This Land

When I turned ten, my parents bought a cabin tent with screen door flap and we began camping in style at various places within the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge near Fort Sill, Oklahoma. In those days there weren't a lot of controls in place preventing close proximity of larger wildlife and humans recreating there. That's when I became enthralled by all things outdoors and natural. One morning after sleeping comfortably and deeply in the tent with my family, the sound of a lantern being toppled woke us all. We had already experienced bad actors trying to steal our camping equipment as we slept, my father going so far as to fire his sidearm into the ground to frighten away some theives while we were camped there one night previously. That incident was pretty exciting for a ten year-old but when we looked outside that morning to see who was trying to steal a lantern we were astounded to see we were surrounded by a small herd of American bison. A large bull was sniffing at the overturned lantern after apparently having knocked it over. In the still of the slightly overcast morning we could hear the others tearing grass as they grazed. The bull grumbled softly upon sensing our movement inside the tent. My father whispered advice for us all to stay very quiet and as still as possible. My youngest brother ignored him and leapt to his feet, exclaiming at the beauty of the beasts in the delightful setting in which we were situated.

Having some native blood streaming through my veins, I felt pangs of a deep sense of kinship with the bison and the land they were so contentedly grazing. That sensation sparked a lifelong desire to live as closely to nature as possible as soon as I could afford to and could manage to find a good place to do so. That desire was finally satisfied at the turn of the century when I finally purchased a package of rights to acreage deeply embedded in wilderness. My dream culminated while living fulltime there for seventeen years. Then the US Forest Service irresponsibly played with fire when and where they shouldn't have and destroyed that serene existence, obliterating every aspect of it, except my memories of it all.

Now as I'm settling into a new homestead, churning curiosity of what has transpired over the centuries across this expanse of land demands satisfaction. Initial delving reveals history of a Delaware Chief, Jim Ned, who wandered and lived and scouted these hills and river valleys for rangers seeking raiding warrior inhabitants of Comancheria, a much older invading civilization's placename for a much older people who refered to themselves as Nʉmʉnʉʉ.

Deeper study reveals more about them, these noble Nʉmʉnʉʉ, when and how they lived here, and what they valued in life. My native ancestry is not of the plains dwellers as they are. But my ancestors were forced onto plains lands initially deemed undesirable by European invaders for their own kind's habitation. Undesirable, that is, until they changed their minds and began brutally seizing the plains as they brutally seized everything they ever wanted. Being a product of mixed bloods, I can relate with all sides of beings factoring into the equation of existance in this land. My paternal great grandfather was killed by rading warriors on his homestead not very far south of this place I'm resettling in now. His wife removed the door of their house to use as travois to bring his body home on for burial there.

Now, living in this day and age, I wonder about how to harmoniously relate past with future as this new homestead is being established along the banks of a minor sub-tributary of a river so long considered safe haven by Nʉmʉnʉʉ nomads. As much as I would love to be a nomadic being, it just isn't practical. So I think and plan and design and construct to make this little piece of the world meet my needs as thoroughly as possible without damaging it. On another plane of realities infinity holds, I consult openly with Nʉmʉnʉʉ about the things I envision as positive progress, seeking confirmation that they are good goals to strive for.

I imagine discussions about whether or not I'll live the two or three decades more that I expect I can to achieve these goals as fresh-caught bluecat sizzle to perfection over an open fire, delicious aroma of their sizzling, fatty juices wafting over us as we thoroughly talk it over.

We all speak in turn and evenly, without malice or malfeasance, listening and responding respectfully after having been forced onto our paths of relocation by agents who know only how to talk at others rather than with others. More from the past join the conversations of progress with positive intent, free of greed-driven expectations and obscene manipulations.

As visions evolve and discussions shift to address their evolution, courage overcomes fear and musical resonances of what has already happened entertwine with those of what will come next, not extinguishing doubt, just tempering it, because without continuing doubt, quality of life is a meaningless concept. Knowing of and anticipating pitfalls is key to success.

And as successes mount, effectively overriding faltering steps and outright failures without obliterating their history, explorations still further into future potentials proceed at pace as all parties observe and collaborate to mutual advantage. What might seem to be magic is increasingly revealed as reality through observational measurement, verifying understanding.

All the while maintaining integrity with each other and within the Syntonic Ontological Weft.