As a nation, I'd like to say we learned a lot from the Standing Rock Sioux over the last few years; however, I fear that what most people got out of the outpour of passion for Water was a new phrase to culturally appropriate and some content for their social media pages. Mni Wiconi means something more than a phrase on a t-shirt or a hashtag on Twitter. It's more than a slogan for clean Water, too. It's a law of nature and of life, deeply respected by the people who made it a news headline all across our nation.
For me personally, it's the embodiment of who I am as an individual and what my soul craves. It is a requirement in order to thrive and flourish. I have carried it with me throughout the Great Lakes, into the Southwest, and even to Africa and back. Now, this ancient law is surfacing from deep within me and pouring onto the diverse isthmus that I currently call home.
I spent the last ten days traveling throughout the Azuero region in Panama; this region is known for being the hottest and driest part of the entire country. Specifically, I spent my time in two communities in the province of Los Santos, a culturally rich province full of highly social individuals and many cows. I spent about four days visiting a current Peace Corps volunteer in her site, and another five days at practicum week (a week full of hands-on training, hosted by another current PCV in her community). Overall, the trip was extremely successful: I learned so much about what it's like to actually be in service, what realistic expectations might look like for my service, and was able to build some meaningful relationships throughout this time.
For someone like me, Los Santos was a big challenge. The hottest, driest, arguably most outgoing part of the country was so far outside of my comfort zone; to be brutally honest, I hated it when I arrived. Reflecting on my time in the region, I'm still not terribly fond of it.
It wasn't until my third day of travel, when I plunged into Rio Valles on another unbearably hot Saturday, that I realized why I felt so drained and uninspired (both in Los Santos, and in Panama in general): I hadn't been in a body of Water in weeks.
Before I waded into Rio Valles, I was told that people who swim in this river fall in love with Panama. As soon as my toes touched the Water, I felt so much energy coming to me. I quickly waded into the middle of the river, threw my arms into the air, and took inventory of my surroundings.
I laughed when the volunteer I was visiting said the Water was cold; the last time I went swimming was on November 25, 2017 in Lake Michigan, and the Water had been a balmy 42 degrees Fahrenheit. Rio Valles felt like warm honey on my skin compared to the frigid temperatures of the Great Lakes, and as I ducked my head beneath the surface, I reflected on the translation of fresh water. In Spanish, fresh water is called "agua dulce," or "sweet water." I'd like to think this is no coincidence; there is nothing in life sweeter than a river rushing through you, or a lake spreading fluid arms around you.
I spent nearly four hours in the Water that day, swimming and climbing across the rocky bottom with prune-hands and breathing in deeply the scent of minerals and wet wood. I left my feet submerged in the river while I perched on a log near the riverbank and wrote observations of my surroundings, my feelings, and the explosive joy that I found in my heart.
"Water; leaves tickling my toes; fish nibbling on unshaven legs; slick rocky bottom; detritus; silt; feeling clean for the first time in weeks; fresh and refreshed; islands in the stream; broken by punches of color in textiles; orange blue blue blue RED; la brisa; how many birdcalls in sixty seconds? a dozen, or more; naps in hammocks; smoky air from the cooking stones; hair perfectly curled from fresh Water kisses on each strand; skin soft from sediment exfoliation; this river is gentle."
"I'd like to think the fresh Water licking my skin made its journey from Michigan.
I hope it fell as a rain drop in Grand Rapids, and ran to the Grand River in a hurry to see me.
I believe that Lake Michigan generated waves, not to be reckoned with, to push that rain drop to the ocean.
It journeyed along coastlines and through the gills of great creatures until it found its home amidst many other molecules in the sky.
A cloud drifted over my Panamanian home and cried homesickness onto the land, depositing not just one, but thousands of Michigan raindrops on this dry isthmus.
When I stepped into Rio Valles, I felt them.
The Grand River lent me 252 miles.
Lake Michigan lent me 307 miles.
So on, until the oceans graciously finished the journey, bringing my rain drop over 4,000 miles to me.
I poured gratitude into the river, as the sky had poured comfort into me, and for the first time I felt like I might be home."
One day, these will be poems, crafted and modeled with respect to the perfection and beauty of Water. For now, they are notes about a day I spent having my spirit recharged by the very place it came from.
I was extremely fortunate to not have my experience with Water end there; over the course of the next week I had the pleasure of visiting the Pacific Ocean twice. While salted Water is not as sacred to me as Agua dulce, the effect was similar.
On Thursday, March 22, I boarded a boat to Isla Iguana, a protected island in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Los Santos, Panama. The wind on this particular day was strong, and created waves double the size of our skiff. Despite this, we boarded Jose's boat, and he steered us through choppy coastal Water for nearly 20 minutes to the island.
While being jostled around in the skiff on our way there, I closed my eyes and felt Water splashing onto my face and soaking my clothes, and I remembered every boat ride home from Seaway Island in Lake St. Clair, every storm chasing us back to the docks of Cedarville through the Les Chenaux Islands in Lake Huron, and that one time we rode in our family's thirty-year-old Sea Ray beneath the Mackinac Bridge, feeling the stirring currents of the Straits beneath us and crashing through waves that could have swallowed us whole (at least, that's how a very young version of myself remembers the waves). The only difference in those moments was the bitter taste of salt reaching my tongue, instead of the sweet taste of fresh Water from the Great Lakes.
