Indigenous knowledge is rooted in land but also expansive, explained Alice Nash, associate professor of history at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, and a co-organizer of a recent symposium on Indigenous landscapes at Dumbarton Oaks. “The land tells us who we are, how to sustain ourselves, and envision the future.” Grounded in land and its history, we can “center ourselves” and then look to “regeneration and healing.”

The Indigenous worldview calls for an integrated approach — “all is related and connected.” In contrast, western academia is about putting ideas into specific categories. “How do we parse Indigenous knowledge out?,” asked Gabrielle Tayac, a historian and member of the Piscataway Nation, and the other co-organizer.

The symposium aimed to bring together Indigenous knowledge systems with academia, explained Thaisa Way, FASLA, director of the landscape and garden studies program at Dumbarton Oaks. This process enables Indigenous knowledge-keepers and scholars to “redesign connections” between these ways of understanding and “build community.” The symposium itself was also the result of that inclusive approach: it was developed with an Indigenous Advisory Circle comprised of Indigenous leaders and academics.

Before starting the talks, Tayac grounded the discussion in the land of Dumbarton Oaks. The land is Anacostan (Nacotchtank) tribal land. It’s the highest point in Washington, D.C. — a “site for visioning.” It’s defined by its unique landforms, plants, and animals. The land holds ancient trees, including a poplar. “I gave it a greeting.”

Dumbarton Oaks is near the homeland of the Piscataway, which spanned parts of Maryland, Virginia, Pennsylvania, and D.C. The word Piscataway means “where the waters blend,” where life sources converge.

The names of territories matter. Emil’ Keme, a member of K’iche’ Maya Nation, and a professor at Emory University, explained how place names can either reflect Indigenous or colonial worldviews.

He has researched the Guna people, who have inhabited Panama for thousands of years. They now largely govern themselves in the Guna Yala region, which makes up the northeast coast of Panama and hundreds of small islands.

They call the Americas Abya Yala, a term more Indigenous groups across Central and South America are now using instead of Latin America or the Americas. Abya Yala better conveys the historical integration of northern and southern communities, the centuries of cultural flow and migration in both directions.

“More territory has been taken by maps than guns,” Kere said. Using the term Abya Yala, and a map showing its vast interconnection across continents, is then a way to “refuse to acknowledge colonial borders and reclaim our hemisphere,” Kere said. Breaking down colonial borders, at least through a shared worldview, can help create a new sense of solidarity among “communities facing transboundary struggles.”

Sandy Grande, who is Quechua, and a professor at the University of Connecticut, said Quechua people are guided by Sumaq Kawsay, a worldview that brings together ideas about planetary connection, beauty, dignity, plentitude, balance, and harmony.

This worldview has been advanced by a political slogan: “Our people, our land, our people.” It conveys that land is the basis of Quechua culture, which is about reciprocal exchange. This reciprocity occurs in natural, social, and cosmological contexts.

Grande explained that in contrast American universities were developed as part of a colonial, extractive system. Her goal is to weave Indigenous values into the university, creating a “new approach not set in settler colonialism.” The University of Connecticut is exploring these ideas through a tribal educational initiative, which is resulting in more reciprocal relationships with Pequot and other tribal communities.

Preserving culture requires an intergenerational approach, explained Maria Montejo, a healer, member of the Mayan Popti’, Xajla Community of Guatemala, and program manager with the Dodem Kanonhsa’ Indigenous Education and Cultural Facility in Toronto, Canada. She reflected on her grandparents, parents, elders, and spiritual leaders who helped her heal from intergenerational trauma and set her on a path of becoming a healer. And she emphasized that speaking Indigenous languages and practicing an Indigenous way of life is critical to maintaining culture and creating healing for current and future generations. “We have to practice our way of life — in life.”

Montejo took the symposium attendees through a spiritual journey, explaining her community’s understanding of how nature and people interconnect. She emphasized the holistic nature of these connections — the emotional, physical, and spiritual — and how a holistic approach to healing is then also required. “Integration is key to integrity.”

In her people’s worldview, the spirit of nature gives life to culture. “There is no utopia, but a balance of elements: air, water, fire, and earth. We are elemental beings.” Becoming self-aware means understanding how these elements affect our emotional, mental, and physical health. She has been piloting “We Are Elemental,” a K-12 educational program for Indigenous youth in Canada, which encourages greater connection to land and self.

Read Part II in the series

Indigenous knowledge is rooted in land but also expansive, explained Alice Nash, associate professor of history at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, and a co-organizer of a recent symposium on Indigenous landscapes at Dumbarton Oaks. “The land tells us who we are, how to sustain ourselves, and envision the future.” Grounded in land and its history, we can “center ourselves” and then look to “regeneration and healing.”

The Indigenous worldview calls for an integrated approach — “all is related and connected.” In contrast, western academia is about putting ideas into specific categories. “How do we parse Indigenous knowledge out?,” asked Gabrielle Tayac, a historian and member of the Piscataway Nation, and the other co-organizer.

