Going Native—Reclaiming Our Lives from Oppression and Stress
Along the foothills that surround my home runs a network of hairline trails, winding through arroyo beds and over piñon-covered ridges, eventually merging into miles of national forest. They call to me each morning, promising sweeping views of the Jemez Mountains to the west and the Sandias to the south. Our dog Molly—a large, exuberant Catahoula hound we adopted last year—looks at me expectantly.
“Ok,” I say. “Let’s go.”
We charge out the gate and up the escarpment, liberated at last.
Within minutes, Molly is already far ahead, turning back with that unmistakable dog grin, barking for me to hurry. There is land to love. Bushes to leap. Animals to scent. Ravens to race.
I have spent the past year getting to know this stretch of land—its trails and inhabitants: bear, bobcat, coyote, mountain lion. Though native to Santa Fe, this small valley north of town is asking something more intimate of me now. It is asking me to belong. To know it. To become part of it.
Part of this comes from running a small ranch—tending horses, a donkey, barn cats, dogs. Nature has her own timing and rhythm. Working alongside her means dropping out of the technology-driven pace and culturally constructed illusions of control, and into something more honest and present. If temperatures drop below freezing, water tanks must be broken open. If the sun sets early, horses must be fed early. It is the literal embodiment of chopping wood and carrying water.
And part of it comes from the call of these times. Where else are we to turn inside a culture that has raced to the end of itself? If we are to restore sanity—if we are to reclaim something genuinely civilized amid pointed missiles and blind bravado—then our relationship with the natural world offers a way back.
Canadian author and Indigenous activist Jeannette Armstrong writes of belonging to place as knowing that we are everything that surrounds us. “We refer to the land and our bodies with the same root syllable,” she explains. “The soil, the water, the air, and all other life forms contribute to our flesh. We are our land/place. Not to know and celebrate this is to be without language and without land. It is to be dis-placed.”
Modern life has displaced us. We are alien not only to the Earth, but to ourselves. We have lost the rooted quiet offered by trees, the ancient memory of our own indigenous inheritance as humans who once belonged to land. In our hunger, we borrow traditions and rituals from cultures not our own—meditating, managing stress, adopting practices—hoping to recover something essential.
Yet as displaced people, we remain rootless and vulnerable. We try to summon wisdom and resilience from within, but without a larger presence to draw from, our reserves empty quickly.
There is another way back—one available wherever we live. When we deliberately engage with the natural world, something subtle but profound happens. We become indigenous again—not by ancestry, but by presence. To be indigenous is simply to occur naturally in a place.
This is not a journey of the intellect. It is a bodily remembering. Through wind on skin, dirt on hands, rhythm in breath, we are woven back into the web of life. Nature teaches us to root again—to sink into bedrock, to drink from deep wells.
As writer Sharon Blackie reminds us, “The day of the heroic quest is over. What we need now is not individual conquest, but collective re-enchantment—a re-animation of the Earth. It’s time to become native to our places again.”
To do so is to reclaim our native power—the power of the Earth herself. Be with her and she bestows a depth of presence that cannot be shaken. Care for her and she returns abundance. Belong to her and you come home.
As prodigal sons and daughters, it is our reconnection with nature that may restore us not only to sanity, but to service. Rooted in cycles and seasons, we become steadier humans—capable of mediating what is seen and unseen. We become Wise Women and Wise Men.
Molly races to the top of my favorite ridge, about thirty minutes from the house. I arrive breathless. At the summit stands a small dead tree, its branches adorned with rosaries, feathers, bracelets. At its base: seashells, sand dollars, bleached bones, crystals, and a small statue of the fierce goddess Kali. A stone mosaic radiates outward like a sun.
I don’t know who built this shrine or who tends it. Since I first encountered it a year ago, it has slowly changed. Today I add a raven feather, wedging it into the sand so it points north. I sit quietly while Molly tracks a rabbit nearby. The sky opens wide. I exhale the day’s demands.
I have sat here many times now. I am learning to stay still. To notice light across seasons. To listen. To see what is usually invisible. Stay present with a place long enough and it begins to speak.
What I hear is this: You belong to me. I belong to you. This is love with responsibility.
My teacher and friend Bob Randall, Custodial Elder of Uluru, taught me the word kanyini. It means unconditional love with responsibility. We belong unconditionally to all things—it is our birthright. And with belonging comes care: for ourselves, our families, and all living beings.
Once, sitting together in a café in Sydney, Bob gestured to a young tree pushing up through pavement. “See,” he laughed, “even here I can see my sister.”
Like this, we can reweave the natural world back into our lives. Like this, she can push through the hard pavement of our haste and worry. And like this, we can flourish.
Kelly Wendorf is an executive coach, spiritual mentor, facilitator, horse-woman, writer, poet, mother of two astonishing people, and courageous life explorer.To inquire about coaching, spiritual mentoring or private retreats with Kelly, email her.January 8th, 2018