After driving 1300 miles, we were finally on Road 1806, the road that leads up to the Standing Rock encampment, where passionate prayers to protect the land and waters via drumming, song, and peaceful protest take place, as the world watches and the government turns a blind eye. As we turn onto this road, cop cars and ambulances start passing us. We shortly come to a road block sign that says, “For local traffic, only.” Having come so far, we keep going. We count 44 police cars and 8 ambulances, within less than an hour. We eventually come to a large concrete road block, complete with a line of law enforcement officials armed with rifles, and a tank. “Your purpose here?” they ask. “Medic tent,” we reply. “Go around the other way.” Our detour takes us an extra 1.5 hours, landing us in camp unprecedentedly late, around 11 PM. The camp’s still awake, with ambulance lights flashing, and people walking around. We park next to the Sacred Fire at the main camp, Oceti Sakowin. There are three primary camps at Standing Rock: Oceti Sakowin (largest), Rosebud (smallest), and Sacred Stone (first). “Where’s the Medic tent?” I ask the first person I come across, near the Fire. “I’ll walk you over,” he replies.
Turns out there was an unexpected direct action that night. The flashing ambulance was parked right next to the Medic tent area. Vans and trucks keep arriving, with injured people limping out, supported by others. They have rubber bullet injuries, tear gas injuries, hypothermia, and more. “Heartbreaking,” I whisper to my new friend. “Yes,” he replies, “Everyday.” I stand at the central fire around the Medic area, watching the injured people streaming in, and feeling the chaos, reverence, fear, strength, sadness, and so much more. I had read and heard so much about this, before coming. And now, I’m here.
I walk into the herb yurt to introduce myself. It’s almost midnight, but the yurt is hopping with injured people, and herbalists rushing around tending to injuries. “Come back tomorrow,” says B, “we don’t have time to orient new people right now.” Back at the fire, a fully covered man complete with gas mask and wool hat, with only eyes exposed, invites, “Come back to Red Warrior camp with me. We have an herbal tent there, too. You can sleep in our common area.” Reluctant to leave the action but also grateful for a warm place to rest, I follow.
~
I’m typing this in a rainy car, on the side of the road, in the San Bernadino Wilderness, of California. I’ve already returned for a month, but still find it difficult to put words to this brief, though life-changing, experience. Given the constantly changing nature of everything at Standing Rock, it’s important for me to underline that my experience may be very different than what people are experiencing, now. I write this to not just provide a snapshot of my five days at Standing Rock during Thanksgiving week, but also to provide inspiration from a real life story of what’s happening, and what’s possible.
In the month since I was last there, the weather got a lot colder, snow covered the land, veterans came, Obama declared his easement, hundreds went home, and now hundreds still remain, until DAPL goes home. Things continue changing, snow continues falling, and tea continues being boiled and poured, boiled and poured, with steam rising from the mouths of people and cups, and new and old stories and songs cycling around and around the new and old Sacred Fires on the land.
Welcome to Standing Rock, during Thanksgiving week.
~
I spent my first night in a carved out area on the floor of the Red Warrior common area, between chairs, personal items, and a stack of firewood next to the woodstove, which we slept around. The Warrior who invited me in slept on the other side of the wood pile, waking every few hours to shove a piece of wood into the woodstove. The wind blew hard against the sides of the canvas tent. Unused clothing and sleeping bags were piled against the sides and bottoms of the tent, to keep the cold air out, though every so often an especially strong blast would lift a corner, and some glittering snow would come whooshing in. Injured people came in through the night, talking in low tones, with moans and groans. I woke before the sun to greet the dawn, admiring the rainbow hues of the changing sky, with the wisps of smoke curling upwards from the rows and rows of tents, tipis, yurts, and other structures that come together to form the Oceti Sakowin camp of Standing Rock.
Red Warrior is a camp just for native people, primarily fearless young front-line warriors; it was generous for my new friend to allow us to sleep there our first night, but we did not belong there. People are encouraged to bring their own camping gear. But, my tent was useless against the wind and snow. Being a medic, others urged me to find a communal space to sleep. There are green army tents with wood stoves and cots inside. Communal eating spaces and the central dome are also available for anyone to sleep in, although they must remove their sleeping gear with each new day, which becomes a hassle. Building projects are constantly underway, with both temporary and longterm structures appropriate for the challenging weather conditions, most notably a collection of quickly built “yurpees,” tipi and yurt combination structures.
I spent my next few nights in a larger, more stable communal Army tent sleeping area for medics, right next to the central Medic area, with rows of cots spaced two feet apart, a central wood stove, and an interesting array of non-native people inside: a Korean energy healer who fervently believed that we must be completely committed to the cause to be here, and ready to die; a silent but respectful white nurse who mostly kept to herself; an older white woman with an arthritic leg and sour temperament who woke early and fell asleep late, cursing the cold; a younger white laughter-filled medic who listened to both people’s celebrations and complaints, while keeping upbeat. Although native and non-native people intermingled and there was generally a feeling of great welcome, I still noticed most people working together, but still camping and eating primarily within their own groups.
The next five days pass in a whirl. I wake before dawn each morning to observe group morning prayers, prepare for my day, and arrive at the herb yurt by 7 AM. Regardless of how cold or windy, every morning and evening, people gathered around the Sacred Fire in the center of camp, holding hands in prayer. A Medicine Man sat next to the Fire, with an altar, and offerings for the Fire. Powwow drummers played on the opposite side of the Fire under a small shelter, where announcers and singers spoke into the microphone, which was broadcast across the whole camp, waking me from my colorful dreams, and even permeating the walls of the busy herb yurt, throughout the day.
My favorite times working in the herb yurt were in the morning, when there were less people: less herbalists, and less patients. Sometimes I’m the first one there, but often there’s someone else there, already. We prepare tea for the day, and clean up from the previous evening. More herbalists and patients start rolling in around 10 AM, when things get more busy.
