waited for a part to be delivered from Dulles airport.
Once that was fixed, we were re-seated and ready to get going. No one was happy to hear the next announcement coming over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, it appears this is just not our day. Now there is a problem with a part in the tail rudder. Once again, we ask you to deplane and wait until further notice.”
After many additional delays, at around 10pm they announced that mechanical failure led to the flight being completely canceled. United did not provide enough hotel vouchers for all passengers to get a room for the night. I did not get one. As the next flight was added at 6:30 am, I was not inclined to find my own transportation and pay for lodging in a city I was not familiar with then go through security all over again. All they had for me was a food voucher for airport shops and restaurants that were already closed.
I had time that night in my chair at the gate to reflect on the lives of the Hispanic workers who cleaned and vacuumed around us for about 2 hours. No way did I feel deserving of complaint for one night of discomfort in their presence. Also, I became acutely aware of my great good fortune to have no experience of unhoused people who spend all of their nights in uncomfortable public spaces. I concentrated on the visualization that all may find comfort and home.
However, by the time we got on the plane early the next morning, my neck was out of whack, my blood sugar was low, and a migraine was being held at bay with medication. I did feel that United could come up with some compensation on my flight home. The plane was half filled as most folks had to catch other flights rather than wait for this one.
I asked the flight attendant if she could let me know if there were any seats available in first class that I could use in lieu of other expected accommodations that could be made for inconvenienced customers. She reported back to me that there were in fact seats available and I should go talk to the attendant at the front of the first-class area.
I had not paid particular notice to the race of the employee who sent me to the front, but once I was talking to three people all of African descent, I became anxious to not be perceived as a “Karen”. I knew I would most likely be seen by everyone within earshot as an entitled and demanding white woman. When I pointed out that there were quite a few available seats, and I could simply sit down, we were joined by a large woman who looked Latina wearing a serious pair of boots. I realized she must be the Marshall assigned to that flight to take care of problem passengers. I cringed as she loudly asked why I thought I could just come up here and sit anywhere I wanted. “There is NO WAY we can allow that to happen!” I slunk in humiliation past the other passengers back to my seat.
Through my hot embarrassment and anger, I was able to silently cheer the fact that African Americans are able to wield authority over Whites in any situation at all. I thought back to the lower floor of the National Museum of African American History and Art. The recreated slave ship filled with chains was still vivid in my mind. However, the continuation of power-over is obviously not in the heart or prayers of any visionary. That is not the life we imagine for future generations, no matter who might be considered at the top of a hierarchy. I tried to focus on the cooling waters of the fountain in that museum designed to cleanse the spirits of visitors that had been overwhelmed by all they took in while being so thoroughly immersed in this part of our collective US history.
After I got home, it took 3 or 4 days until I felt like talking much to anyone. My thoughts and heart took an unusually long time to process what we had all just metabolized during our pilgrimage. With the help of all in the Mandala, especially the caring circle of members of our Stewardship Support Group, I have been able to turn on my windshield wipers and see the surprising view as I drive away from the stormy wall of hail and ice.
I look at the basket of jewels on the seat next to me and notice the one produced when the person working at the National Museum of the American Indian gave me a form with instructions on how to add a Little Shell Tribal Flag to the many displayed there in Washington when I told them I noticed it had not been hung since our Federal Recognition in 2019.
Now I have one more reason to contact the Tribal Chairman as I prepare to present the concept of the Little Shell Vase to him. I hope Chief Little Shell is proud as he watches from the Spirit World of the intention I carried in remembrance of all who traveled to Washington, the seat of a new strange political power in the past. I see a clear road ahead on my way to Montana with a vase full of prayers for harmony, health and happiness for the Tribe of my father’s family.
I remember that the Métis, or mixed bloods have always been the interpreters between worlds, so may my continued representation of my mixed identity be more clearly seen for what it is by those Spirit wishes to bestow with understanding.
*These are made up names to keep confidentiality.
July 20th Update to this Story from Laurelyn:
The confrontation at the labyrinth was resolved so beautifully by “Lola” when I called and read it to her. There was a profound realization that unconscious ancestral/embedded cultural prejudice was a at play in a way that shocked her to the core once she realized what she had said. I thanked her profusely for being the catalyst that brought the whole story out for me, and in the end she graciously offered to accompany me on the trip to Montana to bury the vase. It was a very emotional moment when we instantly felt the surprising rightness of that action. I feel completely apologized to and I know she did a ton of emotional lifting on behalf of untold hundreds who have not.
In addition, I was called to a surprise trip to Great Falls in June for a 120-year commemoration of one of my Ojibwa relatives, my Great Aunt Emma San Saver who became a boarding school basketball star and was on show at the 1904 Worlds Fair along with her team/class mates as the perfect example of how boarding schools were successfully turning “savages” into productive white citizens. When I arrived, I met relatives for the first time and contacted Gerald Gray, the Little Shell Tribal Chairman who is very much in favor of the Little Shell Vase coming to be planted for our people on our new land base.
So many miracles stemmed from my D.C. pilgrimage.
With love,
Laurelyn