For the Desert: What We've Lost, What We Remember, Where We Gather....The Eagle Rises

Wind Farm - Ocotillo, California -  Mourning Ceremony 

In June, 2012

I saw three golden eagles
on the morning and following
morning of the long, split moon night
of an all night mourning ceremony
sponsored by Kumeyaay Indians
who for centuries, along with
Quechan and other desert people
have called this desert home
and who mourn the desecration
of sacred desert land, the blading
of old growth Ocotillo and desert
floor and ceremonial places for
a 40-story-high windfarm zone
with blades that kill desert birds,
making circles that fly nowhere
and sluice the desert heart apart
into more broken pieces than two

In June, 2012, I attended an all-night Native American mourning ceremony near the tiny town of Ocotillo, CA - located east of San Diego, where mountain meets desert -  in commemoration of the loss of sacred desert sites for the construction of a massive wind tower zone. and I would like to offer my greatest thanks and the deepest respect to the desert Indian tribes and leaders and bird singers/dancers for offering this highly sacred ceremony to the public.  I would like to offer my greatest thanks and the deepest respect to our desert Indian leaders and elders and singers and people for their tireless and enduring dedication to caring for the California desert. They are an inspiration beyond inspiration to all of us, and it is in their honor that I speak today.

In June, 2012
I saw three golden eagles
along the long highway
on my way to the ceremony
on the morning of the night
of a night-long mourning ceremony
for the eagles being killed,
for the turtles being killed,
for the tall Ocotillo being killed,
for all that is being sacrificed
in the name of renewable energy
in the name of go green
in the name of destroying things
and we've gathered to heal
the wounds in our desert hearts
to try to stop the bleeding
to try to staunch the wounds
on the sacred desert ground
and so, alone, I drove
and along
the way,
taking nothing with me
on my car's dashboard
and moving into my own
form of road grief and prayer
I was blessed by birds.

In June, 2012, I was a wreck. My only daughter Tarah had just left home to move to Ft. Lewis Washington and was drinking herself into a numbed stupor as a way to cope (poorly) with her aloneness while my son-in-law Alex was on a year-long tour of Afghanistan with the Army. For me, it wasn't empty nest. It was empty life. I was also reeling from the recent loss of beloved boyfriend to suicide and the shattering of a love relationship that came after that. My life was being jerked up and down by severe losses, hopeful moments, then more severe losses, and it had become more than I could bear; all of this paralleled the federal renewable energy  solar land grab. The Ocotillo Wind Express Project, as most of us know, is just one of the many mind-numbing, desert-crushing, ill-founded projects being built. I had just sold my three bedroom house with a pool in Palm Desert, which I'd owned for 10 years, too sad and lonely and feeling abandoned to continue there alone. Not to mention that, like almost everyone else, I'd lost  my homeowner's equity in the 2008 economic downturn. In other words, my cozy nest egg was gone. Just gone. I was living in a furnished hotel room with my cat, sleeping on a mattress on the floor, eating pre-packaged foods from Fresh n Easy and Trader Joe's, and the great majority of my belongings stashed away in a dusty storage unit, except for a few books and clothes.

In June, 2012
The first eagle
had landed in the center divider
of Interstate 60 in the Badlands,
and was waiting there
for me to arrive
and drive by.
He lifted slowly
when I approached,
then powered off
into the distant sky,
heavy with road kill.

In June, 2012, I was devasted to be experiencing, from an inside perspective, the onset of, metaphorically but actually pretty literal onset of heinous stage 4 cancer throughout the entire desert body. It was too much. I was grabbing onto hope beyond hope and trying to connect as my personal life in the desert - metaphorically and literally - was fragmented, falling apart, being destroyed, seemingly, by uncontrollable outside forces.  For me, this is not "the other place" to go for kicks with somewhere else to go back to. This is home for me in the most profound and enduring and beloved way, and this is where my center is. In contrast, everywhere else beyond the desert is, for me, "the other place." I have nowhere else to go. Throughout my life, the desert has provided deep healing and inspiration and renewal no matter what challenges I've encountered in my life. But now, where was I to go? And so I drove to the Mourning Ceremony in June, 2012, looking for much-needed community and healing within my own heart of hearts.