It’s almost anarchy, but not quite. People respectfully defer to elders, natives, women, those who have been at camp longest, and those with the most experience in whatever project they’re working on. In the herb yurt, we had three herbalists who had been there the longest, or the “bottom-liners,” and other herbalists who came and went. The three bottom-liners were all young women in their 30s who were both street medics and herbalists, and had flexible enough lives that they could drop everything to come to Standing Rock for indeterminate periods of time. Everyone had differing amounts and styles of herbal training. I enjoyed listening to diverse intake styles and approaches to addressing similar conditions. It was difficult working in such a small space with so many people: often over six herbalists, and a steady stream of patients pouring in at all hours of the day. We would literally bump into each other. Keeping things clean, organized, and accessible was difficult, if not impossible. Sometimes pots filled with unlabelled herbs would sit around all day with no one throwing them out, because nobody knew who made them, or what’s inside.
On Being a 10 minute (or less) Herbal Clinician
When people enter the herb yurt, I direct them to a seat if I’m already working with someone, then ask someone who’s not busy to help them, or come to help them after I’m done, kneeling next to them for a brief 2-5 minute intake, or taking a seat if it’s a longer intake, and if there’s enough space. If it’s not snowing and the herb yurt is packed, then I may conduct the entire intake outside, or ask for them to wait for their medicine outside.
During intake, I use a quick modified version of Chinese medicine’s “Ten Questions” assessment, and the usual first aid “OPQRST” assessment, tailored to each individual. Another important question includes, “Are you on any medications, right now?” to prevent potential unwanted herb drug interactions, such as low blood pressure and giving Hawthorn or Licorice, or giving Hypericum when someone’s on SSRI’s. I’ll also ask whether someone has time to wait 10-15 minutes for their tea. If they can’t wait, then I may mix up a quick glycerite or vinegar, instead of waiting for the tea/ decoction to infuse. Or, we have a pick-up area where people return later to retrieve their medicines.
My general protocol in making a tea after conducting a brief intake is to first start boiling water, if it’s not already ready. I like to have a large pot of water ready at all times, or at least a base formula that I can layer other things on top of, bubbling on the woodstove. I’ll then formulate the tea either in my head if it’s simple, or written down, if it’s more complex. Then, I’ll get the herbs, blend them, steep them, put the herbs back where they belong on the shelf, possibly conduct intake on another patient while the tea’s steeping, return and strain it into a cup for the patient, then return to the patient with instructions on when to return, how often to ingest, and how to take care of themselves until they return, or if they can’t return. Dependent on the person and condition, I frequently leave people with a few bags of Emergen-C, suitable tea bags, cough drops, and referrals to other practitioners, as needed.
Sometimes, people come in requesting a specific herb, or formula. Or, I ask, “Do you have access to hot water at your camp?” To assess whether they can make their own herbal preparation. In these instances, we label a small plastic bag with the formula and instructions for preparation, fill them with the herbs, seal, then send it off with the person, with clear verbal directions, along with the written instructions. Labels were just simple masking tape, written on with permanent marker. (This is what I use at home as well, for my temporary labels.)
Since herbal medicine is a medicine of relationship, it takes time, continual use, and dedication for these medicines to have good effect. Most people couldn’t make the medicine on their own. So, I directed people to return morning and night, and the next day, for continual follow-up. Because people often come in with great discomfort and truly need help, patient compliance was high, in terms of return rate, and actually following directions, and ingesting medicines.
People tend to ask to work with the same clinician. This way, they don’t have to repeat their story again, and experience consistency with both the clinician, as well as their unique formulation strategies. The bottom-liners worked with the most indigenous folks, as it seemed to take some time to earn their trust, especially of the children, who would follow around B (one of the herbalists), who would give them tasks, and actively involve them in the medicine making and dispensing process. The three little girls marching around brought smiles to patients’ faces, along with the unofficial “therapy dog,” a small, old, white dog who came with one of the long-term herbalists, who sometimes barked and got underfoot, but usually just laid around sleeping near the dried herbs shelves.
Commonly Seen Conditions in the Herb Yurt
People often came in with a lot of pain: back pain, pain from old injuries aggravated from the cold, lack of rest, stressful conditions, rubber bullet or concussion grenade wounds, tooth pain, headaches, etc. Under these circumstances, small things like simply making someone comfortable and at ease are so important. People come to Standing Rock for a strong purpose and continue working, ignoring their pain until it’s unbearable. Directions of, “Take the day off,” or, “Get some rest” need to be specific and actionable, otherwise they get ignored, and the person heals slower, worsens, or doesn’t get better. I would often give internal medicine of skeletal muscular relaxants, anti-inflammatories, and anodynes, while also rubbing anti-inflammatory salves or oils onto the local area, sometimes utilizing distal pressure points, or directing people to the bodywork yurt for further support, and giving herbal pain patches for people to wear home, and reapply as needed.
One large native man came in for stabbing back pain. He had a chronic dull achey injury that was aggravated by physical labor in the cold, and rubber bullet wounds in the local area. He had gone to the bodywork yurt three times already. The most recent time, bodywork elicited muscle spasms, which sent him into bouts of agonizing pain. I’m not a religious herbalist. If western medications are useful and necessary, then I will use them. For this man, we tried everything: bodywork, needles, herbs, conventional pain-killers, and even energy work. Eventually, what was most helpful in the moment was a combination of all of the above, but especially gliding cupping over a warm aromatic oil rubbed across his back, and trigger point massage into and across his erectors with my elbows dug into his back, Thai style. He drank an herbal formula, as well. I gave him herbs and directions to take home, with instructions to return again the next day, for more work.
I spent most of my time in the herb yurt, although I also volunteered a little in the bodywork yurt, practicing an eclectic blend of cupping, Shiatsu, Sotai, and Thai massage for when I wanted to offer more support, when there were too many herbalists in the herb yurt, or when a bodyworker was not available for someone I was working with. I notice that herbal medicine, in conjunction with bodywork, is often greatly effective. Acupuncture is a valuable skill, here. After volunteering and observing a little in the bodywork yurt, I am further inspired to learn more about the community acupuncture model, where I can simultaneously treat many people quickly and effectively.