The Island itself was gorgeous, with turquoise Water backing up to white beaches, covered in hermit crabs and iguanas, swarming with frigatebirds and an occasional warbler, home to nesting pelicans and seasonal whales. While walking the island, I came to know how tired its history was: during WW2, the United States planted land mines all over the island, and many are still active there today (don't leave the trails). Additionally, there are craters from bombs dropped on the island by the United States as well. However, despite war, this beautiful place and its residents persisted. You can see the strength in massive Panama trees, palm groves, and the thousands and thousands of hermit crabs that march through the understory, commanding the forest floor with their scuttling legs and tiny claws.
I spent the afternoon submerged in aqua Water, avoiding the reef nearby but admiring chunks of coral that had broken off and washed toward shore, and rubbing myself down with minerals and sand to exfoliate my skin. I was delighted to be shown a small octopus that was calling a piece of detached coral home, and observed pelicans diving into the waves to find lunch. When I finally left the Water, my toes each individually worshipped the baby-soft sand that greeted them on shore.
When we boarded the boats to head back to the mainland, the wind had died down and our ride was much smoother. I had the amazing opportunity to watch the Panamanian coast come into view, with its miles of beaches backed by lush greenery, despite it being the dry season.
As I exited the ocean, I sent silent thanks to the Water that allowed me to safely travel to and from such a beautiful place, and that gave my spirit reasons to rejoice all day. Though I tasted salt on my lips, I reminded myself that no matter what, I existed within our global watershed. Therefore, underneath its briny front, I was tasting the sweetness of my Lakes; I was tasting home.
Water has always been a massive part of my being: I grew up 0.2 miles from the coast of Lake St. Clair. While I don't remember the first time I was introduced to the Lake, I do know that it was before I turned a year old. Even prior to then, I was drinking and bathing in its treasure only one-fifth of a mile away from its shore; prior to then, I was growing inside the womb of a woman who was surviving from the Lake's gifts. I attribute my existence and my well-being to Lake St. Clair.
I attribute my desire to protect Water to the experiences the Lakes so graciously lent me while I grew up: summers sprinting across Lake Huron beaches with my dog; boat rides on Lake Michigan; staring in awe at Lake Superior as a child, overwhelmed that any body could be so beautiful and so terrifying at the same time; and of course those pristine mornings and evenings on Lake St. Clair, bundled up in a beach towel or two after a day of swimming with my brother and sister, making crowns from Eurasian milfoil (before I knew it was an invasive species), and eating PBJ sandwiches with a little bit of sand tucked between the slices of bread.
I attribute my understanding of Water to the knowledge passed down from the First People of the Americas, who I'm lucky to have as my ancestors. While my family isn't particularly connected to our Native ancestry, it's the only part of my bloodline that I feel makes any sense, regardless of what percentage represents that part of my genetic makeup. From the time I was a child, to my current perspectives as an adult, it only makes sense I came from the people who knew Water is alive, Trees are people, and the Earth is a Mother.
While my bloodline reflects Cherokee heritage, I've learned about life and how to live from the teachings of multiple First Nations. One of my favorite explanations of Water is from Robin Wall Kimmerer, a member of the Patowatomi Nation who is a teacher of environmental science and forest biology at the University of New York:
“A bay is a noun only if water is dead. When bay is a noun, it is defined by humans, trapped between its shores and contained by the word. But the 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 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. Water, land, and even a day, the language a mirror for seeing the animacy of the world, the life that pulses through all things, through pines and nuthatches and mushrooms. This is the language I hear in the woods; this is the language that lets us speak of what wells up all around us.[…]
This is the grammar of animacy.”
It is no surprise that I feel Water jump to greet me when I arrive within its reach. It is no wonder that I was able to feel so close to home, 4,000 miles away, because of the embrace of Water. There is no question why I feel so energized and at peace after being in Water's presence, as it took on different forms to soothe me while I adjust to my new life in Panama.
Even now, laying in my bed, many miles from the coast of the ocean and without a clean stream to dip my toes in, I am comforted by just the thought of Water wrapping me back up in the love I have poured out to it over the course of my life.
Water is the source of all life; we all began in the womb of a mother, swaddled in a blanket of water as we grew. When we come into the world, Water is the first of Mother Earth's gifts to greet us, washing us clean. Those of us who continue to visit Water throughout our lives are intensely connected to Water, sharing an unbreakable bond that is strengthened again and again, every time we return.
Lake St. Clair will always flow through my veins.
Lake Huron will always lend me quiet reflection.
Lake Superior will always bring tears to my eyes and fear to my heart.
Lake Michigan will always slow my racing mind.
The Grand River will always rush through my mind on breezy fall evenings.
The Indian Ocean will always remind me that we grow from discomfort.
Rio Valles will always ask me to outstretch my arms to receive love.
The Pacific Ocean will always tell me to close my eyes and be present.
Water will always welcome me home.
Mni Wiconi.
**I do fully understand that "Mni Wiconi" is a phrase in Lakota, that I referenced a Potawatomi woman, and that I myself am of Cherokee descent.