WAKING OUR INNER INDIGENOUS SOULS:
On Animism, Amnesia, and the Persons Who Are Not Human

By Rob Brezsny
and my muses Skeleton Woman and Medusa

Let's start with an uncomfortable cue: You are indigenous. Yes, you, with your smartphone and your Amazon Prime account and your uncertainty about which direction the sun rises in winter.

Somewhere in your bloodline, whether 14 generations back or 400, your ancestors were "a culturally distinct ethnic group native to a particular place." They knew the land. They spoke to it. It spoke back.

And then something happened. Maybe it was slow—the creep of empire, the lure of cities, the severing of old ways. Maybe it was violent—conquest, colonization, forced conversion, the literal burial of the old gods under church foundations.

However it happened, a cord was cut. And here you are now, living on land whose original languages you don't speak, whose waters you can't name, whose Indigenous peoples you helped destroy or displace, scrolling through spiritual Instagram posts about "connecting with nature" while you can't identify five birds in your own backyard.

This essay is about that severed cord. About whether it can be reconnected. About animism, not as a concept you study but as a lived gnosis you embody. About the Indigenous person within you who never died, just went into hiding, waiting for you to remember how to see.

+

THE COST OF CONQUEST (OR: WHAT WE DID TO THEM, WE DID TO OURSELVES)

Here's the karmic clusterfuck we're living in: The American project—and let's be honest, most of Western civilization—was built on the systematic destruction of over 500 Indigenous cultures in North America alone. Stolen land. Stolen labor. Stolen lives.

The wealth that made the United States an "economic powerhouse" came directly from enslaved bodies and dramatically undervalued (read: stolen) real estate.

We know this intellectually. But we were raised in carefully cultivated amnesia about it. Our history textbooks gave it a paragraph, maybe a chapter if we were lucky, always framed as "unfortunate" or "regrettable" but ultimately necessary for "progress."

We learned the names of conquistadors and pioneers, not the names of the peoples they annihilated. We celebrated Thanksgiving without mentioning genocide. We learned about "Manifest Destiny" as if the land was empty and waiting for us, as if the people who'd lived here for millennia were just scenery.

This amnesia isn't neutral. It's not a passive forgetting. It's an active suppression, and it's killing us.

Because here's what happens when you destroy indigenous peoples: You don't just destroy them. You destroy the part of yourself that knows how to be indigenous. You damage your own capacity for the kind of relationship with the living world that Indigenous peoples maintained. You cut yourself off from the ancestors who knew how to listen to rivers, how to read the language of birds, how to live as kin with the more-than-human world.

Michael Meade puts it this way: We all have an inner Indigenous person, and we need to be in close touch with them. Not as a lifestyle choice or a wellness trend, but as a fundamental necessity for our survival as a species.

But how do you wake that inner Indigenous person when you're karmically interwoven with the collective act of destroying indigeneity itself? How do you learn to see animistically when your culture has spent centuries insisting that rocks and rivers are "just" matter, that animals are "just" resources, that the only real intelligence is human intelligence?

This is the work. This is the fucking work.





WHAT ANIMISM ISN'T (AND WHAT IT ACTUALLY IS)

First, let's be clear about what animism is not.

It's not a "belief system" you adopt. It's not a spiritual aesthetic you put on like a costume. It's not something you "practice" twice a week at the meditation center. And it's definitely not something you can learn from a weekend workshop taught by some white person who once did ayahuasca in Peru.

The word "animism" itself is a problem. It was coined in the 19th century by Edward B. Tylor—another white dude trying to categorize "primitive religions"—to describe the idea that all things have spirit or consciousness.

But here's what anthropologists now understand: Most Indigenous peoples don't have a word for animism in their languages. Not because they lack the concept, but because the concept is so fundamental, so woven into every aspect of existence, that it doesn't need naming.

You don't have a special word for breathing, do you? You just breathe.