People came staggering into the herb yurt coughing up rainbows of different shades of white, yellow, orange, red, and even green phlegm. Coldness contributed to the abundance of coughs, but tear gas and chemical warfare also seemed to create lingering respiratory distress. Often, coughs were coupled with cold or flu symptoms. We rapidly went through bottle after bottle of cough syrup, elderberry syrup, and fire cider. People came in under various stages of the common cold, including congestion, leaking mucous, deep exhaustion, full body aches and pains, sore throat, headache, and worse. A commonly used respiratory aid was Osha, or Bear Root. Many consider this plant sacred, and would not only utilize it as an internal medicine for its respiratory properties, but also burn it as a smudge or smoke it, to purify themselves energetically, and otherwise.
Most of us herbalists did not know the native names of the plants, although native people often entered requesting a certain plant, knowing only its native name. I am most familiar with scientific names, and some common names, of plants, but the native names elude me. I read them aloud over and over as we drove to ND but amidst the busy-ness of working in the herb yurt and all of the sensory stimuli of camp life itself, I did not retain those names, and forgot about using them, until watching one older herbalist work patiently with native people, working with local plants as much as possible, calling plants by their native names, and working with what people know. There’s a great respect for native people and cultures at camp, with the understanding that we’re here to support them.
This calls into question where my own herbal and other healing traditions come from, and what cultures I hail from. It further augments my decision to continue studying Chinese medicine, the medicine of my ancestry, although I’m studying it from white people, in the diluted yet exciting melting pot of the USA.
My Chinese medicine school, NUNM, is passionate about the “Six Confirmations” (六經) approach, which is described at length in the Chinese herbal classic, the Shang Han Lun (傷寒論), with our first herbal formulas classes revolving around archetypal formulas from that perspective. So, I was especially fascinated by how disease patterns fit into the Six Confirmations model, which can also be approached from a disease progression perspective. I’m afraid that this led to some truly disgusting, yet powerful and effective, decoctions, where I try recreating actions from the archetypal formulas with western herbs on hand. I made many people pucker up their faces with, “Ohhh. That’s intense,” and return the same evening or next day looking a little brighter, asking, “What was that? It helped. More, more!” I predict my next few years of Chinese medicine schooling will yield further disgusting decoctions as I make bridges between my western and eastern understandings of herbal medicine, health, and healing. One day, things will taste good again. But over time, I expect this to make me a better, if not even weirder, herbalist and health care provider.
Other commonly seen conditions include common first aid injuries from living and working outdoors, such as cuts, scrapes, bruises, etc. In such an environment, it’s important to keep these small injuries clean, and heal them up quickly, to prevent infection. My go-to herbs here came from working with 7song at Rainbow Gatherings: propolis for cleaning and sealing wounds, Yarrow or Chapparal for disinfectant washes, Comfrey if I’m ready to close things up, Calendula, Plantain, and Hypericum for their wound healing actions.
Many people came in with psycho-emo-spiritual disturbances such as PTSD, anxiety, depression, or general stress coupled with or leading to other difficulties. Here, we often worked in tandem with the counseling team, if the patient was receptive to it. Otherwise, we were active listeners, placing the patient in a quiet corner of the herb yurt for as much space as they need, with a cup of supportive tea. My favorite go-to’s here tend to be Rose, Hawthorne, and Passionflower. I feel like herbs are especially helpful for psycho-emo-spiritual imbalances. It’s deeply satisfying to visually see when a plant is correctly matched with a person: they take some medicine, sigh, then drop back into their seat more embodied, yet with a lighter spirit. Sometimes it’s very helpful, other times it’s just enough for me to know how to continue working with the person. And in these moments, I love herbs all the more.
We had one young female patient who got shot by a concussion grenade in her genitalia. She spent a lot of time in the herbal yurt, even sleeping in there day and night, so that we could help her on an as needed basis, with constant monitoring. She threw up a lot, and suffered from debilitating pain, including acute knife-like pain in the local area, and inability to walk. She also experienced rapidly fluctuating emotions, which included deep grief, anger, fear of not being able to bear children, and more. Sometimes, she lashed out. Other times, she wailed uncontrollably. Oftentimes she just slept, waking to mutter, yell, or puke. Different people worked with her. I was unsure what to do and so just held space, and kept out of the way, quietly working with other people, as they came in.
Insomnia was a common difficulty, usually stemming from other difficulties such as being sick and uncomfortable, coldness, or poor sleeping situations. Again, lifestyle support is important here, in tandem with herbal support. We helped people find better places to sleep, directed people to the donation area to get more blankets, and concocted relaxing tea blends, glycerites, and nighttime rituals to support relaxing before a healthy bedtime.
For more information about herbal first aid, see my list of herbal medicines that we brought to the 2014 Rainbow Gatherings’ herbal first aid tent:
Http://www.linjiling.blogspot.com/2014/07/rainbow-medicine-2014.html
And see 7song’s fantastic handouts:
http://www.7song.com/index?page=Handouts
Or considering joining Sam Coffman’s online course:
www.herbalmedics.university
The Herb Yurt
Many people would come in and go, “Oh, it smells so nice in here,” or simply, “It’s so nice in here!” Entering the herb yurt is like entering into a magical warm cozy Earth mama fairy cave. One must bow a little to enter the low doorway, and step over the wooden doorframe, which functions like a threshold portal. People talk more softly in here, as it’s small, and often filled with people. The yurt itself is beautiful, with intricate red and gold ornamentation painted on its wooden inner beams. There are no windows, besides a small sky window at the top of the yurt, where the steam and smoke swirl and accumulate. So, it’s very dark inside, with some small lights, twinkling like stars. I had my headlamp on, all day. It’s often warm, steamy, and womb-like, as we have four different teas simultaneously steeping on the four little burners, and often two large pots of decoctions on the woodstove: usually a chemical detox respiratory tea (to support those who got tear-gassed), a nourishing immuno-supportive blend (for those verging on sickness), or simply just water. I enjoy having a base-decoction simmering at all times, where I can add other herbs in to steep, or glycerites after steeping, to tailor to specific individuals.