In June, 2012
The second eagle
was painted on the side of a big-rig
just a few miles down the road
on Interstate 10, huge.
It rode alongside me for miles,
with Santa Ana winds
gathering at our backs, larger
than life or windmills
And I passed the giant
blades of towers that behead
so many living things at the
hips and brow of the hills
of the open mouth
of the Colorado Desert
near Palm Springs.

In the June, 2012 article EIGHT TRIBAL NATIONS MOURN LOSSES AT OCOTILLO WIND SITE, East County Magazine Reporter Miriam Raftery wrote, "A sliver of moon and a spangle of stars shone down on the Ocotillo desert last night, where representatives from eight tribal nations joined in ceremonies to honor their ancestors.  Hundreds of people from across the southwestern U.S. came to mourn the desecration of Native American sacred lands, cremation sites and the natural environment that is now occurring on public land."  Among the desert Indian tribal leaders and elders in attendance and participation were Viejas Chairman Anthony Pico and Quechan elder Preston Arrow-weed and his wife Helen. The mood was not one of anger, but of dignified resolve—a determination to unite all Indian nations and the public to understand the magnitude of what is being lost.

"This is not a protest," Viejas Kumeyaay Chairman Anthony Pico made clear. Instead, he called for all to come together in a time of "healing."  Viejas was one of several bands of the Kumeyaay nation represented; other San Diego bands included Barona, Sycuan, and Manzanita.  Some traveled from out of state, such as those from the Navajo nation. Prayers were recited, followed by an all-night wake with ancient birdsongs and dancing to honor the generations of long ago whose consecrated ashes lie in the dust now being disturbed across the 12,500 acre Ocotillo Wind Express Project.

In June, 2012
The third eagle
was a fine piece of art,
carved into the bolero tie
of Viejo Chairman
Anthony Viejo
in ivory white, every
fine detail of feather
chiseled like wind hearts
against the chairman's throat
and holding together hope
with powerful wings
battling the destruction
of wind farms on the
sacred desert floor, of
places we cannot replace
In June, 2012. 

Many of my desert-based friends and associates also attended the June, 2012 ceremony; these are people who I admire greatly for their perseverance, their dedication to caring for the desert and educating others to do the same. It was greatly comforting for me. I've gathered feedback from some of them on what the June 2012 Mourning Ceremony near Ocotillo meant to them.

PAT FLANAGAN is a desert naturalist, educator and science curriculum writer. She has lived part or full time in the desert, like me, since 1976.  She says: "Shortly after I arrived Chairman Pico came up to me and gently told me to search within my heart for comfort and healing during the ceremony. I was - we all were - privileged to be there, but rightfully separate. He was offering comfort and I hoped I could do what he suggested. - because I sure needed it. For me then, passing along the olla and the two baskets made with thoughtful caring hands full of memories - after they were given to me at the end of the ceremony during a giveaway - anchored me in the place and into the stream of the bird songs. Thinking back, I would still have the olla and baskets if you three (myself and two others who she then gifted these present to) had not been there. And I am glad I do not have them. The gifts and the giving were what opened my heart to be a conduit for the blessings and comfort that had poured out through the long night."

In June 2012
I'm telling you this story
because it's true
because all three eagles
flew above our heads
while the men shook rattles
and sang bird songs
all night long from sunset
to dawn, because we all wept
on the hill by the medicine wheel.

TOM BUDLONG says, of the June, 2012 ceremony: "Though I am full European immigrant stock with ancestry in this country since the 1600s, I feel no guilt since I am doing all I can to kill this project. But I am very much ashamed of my government. The project is unnecessary, economically unjustifiable, a violation of our own rules in innumerable details,& most of all disrespectful of our Native American population. We sacrifice this spot, sacred to the tribes & precious to all visitors, without being clever enough to use the vast rooftop acreage available where the power from this project will be used. It is indeed shameful. The wake was a powerful ceremony. We could learn a lot about respect from it."