For Indigenous peoples worldwide, animism isn't a religious belief. This is true whether we're talking about Native American nations, Aboriginal Australians, African Yoruba, or ancient Celts. It's an ontological fact. A lived reality. The world is populated with many kinds of persons, only some of whom are human. Rivers are persons. Mountains are persons. Animals and plants and fungi are persons. Ancestors and spirits and places are persons. And human beings exist in reciprocal relationships with all of them.

As the old rootworker Mama Crossed-Rivers used to say: Your kin aren't just the humans with your blood. Your family includes the mountains and rivers, the animal and plant elders, the fungi networks underground, the spirits who dwell in places and things, the planets and stars wheeling overhead, the deities and unseen ones—all those whose lives and bodies are tangled up with yours in ways you can't separate even if you tried.

This isn't poetry. This isn't metaphor. This is a description of reality as experienced by people whose perceptual doors haven't been nailed shut by the cult of materialism.

Animism is relationship. It's the recognition that you live in a world of subjects, not objects. That the forest is speaking to you if you know how to listen. That the creek has intelligence and memory. That the coyote who crossed your path this morning was trying to tell you something, and the fact that you don't know what doesn't mean the message wasn't real.

The "new animism" movement in anthropology calls this an ontological stance—a fundamental orientation to reality. But Indigenous peoples never needed anthropologists to tell them this. They've known it all along. They've maintained it through centuries of genocide and forced conversion and cultural destruction. They've kept the secret that the dominant culture has spent centuries trying to kill: The world is alive. All of it.

+

THE AMNESIA THAT KILLS

Here's the tender, terrible truth: Most of us have no fucking idea where we are.

We don't know the names of the Indigenous peoples who lived on the land we now occupy. We don't know the source of our water or where our waste goes. We can't name five birds or five trees. We don't know where the sun rises in winter or what phase the moon is in right now. We don't know the story of the soil under our feet or the geological past that shaped the hills we drive past without seeing.

We live on this earth like renters in a hotel room—passing through, using resources, never learning the place's name or history or spirit. We have no relationship with where we are because we were never taught that relationship was possible or necessary.

And this isn't just sad. It's suicidal.

Arundhati Roy nails it: "To annihilate indigenous populations eventually paves the way to our own annihilation. They are the only people who practice sustainable living. We think they are relics of the past, but they may be the gatekeepers to our future."

The ecocidal juggernaut of modern civilization isn't an accident. It's the logical result of a worldview that sees the earth as dead matter to be exploited rather than a living community of persons to be in relationship with. You can't destroy what you love. But you can very easily destroy what you've been taught is "just" a resource, "just" property, "just" stuff.

Indigenous peoples didn't avoid this trap because they were morally superior. They avoided it because they knew—in their bones, in their daily lived experience—that the river is their relative. That the salmon are people. That the mountain is watching. That you don't shit where you eat because this place is your kin, and you have obligations to it that go beyond this lifetime.

This is what we lost. This is what our ancestors lost. And the forgetting has been compounding with each generation, getting worse and worse, until we arrived at now: A culture that can clearcut ancient forests, poison entire watersheds, drive species to extinction, and call it "economic development."

The amnesia is killing the world. And it's killing us.





THE VISCERAL GNOSIS (OR: HOW THE FUCK DO WE WAKE UP?)

So how do we resurrect the inner Indigenous person? How do we move from concept to gnosis, from thinking about animism to living it?

Here's where we have to get real about both the possibility and the limitations.

First, the hard truth: You cannot simply "become Indigenous" by reading books or taking workshops or adopting practices from cultures that aren't yours. That's spiritual colonialism wearing a patchwork cloak of "honoring."

You cannot bypass the fact that your recent ancestors participated in or benefited from the destruction of Indigenous peoples. You cannot erase that karma with good intentions.

But here's the tender truth: The Indigenous person within you is real. Your ancestors—go back far enough—knew how to live animistically. They knew the land. They spoke to spirits. They maintained relationships with the more-than-human world. That knowing is in your bones. It's in your DNA. It's dormant, maybe, or suppressed, or covered over with layers of industrial-consumer amnesia. But it's there.

And it wants to wake up.