The herb yurt has only been there for about 1.5 weeks. Prior to that, it was in a different location, a tent instead of a yurt, and organized differently. So, like most things at Standing Rock, the herb yurt was still under construction.
Entering the yurt, one first encounters the center of the space, with a large self help station to the left, a small altar to the right, a wood stove, and shelves of dried herbs that are wedged between the four central support poles. The self help station has three levels: the top shelf has water, fire cider, elderberry syrup, cough syrup, cough drops, bandages, Emergen-C, salves, and other odds and ends. The middle shelf is for pick-up. It usually takes about 10-15 minutes to prepare someone’s tea. If they have to rush away during that time, then they can return to pick-up their tea in this section, which has a cup or jar labelled with their name. In this section, there are also smaller jars of cough syrup, elderberry syrup, and fire cider, for people to take back to camp, if they have larger camps that need the medicine. The lowest section has boxes of teas for people to pick through.
The seating area is immediately to the left of the entrance. There’s a few chairs that are usually filled with people continually cycling through. Continuing around further to the left, we have a cot against the wall. This cot was often occupied by the traumatically injured woman during my time there, but after she started walking again, people would often just sit on the cot, like they do on the chairs, in the waiting area.
Dried herbs live in glass jars on shelves directly across from the cot in the central back portion of the yurt, where we herbalists work. They’re arranged alphabetically by common name, but often out of order. Like many great ideas that we didn’t have time for, I hope that someone will one day write the native names for the local plants onto those labels, too. Single herb donations are more helpful than blended formulas, unless it’s a large amount of an often used formula that can be used for the self-serve tea station, such as a respiratory, nervous system restorative/ soothing, or immuno-supportive tea. Otherwise, it’s difficult to organize tea blends into the shelving system of single herbs. People often marvel at this section of the herb yurt, as the herbs themselves are beautiful to behold, each in their own glass jar, with an array of beautiful smells, colors, and textures lovingly collected and donated from all over the world.
In the back wall area of the yurt furthest from the entrance, there’s a shelf of salves, oils, and lotions to the left of our herbal preparations area, with a double-burning propane Coleman stove on a table, sink, and then second stove. The water set-up is simply a large five gallon container of water balanced atop a large sink, with another bucket down below for catching wastewater. The water is potable, used for both drinking, as well as constantly washing our cycling collection of reused pots, French presses, and strainers, that are dried next to the sink. There’s often a second bucket ready for catching more wastewater as the first one is filled, and another five gallon container of water nearby, to replace the primary water source, as it gets used up. Since most of our herbal preparations utilized water, water rotation of both potable and wastewater was a continual need. The little wood stove sits between the two stoves, in the center of the yurt, which allows for easy access, and a continual heat source. The two stove-top tables get filled with a variety of herbal preparations, as well as donated food from other camps.
To the right of the entrance is the glycerites’ station, which is a standing table that faces out towards the waiting area, which looks like a bar, covered with 1-4 oz tincture bottles filled with diverse glycerites, and some vinegars and oxymels. This section was especially difficult to keep organized, as small bottles are easy to misplace, and need constant refilling. This table also had three layers. The top layer housed the glycerite bar. The middle layer housed larger bottles of more commonly used glycerites for refilling, and smaller bottles of less commonly used glycerites, for storage. The bottom layer had empty bottles to fill with medicines for people to bring home. I wonder why we used so many glycerites, instead of vinegars, which extract phytoconstituents more readily.
Behind the glycerites bar lives the wall of first aid materials, with disinfectant, hand sanitizer, band-aids, gauze, tape, etc. Miscellaneous items also live here, there, and everywhere, stuck into odd nooks under tables, behind chairs, and all over the small herb yurt.
On my last day there, my friend Kat and I created a triage system to facilitate more efficient usage of space in the herb yurt, saving precious space inside for people who needed individualized attention, or more complex formulas. We created a self help station and donations drop off area outside of the yurt, and interviewed people as they came to the door, to discern if they needed to go in, or not. This seemed to help keep herb yurt traffic flowing more efficiently, with more people helped, in the process.
A huge list of potential improvements could be made for the herb yurt organization, but like the rest of Standing Rock, the herb yurt came together organically and last minute, according to needs, and not planned. Communication, organization, and triage could certainly be improved. It started out as a smaller clinic, where one herbalist doing everything solo made sense: seeing patients, writing and blending formulas, and keeping the space clean and organized. But, with the large amount of both patients and herbalists, if we had the space, (and for future notes), an expanded clinic, with more clearly shared and communicated tasks would be helpful. For example, having 1-3 primary people doing intake in one room, then writing out a formula/ prescription, and having 1-3 people in the back (another room) filling the prescription.
Behind the herb tent lived the tea station, with five large burners and two big propane tanks, to boil up 1-2 gallon vats of water, for the self-serve tea station at the side of Flag Road, where people came streaming in on foot, horse, bike, and car. We usually had an immune-boosting tea, a relaxing tea, and straight hot water available at all times. Piles of tea bags, and sometimes snacks, sat on the tea station table, for people to help themselves.
There were large metal trash bins for people to deposit their trash into, but they were very full. People must pack out whatever they pack in. Town runs often took place, either to the local casino/ hotel for showers and internet, or to pick up more donations at Bismarck. Whenever someone made a town run, they would make an announcement to everyone. That person’s car was then loaded up with people, trash, and a long list of errands to run, while in town.
Medic Area Organization
The Medic area at Oceti Sakowin is like a little integrative health center. As you walk in from Flag Road, you are first presented with the Medic area fire, which is in the center of all of the Medic structures, which all face East. Going from left to right, there’s the Counseling Tipi, Bodywork Yurt, Herb Yurt, Medic Yurt (western conventional medicine), Midwife Yurt, then supply tents. Each Medic structure is like a little universe within itself, with its own healthcare practitioners, supply areas, lines of communication, and more. The central Medic area fire burns all the time. Fires provide informal community hubs for people to warm up, share food and stories, or simply rest, reflect, and take space. Daily Medic orientations occured at noon at the central Medic fire, with long conversations going deep into the night. I shared a few of these late night fire chats. They were often focused around why we were there, and what’s happening around camp: small stories of victories and defeats out on the front lines, what’s difficult and what’s working in individual camps, and reminders of what’s sacred. Although we came from so many different places, the atmosphere often felt focused, and deeply respectful.
