“Many Indians have told me that the most basic difference between Western and indigenous ways of being is that Westerners view the world as dead, and not as filled with speaking, thinking, feeling subjects as worthy and valuable as themselves.”
–Derrick Jensen
Isn’t it interesting that as we become more civilized, we surround ourselves with more things that are not alive? Plastic. Stucco. Chrome. Paint. Even our food–genetically engineered, packaged, and preserved–is hardly living.
It used to be that a family built a house from living trees they cut for that purpose. We wore fur and skins and clothing woven from fibers we had touched and seen as stalks waving in the wind. A long time ago, we formed our dishes from clay, a material that is filled with microorganisms and life.
However, we began using more and more human-made things. We took several steps back from the creation of our possessions, and they became more removed from nature. Now, instead of using materials that were once alive, that “have spirit,” we use synthetic materials. Our world is artificial.
It is little wonder that many of us carry this same view to the natural world. Used to seeing non-human objects as not alive (at least not in the same way we are), we have difficulty seeing the natural world for what it is. We do not see the forest as a living body. We dismiss the wisdom of plants and the personhood of animals.
Robin Wall Kimmerer speaks on how the English language both symbolizes and perpetuates this was of seeing things.
When bay is a noun, it is defined by humans, trapped between its shores and contained by the world. But the [Potawatomi] verb wiikwegamaa—to be a bay—releases the water from bondage and lets it live. “To be a bay” holds the wonder that, for this moment, the living water has decided to shelter itself between these shores, conversing with the cedar roots and a flock of baby mergansers. Because it could do otherwise—become a stream or an ocean or a waterfall, and there are verbs for that, too. To be a hill, to be a sandy beach, to be a Saturday, all are possible verbs in a world where everything is alive…
This is the grammar of animacy. Imagine seeing your grandmother standing at the stove in her apron and then saying of her, “Look, it is making soup. It has gray hair.” We might snicker at such a mistake, but we also recoil from it. In English, we never refer to a member of our family, or indeed any person, as it. That would be a profound act of disrespect. It robs a person of selfhood and kinship reducing a person to a mere thing. So it is that in Potawatomi and most other indigenous languages, we use the same words to address the living world as we use for our family. Because they are our family.
To whom does our language extend the grammar of animacy? Naturally, plants and animals are animate, but as I learn, I am discovering that the Potawatomi understanding of what it means to be animate diverges from the list of attributes of living beings we all learned in Biology 101. In Potawatomi 101, rocks are animate, as are mountains and water and fire and places. Beings that are imbued with spirit, our sacred medicines, our songs, drums, and even stories, are all animate. The list of the inanimate seems to be smaller, filled with objects that are made by people. Of an inanimate being, like a table, we say “What is it?” And we answer Dopwen yawe. Table it is. But of apple, we must say, “Who is that being?” And reply Mshimin yawe. Apple that being is.
The nourishment of our soul depends on our willingness to open to the world as oneself. Remembering to see the world as alive is a good first step, and it is mightily joyful. Becoming friends with plants has been a humbling experience for me. The willow tree that held me through my initiation. Blue Vervain, who teaches me about finding joy in sadness. I remember lying on an old Grandfather rock above a roaring river in Yellowstone National Park. The subtle soul in that being pulsed around me, and I felt honored to be in the presence of such ancient wisdom. These beings are my friends, and the love and wisdom I felt from them is remarkable.
So how do we begin to see that the world is alive? I offer a few helpful tips, but I have no wisdom that is not already present in your own body. I am at the beginning of this journey myself, too. Let’s walk together.
- Surround yourself with life. I change into another person after spending half a day in nature. I am more open, present, loving. I feel free and filled with gratitude. As I weave myself back into the living fabric of this world, I remember who I truly am. If you can’t spend your days living close to nature, it helps to surround yourself with things from nature. Wood is good. Feathers are fantastic. Plants are perfect.
- Question your beliefs. Living in a world that is alive requires dropping our old way of looking at things. That requires a serious examining of our long-held beliefs and underlying assumptions. It requires humility and the determination to question what we think we know. I am only in the beginning of this process. But the world it has opened up to me thus far is magic.
- Honor life in all forms. Take some time every day to connect with a being that is not human. I love trees. A flower will often grab my attention. This morning a chipmunk stood wisely before me. It is not only a way of connecting with the aliveness of the world but also a way of feeling our true way of being: merged with the great current of existence.
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The World is Alive!
By Nicholas Tippins
Quote:
“Learning the Grammar of Animacy” from Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants by Robin Wall Kimmerer (Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 2013). Copyright © 2013 by Robin Wall Kimmerer.