WE ARE PART OF THIS EARTH AND IT IS PART OF US
In 1854 Chief Seattle of the Puget Sound Indians was asked to sell a large area of land in what is now known as Washington State. He and his people were also promised a reservation by President Franklin Pierce. Here is Chief Seattle's reply.
How can you buy or sell the sky, the warmth of the land? If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them? Every part of the earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every clearing, and humming insect is holy in the memory of my people. The sap which courses through the trees carries the memories of the Red man.
The white man's dead forget the country of their birth when they go to walk among the stars. Our dead never forget this beautiful earth, for it is the mother of the red man. We are part of the earth and it is a part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters; the deer, the horse, the great eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices in the meadows, the body heat of the pony, and the man, all belong to the same family.
So when the Great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land, he asks much of us. The Great Chief in Washington will reserve us a place so that we can live comfortably to ourselves. He will be our father and we will be his children. So we will consider your offer to buy our land, but it will not be easy. For this land is sacred to us. This shining water that moves in the streams and the rivers is not just water but the blood of our ancestors.
If we sell you land, you must remember that it is sacred, and you must teach your children that it is sacred and that each ghostly reflection in the clear water of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people.
The water's murmur is the voice of my father's father.
The rivers are our brothers, they quench our thirst. The rivers carry our canoes, and feed our children. If we sell you our land, you must remember, and teach your children, that the rivers are our brothers, and yours, and you must henceforth give the rivers the kindliness you would give any brother.
We know that the white man does not understand our ways. One portion of land is the same to him as the next, for he is a stranger who comes in the night and takes from the land whatever he needs. The earth is not his brother but his enemy, and when he has conquered it, he moves on. He leaves his father's graves and his children's birthright forgotten. He treats his mother, the earth, and his brother, the sky, as things to be bought, plundered, sold like sheep or bright beads. His appetite will devour the earth and leave behind only desert. I do not know. Our ways are different from your ways. The sight of your cities pains the eye of the red man. But perhaps it is because the red man is savage and does not understand. There is no quiet place in the white man's cities. No place to hear the unfurling of leaves in spring, or the rustle of an insect's wings.
But perhaps it is because I am savage and do not understand. The clatter only seems to insult the ears. And what is there to life if a man cannot hear the lonely cry of the whippoorwill or the arguments of the frogs around a pond at night! I am a red man and do not understand.
The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of a pond, and the smell of the wind itself, cleansed by rain or scented with the pine cone.
The air is precious to the red man, for all things share the same breath: the beast, the tree, the man, they all share the same breath. The white men, they all share the same breath. The white man does not seem to notice the air he breathes. Like a man dying for many days, he is numb to the stench.
But if we sell you our land, you must remember that the air is precious to us, that the air shares its spirit with all the life it supports. The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also received his last sigh.
And if we sell you our land you must keep it apart and sacred, as a place where even the white man can go and taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow's flowers. So we will consider your offer to buy our land. If we decide to accept... I will make one condition.
The white man must treat the beasts of this land as his brothers. I am savage and do not understand any other way. I have seen a thousand rotting buffaloes on the prairie, left by the white man who shot them from a passing train. I am savage and do not understand how the smoking iron horse can be more important than the buffalo that we kill only to stay alive.
What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone, man would die from a great loneliness of spirit. For whatever happens to the beasts, soon happens to man. All things are connected. You must teach your children that the ground beneath their feet is the ashes of our grandfathers. So that they will respect the land, tell your children that the earth is rich with the lives of our kin. Teach your children what we have taught our children, that the earth is our mother. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth.
Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it, whatever he does to the web, he does to himself. Even the white man, whose God walks and talks with him as a friend to friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny.
We may be brothers after all. We shall see. One thing we know, which the white man may one day discover - our God is the same God. You may think now that you own Him as you wish to own our land, but you cannot. He is the God of man and his compassion is equal for the red man and the white. The earth is precious to him, and to harm the earth is to heap contempt upon its Creator. The whites, too, shall pass; perhaps sooner than all the other tribes, and you will one night suffocate in your own waste.
But in your perishing, you will shine brightly, fired by the strength of the God who brought you to this land and for some special purpose gave you dominion over the red man. That destiny is a mystery to us, for we do not understand when the buffalo are slaughtered, the wild horses are tamed, the secret corners of the forest heavy with the scent of many men and the view of the ripe hills blotted out by talking wires.
Where is the thicket?
Gone.
Where is the eagle?
In 1854 Chief Seattle of the Puget Sound Indians was asked to sell a large area of land in what is now known as Washington State. He and his people were also promised a reservation by President Franklin Pierce. Here is Chief Seattle's reply.
How can you buy or sell the sky, the warmth of the land? If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them? Every part of the earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every clearing, and humming insect is holy in the memory of my people. The sap which courses through the trees carries the memories of the Red man.
The white man's dead forget the country of their birth when they go to walk among the stars. Our dead never forget this beautiful earth, for it is the mother of the red man. We are part of the earth and it is a part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters; the deer, the horse, the great eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices in the meadows, the body heat of the pony, and the man, all belong to the same family.