In June 2012
the sun grew too warm
and the wind refused to howl
in June, 2012

KEVIN EMMERICH says: "the Ocotillo Wind Express Project is was pushed through by legislators in spite of its unanimous unpopularity among just about every sector of the public. The project sited over 100 wind turbines on 12,000 acres of mostly public land. The turbines are all over 400 feet tall and have compromised the sweeping vistas for local residents and people visiting Anza Borrego State Park. They are not only visible in the day. Each turbines has a red aviation light flashing all night. The project disturbed habitat for Endangered Peninsular bighorn sheep and other sensitive wildlife like the flat-tailed horned lizard. Most shocking is that the project was built on land sacred to Native Americans. Turbines were built next to burial sites and destroyed actual artifacts. The concerns of Native Americans were mostly ignored by the bureaucrats who approved this project. The most ironic part about the project is that the wind is lacking. Local residents report that the turbines are motionless the majority of the time. The still days seem to out number the moving days."

In June, 2012
I held a small, handmade
basket in my hands
that was gifted to me
after it was gifted
to someone else
a small basket, so empty,
and so full of bird songs.

TERRY FREWIN, who was also there in June, 2012, says: "The experience of the Kumeyaay Ceremony touched all the bases (it is World Series time).  I was very humbled to be invited and acknowledged, and experienced a profound sense of sadness, as well as one of hopefulness, as I saw the variety of folks, young and old, honoring their heritage and ancestors.  Underlining it all was the sense of what we all were going to lose as the Ocotillo project moved forward.  This was certainly the feeling as I drove home the next day through Anza Borrego State Park.  The beauty that surrounds the Park is safe, for now.  What is happening just outside its border is so typical of what is happening to our unprotected public lands in the deserts.  Simply put, the experience of the ceremony strengthened my commitment to keep doing the right thing for the desert.

Wind Farm - Ocotillo Wells -  Mourning Ceremony
June, 2012
I saw three golden eagles
on the morning and following
morning of the long, black night
of an all night mourning ceremony
sponsored by Kumeyaay Indians
who for centuries, along with
Quechan and other desert people
have called this desert home
and who mourn the desecration
of sacred desert land, the blading
of old growth Ocotillo and desert
floor and ceremonial places for
a 40-story-high windfarm zone
with blades that kill desert birds,
making circles that fly nowhere
and sluice the desert heart apart

I saw three golden eagles
along the long highway
on my way to the ceremony
on the morning of the night
of a night-long mourning ceremony
for the eagles being killed,
for the turtles being killed,
for the tall Ocotillo being killed,
for all that is being sacrificed
in the name of renewable energy
in the name of go green
in the name of destroying things
and we've gathered to heal
the wounds in our desert hearts
to try to stop the bleeding
to try to staunch the wounds
on the sacred desert ground
and so, alone, I drove
and along
the way,
taking nothing with me
on my car's dashboard
and moving into my own
form of road grief and prayer
I was blessed by birds.

The first eagle
had landed in the center divider
of Interstate 60 in the Badlands,
and was waiting there
for me to arrive
and drive by.
He lifted slowly
when I approached,
then powered off
into the distant sky,
heavy with road kill

The second eagle
was painted on the side of a big-rig
just a few miles down the road
on Interstate 10, huge.
It rode alongside me for miles,
with Santa Ana winds
gathering at our backs, larger
than life or windmills
And I passed the giant
blades of towers that behead
so many living things at the
hips and brow of the hills
of the open mouth
of the Colorado Desert
near Palm Springs.

The third eagle
was a fine piece of art,
carved into the bolero tie
of Viejo Chairman
Anthony Viejo
in ivory white, every
fine detail of feather
chiseled like wind hearts
against the chairman's throat
and holding together hope
with powerful wings
battling the destruction
of wind farms on the
sacred desert floor, of
places we cannot replace.

I'm telling you this story
because it's true
because all three eagles
flew above our heads
while the men shook rattles
and sang bird songs
all night long from sunset
to dawn, because we all wept
on the hill by the medicine wheel
and then the sun grew too warm
and the wind refused to howl
and I held a small, handmade
basket in my hands
that was gifted to me
after it was gifted
to someone else
a small basket, so empty,
and so full of bird songs
in June, 2012. 


by Ruth Nolan copyright (c) 2013 by Ruth Nolan
photograph by Ruth Nolan copyright (c) 2013 by Ruth Nolan