So how? Not through appropriation. Not through pretending you're something you're not. But through the slow, patient, humble work of coming into right relationship with where you actually are.

+

THE PRACTICE OF PRESENCE

Malidoma Patrice Somé, born into the Dagara tribe of Burkina Faso, taught that there is "an Indigenous person within each of us" that longs to cultivate what Indigenous peoples never lost: reverence for nature, vital relationship with ancestors, receptivity to learn from the intelligence of animals.

Notice what he said: Within each of us. Not "within Indigenous peoples." Within each of us. Because we all came from Indigenous roots. The question is whether we're willing to do the work of reconnection.

That work starts exactly where you are. On the land you actually occupy. With the water you actually drink. With the beings—human and other-than-human—you actually share space with.

It starts with questions. Not rhetorical questions you ponder while drinking coffee, but real fucking questions that you investigate until you have answers:

Do you know the Indigenous peoples who lived where you now live? Not just their names—their stories, their languages, what happened to them, whether they're still here, what your relationship to them is?

Can you name five birds in your area? Five trees? Five bodies of water? Can you identify them by sight, by sound, by the way they move?

Where does your water come from? Trace it back. Not to the tap—to the source. The aquifer, the river, the reservoir. Is it healthy? Who else depends on it?

Where does your waste go? When you flush, when you throw something away, where does it end up? What lives downstream from you?

What was this land like a thousand years ago? A hundred years ago? Before you arrived?

Where is the sun right now in its yearly journey? Where does it rise in summer versus winter? What phase is the moon in? When does it rise and set?

What edible plants grow near you? What medicines? What poisons?

What animals share your watershed? Your bioregion? Which ones are endangered? Why?

These aren't trivia questions. They're not for parties or impressing people at dinner. They're the basic literacy of living in a place. They're the beginning of relationship. Because you cannot be in relationship with what you don't know.

And here's the secret that the dominant culture doesn't want you to discover: Once you start asking these questions, once you start actually paying attention, the world starts talking back.

Not metaphorically. Really.

+

THE PERSONS WHO ARE NOT HUMAN

This is where we move from concept to gnosis, from thinking to knowing.

Because here's what happens when you actually spend time with the land, when you show up day after day in the same place, when you pay attention:

The creek starts to feel like a personality. Not a metaphor—an actual presence with moods and rhythms and things it wants you to know.

The oak tree becomes a teacher. Not because you project wisdom onto it, but because it demonstrates something about patience, about endurance, about how to be rooted while reaching.

The ravens—those clever, mischievous, uncanny birds—start showing up at significant moments, and you begin to suspect they know something you don't.

The mountain watches. The stone remembers. The wind carries messages.

And you start to understand, not intellectually but viscerally, that you are not the only intelligence here. That you're surrounded by other kinds of persons—other kinds of consciousness, other kinds of knowing—and that they've been trying to get your attention all along.

This is animism. Not as belief, but as experience.

And once you experience it, you can't unknow it. The door doesn't close. The world doesn't go back to being dead matter. You don't get to unsee what you've seen.

This is what Indigenous peoples have maintained all along: the perceptual capacity to recognize personhood beyond the human. The ability to be in reciprocal relationship with the more-than-human world. The understanding that you are not a separate, autonomous individual but a node in a vast web of kinship that extends in all directions—to ancestors and descendants, to the animals and plants you share space with, to the land itself, to the spirits of place.

This is what your inner Indigenous person knows. This is what it's been trying to tell you. This is what wakes up when you finally start listening.





THE RECIPROCITY (OR: THIS ISN'T ABOUT YOU FEELING BETTER)

But—and this is crucial—animistic consciousness isn't a spiritual wellness practice. It's not about you feeling more connected or grounded or peaceful, though those might be side effects. It's about recognizing that you have obligations.

If the river is a person, you have responsibilities to it. If the forest is your kin, you have duties. If the animals are elders, you need to listen and learn and give back.

Reciprocity is the foundation of Indigenous ethics. You take, you give. You receive, you reciprocate. You don't just extract. You don't just consume. You participate in the ongoing cycle of gift and gratitude that maintains the world.