If someone needed medications, or was undergoing something that I felt was better suited for western medicine, then I would direct them to the Medic yurt. If someone had physical misalignments, injuries, or other difficulties, then I would give them some herbal support, and likely direct them to the Bodywork yurt. If someone had a pregnancy related question or need, then I would direct them to the Midwifery yurt. If someone needed more experienced counseling support, then I’d point them to the Counseling tipi. I felt greatly supported in having these other modalities literally next door, and fluidly sharing patients and referrals, in a truly dynamic integrative medical setting, functioning without electricity or running water, with the smoky scent of fire at all times, and continual energetic dialogue.
The herb yurt was three times more active than the Medic yurt, at least. Most people would only go to the Medic yurt if absolutely necessary. Herbs are more accessible, beautiful, and interesting. Bodywork is lovely, but each session tends to take some time, from 30 minutes to an hour, with a long line of patients, and priority given to acute patients, natives, elders, and front line warriors. In our herb yurt, we spent around 10-15 minutes per patient, often doubling up between patients, while waiting for herbs to steep, or water to boil. It seemed like the herb yurt had the most traffic, of all of the medic structures.
Rosebud and Sacred Stone camps
“Camp raid. All women and children to the dome,” came a call over the loudspeakers, as I first tried to walk to Rosebud and Sacred Stone camps, getting turned back at the road, for safety. From the top of the hill, I see people calmly yet efficiently moving across camp towards the central white dome where people often gathered for meetings, and Thanksgiving dinner would take place later, that evening. I spend some time each evening practicing yoga in this dome, in front of the altar of sweetgrass, sage, cedar, feathers, and shells. The shape of the dome offers resonant echoes that magnify the sound of my every breath. Now, I walk past the dome, peer at the crowd, then return to the herb yurt, where my comrades declare, still busy, focused, and peaceful, “We’re staying put. We’re needed here.”
We spend the morning preparing for the direct action. We prepare bottles of milk of magnesia to wash out tear-gassed victims’ eyes and bodies, and cleaning stations for people to detoxify, before stepping in. We tidy up the yurt, which is quieter than usual, as most people are either standing in peaceful protest on the front lines, or conducting their own preparations for a possible “camp raid.” Oceti Sakowin is the largest camp, and located on land with controversial ownership. During Thanksgiving week, the camp supposedly swelled to over 8000 people. When I first arrived, it was already very busy. But the day that we left, there was a line of cars coming in, and it was literally impossible to walk around camp without bumping into people. Regardless, law enforcement could “raid” at any moment, to take apart all of the carefully constructed shelters and infrastructure, at this camp.
I got sick, that day. “Can you say that again?” People repeatedly asked me during intake, as I lose my voice, whisper my questions in a noisy herb yurt, and realize that I am no longer being helpful, as I’m exhausted, moving slowly, forgetful, and can barely croak out a word or two, with much effort and frustration. As is often the case, serendipity rules at camp. An herbal medic from the Sacred Stone medic tent arrives. I load him up with elderberry syrup and fire cider. “Can I come with you?” I whisper. We catch a ride back to Sacred Stone camp. I see Turtle Island across the river. “You see all those little black dots on the top of that hill?” Asks my companion. I nod. “They’re law enforcement.” I watch the little black dots crawling around the top of the hill, and the more colorful dots, the Water Protectors in peaceful protest, clustered around the bottom of the hill, and water. I feel fear and excitement. All I can do is pray.
Sacred Stone is much hillier than Oceti, with cars and camps tucked into flat spots between hilly outcroppings. There’s a clear view of the river and Turtle Island from the entire camp. People told me that it’s “more Rainbow style” at Sacred Stone, meaning that there’s more new-agey white people, instead of indigenous people, there. I barely spent any time at Sacred Stone or Rosebud, so couldn’t really make a clear judgment about that. But, the camp is certainly smaller, and seems more organized. Both Sacred Stone and Rosebud only had one medic tent, with western, herbal, and all other healing modalities under one roof.
At Sacred Stone medic tent, it looks like herbs are organized alphabetically in plastic bags in plastic containers. The “Medics only” section is roped off, with a waiting/ treatment area as you enter. Next door is a long tent with cots and massage tables for patients to lie in. Medicines are arranged according to western conventional, herbal, or other medicines. Whereas at Oceti we had a circular space to work with, theirs is long and rectangular, which potentially allowed for easier organization. There were less volunteers there, and people worked in shifts. I appreciated the peaceful atmosphere and my individualized attention, as my tour guide whipped me up an acute respiratory blend similar to what I would create for someone else, but different, and special, in that it was made just for me. After treating so many people, it’s sweet and humbling to be reminded of my own humanity, and how I too, can be taken care of, by others.
I arrive at Rosebud medic tipi in time to see an older gentleman having an asthma attack, and getting treatment for it, with both herbalists and nurse practitioners on board. It was his third attack within the past two days, and nothing was helping. He was out on the front lines, had gotten sprayed, and there were other complicating factors. Being a newcomer to the tent, I was immediately directed to hold his hand as part of the team. Some people rushed around, while others stayed put. We listened to his story, as we prepared to get him out of camp, to the hospital.
Lobelia tincture. Smoked Datura leaves. Ephedra tincture. Herbal support that I’d learned about from 7song, remedies that I’ve both successfully and unsuccessfully administered, come streaming through my mind. But, as is often the case, I lay low and stay respectful, watching what others do, and only offering my suggestions as they are called upon. In my own practice, I primarily use tinctures. But, we don’t use alcohol here. There’s a complex relationship with alcohol, so we don’t even have it. We have some herbs on hand, but not all. Treatment protocols vary, depending on not just the patient and practitioner, but also on what’s available, which changes quickly.