So when the Great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land, he asks much of us. The Great Chief in Washington will reserve us a place so that we can live comfortably to ourselves. He will be our father and we will be his children. So we will consider your offer to buy our land, but it will not be easy. For this land is sacred to us. This shining water that moves in the streams and the rivers is not just water but the blood of our ancestors.
If we sell you land, you must remember that it is sacred, and you must teach your children that it is sacred and that each ghostly reflection in the clear water of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people.
The water's murmur is the voice of my father's father.
The rivers are our brothers, they quench our thirst. The rivers carry our canoes, and feed our children. If we sell you our land, you must remember, and teach your children, that the rivers are our brothers, and yours, and you must henceforth give the rivers the kindliness you would give any brother.
We know that the white man does not understand our ways. One portion of land is the same to him as the next, for he is a stranger who comes in the night and takes from the land whatever he needs. The earth is not his brother but his enemy, and when he has conquered it, he moves on. He leaves his father's graves and his children's birthright forgotten. He treats his mother, the earth, and his brother, the sky, as things to be bought, plundered, sold like sheep or bright beads. His appetite will devour the earth and leave behind only desert. I do not know. Our ways are different from your ways. The sight of your cities pains the eye of the red man. But perhaps it is because the red man is savage and does not understand. There is no quiet place in the white man's cities. No place to hear the unfurling of leaves in spring, or the rustle of an insect's wings.
But perhaps it is because I am savage and do not understand. The clatter only seems to insult the ears. And what is there to life if a man cannot hear the lonely cry of the whippoorwill or the arguments of the frogs around a pond at night! I am a red man and do not understand.
The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of a pond, and the smell of the wind itself, cleansed by rain or scented with the pine cone.
The air is precious to the red man, for all things share the same breath: the beast, the tree, the man, they all share the same breath. The white men, they all share the same breath. The white man does not seem to notice the air he breathes. Like a man dying for many days, he is numb to the stench.
But if we sell you our land, you must remember that the air is precious to us, that the air shares its spirit with all the life it supports. The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also received his last sigh.
And if we sell you our land you must keep it apart and sacred, as a place where even the white man can go and taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow's flowers. So we will consider your offer to buy our land. If we decide to accept... I will make one condition.
The white man must treat the beasts of this land as his brothers. I am savage and do not understand any other way. I have seen a thousand rotting buffaloes on the prairie, left by the white man who shot them from a passing train. I am savage and do not understand how the smoking iron horse can be more important than the buffalo that we kill only to stay alive.
What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone, man would die from a great loneliness of spirit. For whatever happens to the beasts, soon happens to man. All things are connected. You must teach your children that the ground beneath their feet is the ashes of our grandfathers. So that they will respect the land, tell your children that the earth is rich with the lives of our kin. Teach your children what we have taught our children, that the earth is our mother. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth.
Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it, whatever he does to the web, he does to himself. Even the white man, whose God walks and talks with him as a friend to friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny.
We may be brothers after all. We shall see. One thing we know, which the white man may one day discover - our God is the same God. You may think now that you own Him as you wish to own our land, but you cannot. He is the God of man and his compassion is equal for the red man and the white. The earth is precious to him, and to harm the earth is to heap contempt upon its Creator. The whites, too, shall pass; perhaps sooner than all the other tribes, and you will one night suffocate in your own waste.
But in your perishing, you will shine brightly, fired by the strength of the God who brought you to this land and for some special purpose gave you dominion over the red man. That destiny is a mystery to us, for we do not understand when the buffalo are slaughtered, the wild horses are tamed, the secret corners of the forest heavy with the scent of many men and the view of the ripe hills blotted out by talking wires.
Where is the thicket?
Gone.
Where is the eagle?
Gone.
Replies
Hairy Derriere said:
Part of my near ancestry (grandparents, in a couple of cases) is related to The Red Man. The observations posted by the OP move me but also exhort me to double my efforts to prepare, quietly for a quiet move to a quiet part of the world - as we know it now.
HD.
Hairy Derriere said:
wayinktelo said:
You mistate your position as you are not responsible for your Ancestry, their triumphs nor their faults. That is what you have been "directed" to comprehend, and supplied the means of that thought process. I have a personal "Mantra" so to speak, and I see it apply to varied situations, this being one of them...
Be well (in body, mind and Spirit)
Do well (in constructed thought, the spoken utterance and most importantly the example you set)
Respect ALL which you did not Create... Stewardship of this plane of what we observe as reality, is a privilige, not a duty.
Having stated that, allow if you will, a minor gifting:
May the winds of good fortune continue to waft softly across the Lodge and personage of you, a fine and gracious individual. May your fondest wishes arise to your call, when you need them most, and expect them least. Know Creator is incapable of fault, and "learning" takes many forms and variations...
with respect,
wayinktelo
Jed Miers said:
Its time for a change. Its time to remember we are all part of the Oneness. There is no them, just us.