You have to understand that Nokosee had never seen a white person before until he met me, lost and abandoned in the middle of an Everglades fire (Book 1). I was running from him because I thought he was going to rape me. I had just kicked him in the nuts with my Doc Martens which slowed him up a bit but he was still hot on my trail-- albeit limping mightily-- when I saw the tops of an Everglade hammock rising out of the fire and thick smoke. I ran for it, screaming and thrashing through the burning sawgrass, my skin slashed and bleeding. When I reached the hammock, I turned to see how close he was and ran into the only tree on the hammock. It knocked me silly and I fell to the ground. When I turned around, Nokosee was stumbling out of the fire. Breathing heavily, he paused to catch his breath while unabashedly grabbing his balls beneath his loincloth to massage them, rolling them around like dice in his hand.

My first thought as I struggled to stand was: Indian sign language. My second thought as I turned to run again  was: Fuck you! 

But his knife stopped me in my tracks, stuck in the tree that had knocked me silly only seconds ago. 

I grabbed it with one hand and tried to yank it out of the tree but it wouldn't budge. When I reached back with my other hand, that's when he jumped me, forcing me onto my stomach. When I rolled over to kick him again in the balls he caught my leg and... froze. He told me much later that he had never seen anyone with blue eyes before and will never forget the first time he looked into my eye.

That's right. He only saw one eye.  My mighty Mo had settled across my face because I had jumped into an alligator infested canal to get away from what I thought was a mutant Miccosukee with a boner.  Later Nokosee told me seeing my one blue eye peeking out from under my wet pink hair reminded him of a weird 18th Century thing called "Lover's Eye Jewelry" where lovers sent miniature paintings of one of their eyes to each other, to be worn in a locket around their necks. He said my one angry eye looking up at him couldn't be contained in a locket, that it would burn a hole through it because of my fierce spirit. 

Un hunh, that's one reason I married him.

Anyway, at that time, I didn't know he was a well-read Romantic as I struggled to push his sweaty body off of me. So, in angry frustration, I chomped down on his long black wet hair covering my face and shook my head from side to side. He yelled like a girly-mon, pushed himself up, and to my surprise, yanked the knife out of the tree and sliced it through his hair. My head fell back against the dirt and the second impression I made that day on my future husband was him looking down at a good sized clump of his hair in my mouth. He said he would have laughed if given half the chance but I spit it out like a "leetle girl" before I slammed my head against his. I was hoping that would stun him enough so that I could free myself but I discovered his head is harder than mine. The last thing I remember thinking before I blacked out was that I was looking up at the state tree, a sabal palm, spinning in the smoke and soot; fate's co-conspirator, planted there in the middle of nowhere to grow big and tall and to wait patiently until I ran into it so I could meet this pagan caveman (as I once thought of Nokosee) who had the most beautiful eyes.

Oh, and this is what I saw as he chased me across the burning Everglades and stepped out of the fire.

Yeah, you'd run, too.

At least until you got to know him. And then you wouldn't want to leave his side.

If you read my first book you know those are the first words that came out of my dad's mouth when he saw me standing in Concourse D at MIA.  Summer was just beginning, I was 17 and just graduated from Milltown High (a place I hated with a passion!) and, thanks to a divorce court judge, going to spend my 7th summer vacation with my dad, a proud ex-Marine but always unapologetic hardass and Chief Ranger of Everglades National Park. I had flown in from New Jersey and thought I'd wear what I and my mom thought was a way cool outfit (as you can see above). Mom took the picture and brought it down with her when she visited me and Haalie a few weeks ago. I had forgotten about it (the picture, not the outfit which I still think is adorable!). I had just come down the stairs with my suitcase and wasn't in any mood for pictures since the idea of sojourning with my dad in the heat and humidity and mosquitoes not to mention the Everglades fires (I swear it seemed like the damn place was always on fire when I was down there!) was not something I was looking forward to-- especially since it separated me from my boyfriend (a guy now I can't believe I ever dated! Ugh! What a creep!).  Anyway, this is the last time my Mo was standing upright. When dad uttered those cold, hard, unforgettable words to me, my Pink Badge of Courage had already wilted in the humidity inside the airport.