The Rosebud medic tipi is the smallest of the three. Whereas the Oceti and Sacred Stone medic structures are right in the center of camp, Rosebud medic tent is more tucked away, where it’s more quiet, peaceful, and beautiful. From Rosebud, not only can I see the action taking place at Turtle Rock, but I can also see the expansiveness of the Oceti camp. Oceti feels like a small city, with people constantly streaming in and out. Being smaller and more homey, Sacred Stone and Rosebud felt more like villages, with people quietly hard at work. At Sacred Stone, they’re building a beautiful straw bale schoolhouse, and other structures. At Rosebud, piles of donations sit in small pyramids outside of their primary community gathering space, still under construction. Back at Oceti, things are still quiet, but I hear the clattering of cooking pots and pans, as people prepare feasts to welcome Water Protectors back from the front lines.
My Evenings
I spent most of my days in the herb yurt organizing herbs, making medicines, dispensing medicines, cleaning, and navigating relationships between plants and people. I was unplugged from electronics, books, and anything outside of what was immediately present, during my time there. With fascinating people, interesting and important projects, deep prayers, and myriad tasks everywhere, it’s easy to get lost in the colorful cultural and sensorial stimulus of camp, but also easy to think that one is indispensable, with said projects. But, the reality is that there are plenty of eager and able bodied people to work. Divvying up tasks, prioritizing, rotating shifts, taking breaks, and pacing oneself is important. I spent my first day working in the herb yurt with barely any food, water, or breaks until close to midnight, but soon realized that such intensity was neither sustainable nor necessary, and spent the next few evenings exploring and experiencing diverse realities.
My first evening away from the herb yurt, I found a small community camp that was serving potato soup. “Come help yourself!” Welcomed the soup server. So, I filled my bowl and joined the circle sitting around the soup pot. Turns out they were from the Maori tribe in New Zealand, who traveled here as representatives of their tribe, to share their food, stories, passion, and Haka war-dance, with the people of Standing Rock. I learned that their tribe is also rapidly experiencing modernization, like most indigenous tribes I’ve met in the USA, and southeast Asia. But, various traditional elements still persist. The individuals gathered around the soup pot that night were not just passionate about sharing their traditions with their indigenous youth, but they were also passionate about doing whatever is most needed at all times, with every action offered as a gift. “This is why I share our stories with you,” he said, “and we cook our potato soup and share it with everyone. And, we perform our Haka.” Shyly but with respect, I ask, “Can you share your Haka--- now?” And, they do.
Right around the soup pot, they look at each other, nod, put down their soup bowls, and everything changes in the next breath, as I’m transported into another world, ancient and powerful, where each breath is intentional, and all words are aimed and fired as arrow-like directed poetry, weaving the world into existence. Although they remain seated, their bodies and faces are dynamic. Even in the dim light of the sputtering propane lantern, and although they remain relatively muted so as not to disturb their neighbors, their power comes through, and I’m moved to tears and goosebumps. “When we do our Haka, all of our ancestors come and join us,” they explain later, “And all of the spirits of the land come and join, too.” They speak directly to the Black Snake in symbolic language, promising not just to kill it, but also slice it into pieces, and eat it, so that it will never reproduce again. Their movements match their words, with integrated breathing, gestures, stomps, and facial expressions that are powerful, dynamic, and gripping. A crowd gathers. I feel us all breathing as one, bringing our own power, ancestry, and intent into the Haka. One small group’s prayer powerfully projects into the Universe, as an integral piece of the larger prayer of the camp as a whole, with all of the prayers from all the people who contributed each small bottle of fire cider, every dollar for firewood and other necessities, and all of the love and well wishes streaming in from all directions.
And of the perpetrators, the abusers, the money-mongers of DAPL, and the funders of this project? People return from the front lines saying that the law enforcements officers are smiling as they shoot their water hoses, chemical warfare, and rubber bullets, in their bullet proof vests, warm clothing, and government-funded outfits, complete with fancy pins and actual guns. They aim for the face and groin, and are completely unethical in their actions. What of them? Where is their humanity? What do they believe in? What prayers do they send out? How do their ancestors speak to them?
“Come join us for tea later,” invites a man who comes in for cough drops and Emergen-C, one evening. He describes his camp, and I agree. Around 10 PM, when things start quieting down in the herb yurt, I find my way to his tiny yurt, which has small round lanterns lining the entrance. I enter into a smoky yurt that feels like Mongolia: rugs and furs line the ground and walls, with tobacco-smoking men in work clothes filling the small space cradling dainty cups of sweetly bitter smelling tea. The man who invited me sits behind an old log-table laden with beautiful Asiatic teaware. I squeeze myself between a woolen wall and a man with a guitar, get handed a cup of Taiwanese tea, and we start partner-plinking away on the guitar. I forget that it’s hard to breathe in an enclosed space filled with smoke as I begin singing. The other men cease talking to bang silverware and wooden tools on the floor, creating an impromptu cacophony that gradually morphs into a rhythmic ancient-yet-modern improvisation of smoke, sweat, and joyous celebration of strangers in a new yet old place that is home for now, and utterly sacred. When we stop our plinking, and in the pauses, I can hear, faintly from up the hill and through the canvas, wool, and furs, the ancient pow wow songs that occur around the campfire each night. I emerge close to midnight, smiling and thoroughly reeking of smoke, wondering how it is that white men have returned from my ancestral lands with such lovely teas, and we create this kind of music, in this landscape of America, with indigenous tribes, protecting water. How does it all fit together? I shake my head, keep smiling, and walk home under the starlight, laughing steam, prayers, wonder, questions, and gratitude up to the stars who know everything, but hold it all lightly, yet with great care.
