Everything Teaches
People often ask where the teachings are, or how to reconnect with the natural world.
They expect me to point to the Inípi, the drum, the Čhaŋnúŋpa (Sacred Pipe), the Sundance arbor, or an Elder. While those are all places where teachings live, over time I have come to understand something much deeper.
Everything teaches.
Not just the ceremony itself, but everything surrounding it.
Much of the deepest learning is experienced by the helpers and those entrusted with preparing the ceremony. The work of gathering wood, tending the fire, building the lodge, preparing the grounds, and caring for the people offers an intimate relationship with Wakan Tanka, the natural world, and the ceremony itself. It slows life down just enough for us to notice what is often missed. In that slowing, connection begins. Prayer gains deeper meaning. The purpose behind every action becomes clearer.
This is our church.
Love it.
Care for it.
Protect it.
Keep it organized, welcoming, and accessible for those who come seeking healing, guidance, or simply a place to belong.
The teachings begin long before the fire is lit or the first prayer is spoken.
They begin when someone learns to recognize the seasons and prepares for the future needs of the tiwahe. A wíčaša notices that winter wood must be cut before the rains arrive. He rises before daylight to prepare the fire and welcome the sun, or to close the day with prayer and gratitude. Families gather to split wood, carry water, prepare the stones, clean the grounds, build the lodge, prepare food, and make sure there is enough coffee for those who remain long after the ceremony has ended.
To someone passing by, these might look like ordinary chores.
To a wíčaša, they are teachings.
They teach responsibility.
Humility.
Patience.
Discipline.
Service.
Most importantly, they teach us how to build and maintain a relationship with Wakan Tanka.
I've learned that ceremony is not simply something we attend. It is something we practice, again and again, refining it with intention, love, compassion, and consistency. Every detail matters. Every act of preparation becomes an offering. The way we care for the grounds reflects the way we care for our spirits. The way we welcome others reflects the way we hope Creator welcomes us.
That understanding did not come all at once.
It came through repetition.
Through years of mentorship.
Through watching.
Listening.
Making mistakes.
Returning.
Sometimes the greatest teachings weren't spoken by an Elder.
Sometimes they came directly from Creation itself.
A stubborn piece of oak that refused to split reminded me that force is not always strength. A fire that refused to catch taught me that rushing rarely produces good results. Emptying a fire pit after a storm reminded me that preparation often begins by clearing away what has accumulated since the last time we prayed.
Even the willow teaches.
This is an old relationship.
I recognize willow wherever I travel. It waves in the wind like an old relative reminding me that neither of us has forgotten the other. Ceremony has connected us across time, across places, and across generations.
When willow is first cut, it is alive. It bends without breaking. Its strength comes from its flexibility. These relatives become the ribs of the Inípi, carefully tied together with colorful cloth, creating a living structure that quietly holds our prayers, songs, tears, laughter, hope, and healing.
Everything has a season.
Everything has a purpose.
Everything has a life cycle.
The fire teaches patience.
The Inípi teaches humility.
The songs teach memory.
Silence teaches listening.
Children teach hope.
Elders teach perspective.
Grief teaches love.
Recovery teaches gratitude.
Family teaches sacrifice.
Even hardship becomes a teacher if we are willing to ask what it came to show us instead of only asking why it happened.
When I look back over my life, I realize that the most important teachings rarely arrived in the moments I expected.
They came while driving across the plains with my family.
Sitting quietly beside a hospital bed.
Preparing a meal after ceremony.
Building a fence around a sacred space.
Organizing a family calendar.
Watching my son step into responsibilities that once belonged only to me.
None of those moments announced themselves as sacred.
They became sacred because of the intention we brought to them.
That is why these reflections exist.
They are not meant to explain ceremony or speak for all Lakota or Dakota people. They are simply an honest account of the lessons I have been fortunate enough to receive while trying to live a life rooted in prayer, recovery, family, service, and responsibility.
Some reflections will be about ceremony.
Others will be about fatherhood, leadership, government service, grief, healing, laughter, or building a fire before sunrise.
Together, they tell the story of one man's lifelong effort to listen more closely to Wakan Tanka and to walk a good path.
If these pages accomplish anything, I hope they encourage you to slow down.
To notice.
To listen.
Because the teachings have never been hidden.
They have always been here.
In the people we love.
In the work we do.
In the land beneath our feet.
In the responsibilities we carry.
And in the quiet moments between one prayer and the next.
Everything teaches.
