Water's Memory

by Blake Evans (Canada)

A leap into the unknown USA

We slept alongside each other in the back of the vehicle. Under wool blankets yes, however, it was the blanket of stars that was most impressive. The expansive space around this bare parking lot between meadows allowed the three of us a chance to expand our auras. This is an ability not many students have the opportunity to feel. Feeling space is comparable to a 24 hour fast from physical food. There’s just nothing… nothing but space. To be given space, allowed for the minds to wonder. We each had some downtime to express creative energy. As we awoke I noticed an edginess to the light of the morning. My mind was focused in travel mode ready for navigating new grounds. The sun rise was calendar quality. Picture this; sandy beige hues fading into a free canary yellow, soft pastel orange around the edges of the periphery, with a divinely shaped circle of light in the centre. The Sun. Each tree in the morning was still. Each breathe in was fresh as cool water. Together camp bodies formed hubs of talented Awake-kin. (*A group of people aware of a common goal to protect life, honouring the spirit, for the purpose of collective human evolution.*) Builders constructed huts and tents for practical use. A canvas unrolls and an artist demonstrates to children how to mix coloured paints. At this time three pedestrian travellers, through the expansive organism that is the campground, seek the hubs they resonate with. Soon I find myself climbing through the roof opening of a yurt. I’m a queer with no fear. My recently crafted acrylic nails were impressively a blessing to press layers of fabric into the crevices. The yurt is a home built with love and compassion. My friends and I decompressed our day’s experiences around an open pit fire. A handful of persimmons were passed around. Our conversation revolved around growing vegetables; soon bulking into stories of the lives each of us took time from—to gather in protection—of the land and water. Here we sit as Indigenous descendants and settler guests among many nations on the territory of The Standing Rock Sioux First Nation. Floodlights kept a halo over the nearby hills. Like clockwork a drone circled overhead keeping my senses puffed up like a porcupine. We are here to stand for the water. Water am I. As the cardboard sign reads “Mni Wiconi - Water is life.” Her given name was Melissa. Through translation Melissa can be “Honeybee” she said. Instinctually there were no thoughts about my next action. I lifted up my right arm and revealed a few days' freshly tattooed bee. It’s as if there were no sound at this moment. She bent over and kissed the bee. Unity. Passing teepees, RVs, camping tents, makeshift lean-tos, horses and trucks it was evident many travellers were joining together to stand with the body of the Missouri River. The water with us seemed to sing as it reflected the purity of the sun’s light. Wading along the riverbank the mud surrounded my boots. I felt hugged by the earth. The mud dried around the ankle regions. I walked back to my camp that night without removing the ring of earth, inspired to bring new life to where I traveled next. 3am on the last day of our stay. I couldn’t sleep. How could one detach from such a community based in love, solidarity and retaliation? I heard drumming across the field. Outside I saw flood lights strung across the distant hill. I felt the open night sky. My heart led me to the nearest fire. A elderly woman with white dreadlocks sat quietly staring into the dancing flames. “Can I sit with you?” I asked. Without the need for words she motioned to a nearby seat. The fire glowed around us with a canopy of trees sheltering our bodies. We sat in silence. After inhaling; the woman looked over in my direction and spoke with confidence. “The river knows your name”