On Thanksgiving, I eat dinner at the dome. For eating and most activities, people let native people go first, then elders, women, and children, and then everyone else. (How can we be more conscious about our respect for and inclusion of women and elders into decision making processes?) Entering the space, it’s gratifying to see such an eclectic group of people all feasting together, with everyone donating their time, food, and energies, coming together in massive, brilliant community. “Thank you for being here,” is an often repeated phrase, but heartfelt, each time. “Thank you for being here,” said the young native teenage woman serving roast vegetables to me. She’s respectful and whole hearted, but there’s also a certain guarded carefulness that I think comes from generations of oppression. I thank her verbally in return, looking into her eyes and unverbally giving her all of my best wishes. “Thank you for being here,” I hear her say with the same serious care and intention, to the next person in line, a middle-aged white woman who laughs, and light-heartedly jokes, “Do you ever get tired of saying that to everyone?” The young native woman maintains her seriousness, and responds, “I say it only because I mean it.”
How can our words and actions best reflect our intentions? We can joke around and be light-hearted, but how can we maintain respect and care, in all our interactions?
I cut across camp to return to the herb yurt. I navigate without a flashlight, moving like a shadow between camps, observing feasts large and small between candles, firelight, torches, and flashlights. Some camps are self-contained, but most welcome whoever walks in to come and feast with them. I was prepared to cook my own meals while I was there, but ended up eating mostly food donations to the herb yurt, and sometimes the various little community meals occurring around camp.
People share pow wow songs, dances, and prayers nightly around the Sacred Fire. I love the old songs where everyone sings along, with the men providing a solid ground with their low bass voices for the women to soar above with their high voices, in the sky of co-created melodies. Songs often have both native and English translations, with a driving rhythm from the central drum, that moves my blood and spirit, and we all step to, in a simple circle dance, where we spiral around and around the Sacred Fire, moving me to tears. These dance steps are so simple, yet old and familiar. We all work so hard during the day, celebrate together so strongly in the evenings, and come together in true community. I especially love the young warriors who share their new songs made in an old way, about how water is life (Mni Wiconi), killing the Black Snake, the sacredness of the land and this peaceful protest, long term struggles, the power of life itself. There were also many love songs: warriors promising their beloveds to return from battle, comparing the beauty of their sweethearts to the beauty of the landscape, and more.
I walk along the river. It’s white along the edges with ice, and the frothy residue of tear gas. In the distance, people fight peacefully in prayer, and militaristically, with metal weaponry. The plants have mostly gone to sleep for the winter, with some lingering leaves on deciduous plants, but mostly a layer of leaves underfoot, with only conifers holding onto their needles, the bones of the landscape breathing fog into the clear air, hugging the rivers, the veins and arteries of the land, the sky and earth themselves, the heartbeat, along with the gently pulsing water continually flowing, bringing life to a landscape that has gone into hibernation. It’s quiet along the river as I walk. There’s small altars here and there, animal and human tracks, little paths where people walk down to the water, and along the water’s edge. “We swam in there during the summer,” said a friend who’s been there since the beginning, “things have changed so much.” I pause next to a large stone, where the water laps more heavily, gradually wearing away at the rock, where grasses dip their heads into the water, bobbing in an ancient dance. My tears are my offering to these waters that flow into all waters, and this landscape, which represents the landscape of the whole Earth, the architecture of my existence, a symbolic yet real representation of life, itself. No words, here.
My final evening at Standing Rock, we hold an herbal medic meeting, which goes on and on, until near midnight. With herbalists working non-stop around the clock and patients constantly coming in, there’s a lack of communication between the herbal team as a whole. Although people are requested to volunteer for at least two weeks, most of the herbalists present were staying for less than that. A continual question emerges, of how we can best support the “bottom-liners,” or the herbalists who had been there longest, who are committed to staying until “the end.” It seems to take the bottom-liners time to establish trust and adjust to each new wave of fresh herbalists, and for incoming herbalists to understand how best to serve under current circumstances with existing people and unspoken protocols. It’s easy to accidentally step on toes, in a passionate fervor of trying to do everything, and be as helpful as possible. Observation, discernment, respectfully asking questions, being okay with no answer, and intelligently figuring out answers is important, here.
“How can I be most helpful?” and “What’s really necessary?” Is a question that I often asked myself, and that new volunteers would ask me, as they stepped in. I find working with patients most interesting. It’s certainly the most glamorous job, and what most people want to do. However, there’s also all kinds of needed grunt work and general labor: compost and wastewater needs emptying, water needs refilling, herbs need refilling and alphabetical re-organization, fresh donations need sorting, floor needs sweeping, etc. It’s amazing that Standing Rock is a community that is entirely run on donations: people donate their time and energy to be there, and there’s a constant flow of money and supplies donated from all over the world. I was moved to see herbal donations overflowing the herbal supply tent, with many different names and companies that I recognized, on all sorts of diverse labels varying from handwritten to professionally printed labels, testament to the grassroots nature of herbal medicine. Besides the herb yurt and medic areas, there are many ways to actively participate in the Standing Rock community: cooking, cleaning, construction, sorting donations, hauling water, chopping firewood, and more. “You just show up and ask, ‘How can I help?’” explained a friend who volunteered, prior to my arrival.
It takes a lot of dedication to keep this community going. People come here with all kinds of great intentions, but it takes not just dedication, but also humility, and a certain level of health, to keep going in such an environment. After returning to Portland, I seriously considered leaving school for however long necessary to return to Standing Rock, and keep working for a cause that I believe in, people that I admire and care about, and in a way where I am needed, and helpful. However, my sickness did not go away, and I realized that in my current state, I am not healthy enough to be of long-term service, and am better staying at home, learning more, and continuing the Standing Rock work at home, in my own communities.
Bringing It Home
“How can we bring this home?” Is a question that we discussed at length on our long drive home, especially as we crossed from Washington back into Oregon, and the reality of returning to our busy urban lives of school and other responsibilities became more real. My first week back in Portland, I struggled with the upper respiratory tract infection that afflicted many of our patients. A month later in fact, I’m still spewing golden phlegm, remnants of that illness stuck deep in my lungs. Besides physical illness, I also struggled with feeling lonely and useless. Those feelings return in waves, every so often. As a medical student, I’m training to become even more useful to my community than I currently am. But, my life currently doesn’t feel so helpful to anyone. I’m too busy to work much outside of school, let alone actively participate in my communities. Moreover, my “busy” urban student life does not feel nearly as fulfilling as my “busy” life as a Standing Rock volunteer. “What’s the most important thing that you learned at Standing Rock?” People ask me.