The symposium aimed to bring together Indigenous knowledge systems with academia, explained Thaisa Way, FASLA, director of the landscape and garden studies program at Dumbarton Oaks. This process enables Indigenous knowledge-keepers and scholars to “redesign connections” between these ways of understanding and “build community.” The symposium itself was also the result of that inclusive approach: it was developed with an Indigenous Advisory Circle comprised of Indigenous leaders and academics.

The people of the Blackfeet nation, who are now mostly found in Montana and Alberta, Canada, believe “there is a liminal space between land and myth, our world and the supernatural,” explained Rosalyn LaPier, who is a member of the Blackfeet Nation and Métis, and a professor at University of Illinois at Urbana. There is a sky realm made of the sun and moon; an in-between realm where people live; and an underwater realm, with beavers, deities, and monsters.

Ecological knowledge provides a way to connect with the divine. Blackfeet believe plants are deities from another realm, and they have spiritual relationships with specific plants. For example, tobacco is connected to the deities of the underwater realm. Cultivating and smoking tobacco is related to “supernatural power over water — bringing rain and helping plants to grow,” LaPier said.

There is a perception that Indigenous people foraged for foods. While that is true of some tribal communities, many Indigenous communities managed ecosystems, engaged in permaculture, and cultivated gardens. Among the Blackfeet, women played an important spiritual role in cultivating tobacco fields. LaPier described a field that was 100 yards long by 5 yards wide. Women kept tobacco seeds, burned plants and trees to collect ash to mix into soils, and designed the field so it had access to water and was shaded by trees.

There is a skyworld, and a storm caused skywoman to fall to the Earth. As she fell through, water fowl and geese rose up to slow her path and then a great turtle rose up from the watery world to hold her. Skywoman invited a muskrat to dive into the water and bring up more mud to expand the land. This is part of the creation story of the Pequot peoples of Connecticut and many other tribal communities. It’s why they call North and Central America Turtle Island, explained Nakai Clearwater Northrup, a member of the Mashantucket Pequot Tribal Nation and Narragansett Indian Tribe, director of education with the Mashantucket Pequot Museum and Research Center in Connecticut, and founder of RezLife Outdoors.

“The turtle is a system for building relationships with the land,” Clearwater Northrup said. The connection between our world and turtles are wondrous: He explained that turtles’ shells have 13 pieces; there are 12-13 full moons per year. The outer edges of turtles’ shells have 28 notches, roughly corresponding to the number of days in a month.

The Mashantucket Pequot are known as the “people of the shallow waters.” Nearly half of the tribal community is 18-25, so Clearwater Northrup is focused on reconnecting Indigenous youth to their lakes, ponds, and rivers, traditional “food ways,” and culture. This involves teaching Indigenous youth to “eat foods from where they are from.” Harvesting local foods “isn’t the easiest — it requires long days, hot days — but putting in the work also connects us to land management and conservation.”

Melissa K. Nelson, a professor at Arizona State University, described how tribal communities across the U.S. are undoing the effects of settler colonialism in a holistic way through the concept of rematriation. This involves Indigenous women taking the lead in reclaiming Indigenous land, restoring ecosystems, bringing back Indigenous agricultural practices, and reconnecting with spiritual values and ancestral histories embedded in the land. She also discussed the Anishinaabe and Cree tribal worldviews of Turtle Island and Mino-bimaadaziiwin, which can be translated as “the good life.”

Her own heritage is part of this rich story. She is Anishinaabe, Cree, Métis, and Norwegian and a citizen of the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa of Turtle Island, North Dakota. Land that was originally part of the reservation but homesteaded by the Nelson family was returned to her a few years ago. She plans on rematriating the land, which currently includes farmland, a creek, lake, and habitat for “berries, moose, beaver, and deer.”

She looks to examples of rematriation in Marin, California for inspiration. Mount Tamalpais, one of the sacred eyes of Turtle Island and a biodiversity hotspot, is being reclaimed as an Indigenous spiritual site. “The communities are restoring the right relations with the land and transferring dispossession into belonging,” she said. And she also looks to the Indian Valley Organic Farm and Garden, an inter-tribal farm where native foods like red and white corn, squash, beans, sage, tomatoes, and peppers are grown. “They are in service to First Peoples there.”

Indigenous place-based knowledge, which is rich with community and ecological connections, can also take digital form, explained Christopher Pexa, member of the Spirit Lake Dakota Tribe, and an associate professor at Harvard University. He is collaborating with the Oceti Sakowin — which means the Seven Council Fires, a collective term for the Lakota, Dakota, and Nakota peoples — on a digital archive of storytelling.

He explained how he and tribal communities are transforming the “exploitative apparatus” of digital media, with its focus on monetizing relationships, into a place for Indigenous sovereignty and digital territory.

The goal is to replicate an Indigenous sense of time and space online. The collaborative team is developing a website that features the “slowness of elders;” focuses on relations, not users; allows only a single playback of video (no re-winding); and allows visitors to spend time “without an agenda.” This cyberspace is about “slowness and attentiveness.”

Read Part I in the series