This is what the elder teachers knew when they said that learning to navigate these relationships with other-than-human persons isn't some optional spiritual hobby—it's a fundamental life skill. It's what makes transformation possible. It's the source of real joy and intimacy. And it's the only foundation that healthy culture can be built on.

Healthy culture. Not healthy individuals practicing self-care. Healthy culture—which means right relationship between humans and the more-than-human world. Which means recognizing our place in the web, not above it or outside it, but woven into it.

This is what we lost. This is what Indigenous peoples maintained. This is what we need to resurrect if we want to survive.

+

CAN WE ACTUALLY DO THIS?

So back to the original question: Is it even possible for us to resurrect our inner Indigenous person?
Yes and no.

No, we cannot erase the history of what was done. We cannot undo the genocide, the displacement, the cultural destruction. We carry that karma. We live in the world it created. We benefit from the wealth it generated and the land it stole.

We also cannot simply transplant ourselves into Indigenous cultures that aren't ours. That's not resurrection—that's appropriation. And it doesn't work because you can't bypass your own lineage, your own ancestors, your own karma.

But yes—yes—we can wake up the Indigenous consciousness within ourselves. We can relearn how to be in relationship with the living world. We can recover the perceptual capacity to recognize personhood beyond the human. We can remember that we are indigenous to Earth, if not to this specific place.

It requires:

• Humility. You don't know shit. Accept it. You're a beginner at something your ancestors once knew and you forgot. This is going to take time. It's going to be humbling. Good.

• Attention. Real attention. Not the scattered, distracted, screen-addicted attention of modern life, but the focused, patient, consistent attention that allows relationship to develop. Show up. Pay attention. Be present.

• Time. You can’t speed-run this. You cannot hack it. You cannot buy your way in. You have to spend time—years, probably—in the same place, with the same beings, learning the same lessons over and over until they sink in.

• Relationship. With the land where you are. With the Indigenous peoples whose territory you occupy—learn from them if they're willing to teach, support their sovereignty, honor their ongoing presence. With your own ancestors—go back far enough and you'll find the ones who knew. With the more-than-human beings you share space with.

• Reciprocity. Give back. Always. You cannot just take. You cannot just consume. Find out what the land needs and provide it. Learn what reciprocity means in your specific context and practice it.

• Action. This isn't just personal spiritual development. Your inner Indigenous person cares about what happens to the land, the water, the beings you share space with. Defend them. Protect them. Show up for them. Make your animistic knowing political, because the dominant culture is destroying the living world and your Indigenous soul cannot abide it.

+

THE YEARNING

Here's what we know:

The world is aching for you to remember. The land where you live is waiting for you to notice it. The creek wants to speak to you. The birds are trying to teach you. Your ancestors—go back far enough—are reaching through time, trying to remind you what you forgot.

And your inner Indigenous person—that part of you that never died, just went into hiding—is ready to wake up.

Not because it will make you feel spiritual or enlightened or connected. But because it's who you actually are underneath all the amnesia and destruction and industrial-consumer programming.

You are a person in a world of persons. You are kin to the more-than-human world. You are indigenous to this planet, even if you're an exile on this particular piece of it.

And the earth is alive. All of it. And it wants you to remember.

So start where you are. Learn the names. Ask the questions. Pay attention. Show up. Be patient. Give back.

Let the river teach you. Let the trees school you. Let the animals remind you what intelligence looks like when it doesn't wear human skin.

Wake up your inner Indigenous person—not by pretending to be something you're not, but by becoming who you actually are underneath all the forgetting.

The world needs this from you. Not because you're special, but because you're here. You're on this land, drinking this water, breathing this air, participating in this web whether you know it or not.

Time to know it. Time to participate consciously. Time to come home to the animate world that's been waiting for you all along.

Welcome to where the world is alive and it's talking to you and you're finally, finally starting to listen.

Now get outside. There's a creek that wants to meet you.

+

Here are the artists who created the art shown here, in order from top to bottom:

Howard G Charing

Malcolm Maloney Jagamarra

Wassily Kandinsky