Community.
At Standing Rock, people care for each other, and everyone pitches in, in a myriad of ways. Every action feels necessary, and contributes to a greater whole, a larger cause. Living in an urban environment, people are often overly caught up in their inflated self-created importance, too “busy” to reach out to their fellow humans. I returned from Standing Rock wanting to share my experience and talk with lots of people, albeit voiceless and exhausted. I serendipitously run into an old friend, my first day back. He patiently listening to my whispered words, and returns the next day to continue walking in the forest with me, talking both nonsense and things of great importance, and laughing a lot. I feel lucky in this interaction, but the isolated reality is that I live like an island in a rich neighborhood in the hills above school, and only know one of my neighbors. Inviting people over often elicits, “Too busy,” or, “Another time” which over time, leads to never hanging out.
Regardless of how “busy” my life is, or gets, I resolve to make time for what’s important: people, community, and myself.
Five students from my school traveled together to volunteer at Standing Rock over Thanksgiving break. I created a community discussion within a week of our return, to share our experiences with our greater community. Around 30 people joined us, filling a room with bright eyes, curious questions, open minds, and caring hearts. I arranged our chairs in a circle, with no tables between us, as inspired by sitting in circles at Standing Rock, and all of the circles I’ve both participated in and facilitated, over the years. Our conversation is organic, and dynamic. The biggest question is, “What was it like?” And, “How can we help?”
The people who remain at Standing Rock still need to get through the winter. There are so many donations that are still getting organized in Bismarck. There’s only a certain amount of space at camp, especially with all of the snow falling, and lack of storage space. Financial donations are the most helpful at this point, so that folks there can directly purchase what they need. You can donate here:
http://www.medichealercouncil.com/donate/
And find out more about the cause, here:
http://www.standwithstandingrock.net
Get active in your local community about what matters to you. Reach out to your neighbors. Who are your communities? What are you passionate about, and committed to? What actions are you taking in your own life, and communities? What is your community’s greatest need? What’s your role? What unique gifts do you share? Where do you come from? What’s your relationship with nature? Who are your ancestors? How did they walk upon this land? What traditions do you uphold, from them? From others? What musical traditions? Artistic? Communal expressions? How do you access the Sacred in your everyday life? What is sacred to you? How do you take care of yourself, in the shifting tides of our current dynamic humanity? How do you celebrate?
Standing Rock stands as an example of what’s possible, of how people can band together in the face of the seeming impossibility of big money, big corporations, and big greedy idiocy. A big greedy idiot, who the founder of my Chinese medicine program equates with Hitler, comes into power as the President of the USA in January. How do we come together? How can we tighten our communities, and be prepared, not just for him, but also for each other? Regardless of what madness our world comes into, how can we create more solid, loving, and mutually supportive communities for ourselves, each other, our planet, and our future generations? Individually, we are nothing but small ants to squish, one at a time. Collectively, we can create resilient Standing Rocks that remain standing, in our own homes and communities.
As far as personal actions go, I’m getting street medic training now, and volunteering at a couple local free clinics. I’m also organizing classes on campus with native herbalists, and other classes, conversations, and collaborations on relevant skills and topics. I plan to instigate more tea parties, potlucks, and community celebrations and open conversations. I will volunteer as an herbal street medic in future actions relating to issues that matter, and remain curious about bridging Chinese medicine, western herbalism, street medic-ing, and the more artistic sides of my being: my current Interplay (improvisational community expression) training, studio arts/ photography background, love of dance and improvisational song, yoga teaching, experience as an outdoor educator, and being a first generation Taiwanese American woman. I would like more training in conflict resolution, leadership, and effective cross-cultural communication, and plan to to learn more about native plants, cultures, and communities in whatever locale I live, which is currently the Pacific northwest, and likely the desert Southwest, in the future. I am further committed to accessible health care and education, and feel a fiery motivation to be of greatest service to my communities and this beautiful, sacred, and tenacious yet tender planet that we live on.
My first few nights back from Standing Rock, it filled my dreams where I would wake, surprised not to be in a tight yurt filled with herbalists and patients, offering cup after steaming cup of medicinal teas to needy individuals. Sitting in class, I would suddenly be transported back, walking between rows and rows of tipis with smoke spiraling upwards from their tops, laughing at jokes and small conversations, crying with sympathy and understanding, only to be jolted back into my reality of sitting in a classroom with fellow students stony faced, my professor still lecturing about something abstract and obscure, yet relevant and somehow important to the weaving of my internal tapestry as a healer and human.
Last night, a month later, camping in the wilderness, I received another Standing Rock dream. From my journal:
I shake a frozen jar of water. Teaching a class about water. Unprepared. But know I can whip it up easily. Relate it to the 80% water in our body, internal waterways, and how that connects us all with external/ all waters. The sacred.
Mni wiconi. Water is life. Prayer and intention are powerful. Be the change that you wish to see in the world, and share it with your community. Build resilient, powerful, beautiful communities. Connect with your ancestors, and the lands that hold and form you. Live your life as a prayer, your every breath an intentional blessing to all that surrounds and composes you. Ask good questions. Be respectful, yet brave, discerning, and honest. Think critically. Look from all angles, and look again, even closer. Celebrate humanity, nature, and life. Stand up for what you believe in. Question what you believe in. Howl at the moon, and make loud whooping war cries when something you love really needs or deserves it. Show your passion. Fly it on colorful flags, and in heart-filled songs and stories. Circle up around fires that call your name. Look your family in the eye. Bravely address what’s most uncomfortable, yet important. Look for the right moments. Create the right moments. Live as full as the sun at the height of summer, the moon at the height of its cycle: full, yet ready and willing to fall, and rise, and fall, and rise, again and again. Full, in the greatest expression of yourself, as you dance with all of the elements and cycles, the rhythms of water pulsating through your precious, sacred, tenacious, beautiful, powerful, life-filled being. Live alive. Mni wiconi. Pass it on.