"Yeah, I'm a freakin' flamingo."

That was me. You don't mess with a Jersey girl "with a chip on her shoulder."

Anyway, my Mo, like me, was crestfallen and dad and I hardly spoke on our way back to the Everglades in an open-windowed Humvee (it had AC but he refused to turn it on, telling me to get use to it). Upon circling over the Everglades to land at MIA, I looked out the window to see if it was on fire. It was  but now I could SMELL the gray smoke and FEEL the white soot as it rushed through the open window and attached itself to my body, sticking to my sweaty skin, covering me, my to-die-for outfit, and my Mo with "Everglades Snow." My eyes were burning and it took all my willpower not to cough in the presence of the head banging jarhead driving hell bent for leather into the fire and smoke to Judas Priest on the radio.

​Anyway, who knew it would take getting lost in an Everglades fire to meet Nokosee, the First of the New Seminole, a 17-year-old just like me, but on a mission to return South Florida (and now the State) to its rightful caretakers, the New Seminole? Who knew I would run away with him and his Cause? Who knew we would have a baby together, a girl called Haalapatee (Haalie)? Or that I would be doing Sanctuary at the Miccosukee Embassy, separated from him for years following our devastating losses with Uncle Sam's Army Rangers at Rendezvous Point deep in the Everglades?

Yeah. Who knew?

Mom was visiting Haalie and me at the Miccosukee Embassy yesterday where I have been doing Sanctuary. Before she divorced my dad we use to live in Miami Shores, Florida on NE 13th Ave and 99th Street when he just took on the job as the Chief Ranger for Everglades National Park.  Perhaps it was the stress of driving each day back and forth into the boondocks with dad leaving before sunrise and returning long after sunset, but within a year of moving here, mom had had enough of raising me "alone" (her word) in the "heat and humidity" (she hated living here) and divorced the guy, taking me back with a yanking hand (as I remember it) to New Jersey (read my books). 

Anyway, she brought an old picture of me hoisting up a book into the banyan tree on the side of our house. You can see my dad's old boat in the background. And blue tarps on the roof of the house, his solution to a leaky roof.

Seeing that old photo brought back some fond and not so fond memories. I truly loved that tree and would spend hours on end up in its branches to read and to get away from the shouting and cursing of my parents down below. I distinctly remember the day it was taken. It was early in the morning, the sun was just rising and because my father took the picture, it was on a Saturday or Sunday when he was home. He encouraged me to climb trees and again, if you read my books, got me into karate by the time I was twelve because, by God, he may not have a son but that doesn't mean he can't make me the son he never had! 

He was laughing when he saw me up there and snapped the picture. Mom, on the other hand, was screaming her head off while simultaneously scolding dad for cheering me on and yelling up at me to "get down from there this minute before you break your neck!" 

New Seminole Osceola Beer has an ABV of 28% and is proudly illegal in 15 states. Based on the ancient and legendary ritual "Black Drink" brewed by many Southeastern U.S. tribes, we choose to brand it with the English corruption of its Seminole name:  Osceola!

The Muscogee peoples call the black drink ássi. In ceremonies, the drink is passed around with each participant using the opportunity to sing (yahola).  The ritual name for such a person is Asi Yahola (Black Drink Singer) and if said real fast (or slurred from too much brewski) sounds like... Osceola. 

Right now the only place you can get it is deep in the Everglades on a camo covered hammock where Nokosee is setting up a craft brewery. All proceeds are going to "the Cause." If you read my books, you'll know that someday soon you'll be able to pick up a six-pack "at the third alligator on the right."

