Five years ago, when I moved to Hawai’i, I was steeped in the question, “what is the indigenous soul?” This term, which made me uncomfortable because I felt like it objectified and homogenized Native peoples, and because I wasn’t even really sure what it meant, had nonetheless seeded in my mind and taken root. It gave a name to a deep longing I felt. One day, I asked my friend Chris Quiseng what phrase indigenous soul evoked for him. Chris responded: “We are our landscapes.”
Seeking relief along the banks of Pennsylvania’s Brandywine River, I found a perfect spot in the shade of a huge sycamore tree. The tree’s strong roots held the bank firmly in place, cutting a still, deep eddy into the softer riverbank below. The water provided welcome relief from the thick, heavy air. As I floated in the still waters gazing up at the clouds, I dreamed of the lives of my relatives of one hundred, two hundred, and three hundred years ago, imagining trips to the river just like mine...
