F A L L “When the last tree is cut, the last fish is caught, and the last river is polluted; when to breathe the air is sickening, you will realize, too late,that wealth is not in bank accounts and that you can’t eat money.” —ALANIS OBOMSAWIN
Fall is a season of death, but it is also a remarkable season of vibrancy and life. Through the beauty of the dying and changing leaves, we experience warmth and comfort. The heat of summer subsides and suddenly, for the first time in months, we may experience the brisk winds of fall. In autumns past, bonfires used to mark its commencement. Now, with wildfires blazing, campfires and bonfires are banned in many places. Fall foliage has altered because of global warming and invasive insects (i.e. emerald ash bores, spotted lanternflies) have begun to appear in the fall killing trees and crops. The crunch of rusty and golden leaves beneath our shoes causes nostalgia and reminds us of the reality that we can no longer live the way we once did. Our climate passivity has changed the way we celebrate nature and points to the harsh reality that we have created. In this season, we can be inspired to protect and preserve the natural beauty that enshrouds us.
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Sasha Beaulieu, Red Lake Treaty Camp, Photo © Jaida-Grey
Water Gives Life Reflections on Line 3
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BY LUKE HENKEL
ate last summer, I stood at the edge of the headwaters of the Mississippi River in northern Minnesota watching the sun descend towards the pines and the reeds. It was the end of a very long day, at the end of a very, very long week. The twilight unfolding in front of me was symbolic—the sun was setting on the hopes of all of us gathered at the edge of the marsh, it seemed. Line 3 was moving ahead, as implacable as the onset of darkness, and the resistance against it felt weak suddenly, fading, like the strength of summer at the far end of September 2021. It was hanging on, but barely, and winter was not far away. Sadly, hope seemed to be slipping below the horizon a lot more quickly than the sun. I stood with my affinity group of
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water protectors, a band of six of us from Seattle who had come out to help defend these sacred lands against the black snake of Enbridge Corporation’s Line 3, which was now nearing completion. In just a matter of weeks, it was slated to start pumping thick, heavy, crude, tar, sands, and bitumen right through the area. Here, the mightiest river in the United States was a foreshadow only, a series of unconnected marshes, but despair was already a threatening current, starting to flow strongly. It pulled the ground out from under me as if I stood at the ocean instead and the ground shifted with every wave. Our planned protests had been canceled because of a COVID-19 outbreak; the action I’d come for was not going to happen. The construction on Line 3, however, very much was.