When Nokosee first introduced me to this... thing, I nearly jumped out of my... Wait, I wasn't wearing anything when he reached into the water, whipped it out and dangled it-- and I'm talking about the... thing, not that other "thing"-- in my face.  We were swimming and making love in the water surrounding a lonely hammock deep in the Everglades. Just him, me and the... thing.  Anyway, I couldn't get out of the water fast enough and yelled at him to stop, and to keep that squirming... thing away from me! He told me this is what happens when toxic chemicals are introduced into the Everglades.

At the time, I had just ran away from my home in New Jersey on my 18th birthday present, a classic Indian motorcycle with fringe saddlebag-- yes, I was spoiled but the bike was a bribe to keep me home, to go to college, and to fargedabou my loincloth clad, warpaint wearing psycho hunk down in the Everglades. Of course, if you read my books, you know it didn't work. And you'd know too that in the beginning I believed everything he said. Why? Because he was the "expert" about all things Everglades and just about everything I knew was sold at Hot Topic where I worked the cash register and sold shit to kids like me. But this... thing to me was something the Toxic Avenger would have as a pet and I believed the poor... thing had a muy bad encounter with some kind of toxic chemical that had floated out of the sugar cane fields up near Lake Okeechobee all the way down here. I didn't learn until yesterday that toxic chemicals have nothing to do with its looks. 

It's the rare (about 50-years since it was last seen and studied) and legendary Florida Leopard Eel, a giant salamander with leopard spots and only a face its mother could love. Its called Siren reticulata (reticulated siren), and it belongs to a rare genus of giant salamanders called Sirenidae.  It's two-feet of long and sinuous slime with only a pair of front legs. That stuff you see around its head, those are its gills. 

Looking back, Nokosee probably was just trying to convince me to join up with the New Seminole to fight the Man and to save Gaia and, yeah, it worked because, who wouldn't want to save creatures from looking like Frankenstein monsters? I'll have to ask him if that's what he had in mind next time he visits the Miccosukee Embassy where I'm doing Sanctuary. 

You can learn more about the... thing and the scientists who captured it here.

According to a recent Harper's Bazaar magazine article, "Sixty-four anti-protest bills have been introduced by the state legislators since November 8, 2016—an unprecedented level of hostility towards protesters in the 21st century, according to the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU). North Dakota legislators narrowly defeated a bill that would have allowed drivers to run over and kill protesters without being jailed; meanwhile an increasing number of states want to make it a crime to plan a pipeline protest."

This is just one example of Trump's rule when it comes to the environment. Big Oil and Big Business want to stifle protest against these kind of projects. When that doesn't work, violence is their go-to action through actors who Big will disavow but who were incentivised to "act out" by Big and Republican propaganda. 

The article goes on to mention hundreds  of women who were physically attacked and murdered across Gaia because they had the courage to stand up to Big. 

In the U.S., Indigenous attorney and activist Tara Houska  was "zip-tied and locked in a dog kennel when she was arrested, and strip-searched."

LeeAnne Walters has had her house broken into, her tires slashed, and the lug nuts loosened on her vehicle.

Cherri Foytlin, an indigenous woman of Diné and Cherokee descent, had her cat poisoned to death and bricks thrown through her car windows.

And because you're a woman, the Gaia haters will label you a "bad mother," perhaps the worst invective they can throw at a woman activist feeling guilty about the time she is not with her children while defending the environment. 

Elizabeth Yeampierre, a New York attorney and climate justice leader, believes women tend to lead the fight to save Gaia "because of their life-giving connection to their children and the earth, and their frustration with gender inequity."

If you read my books, you know I and the New Seminole took a more "proactive" approach to saving Gaia.  We failed mightily. That's why I'm doing Sanctuary at the Miccosukee Embassy in Miami and my love Nokosee is on the run. At first I resisted Micco Busimanolotome Osceola's vision of the New Seminole which he founded. It required we go guerrilla on the "Outside," his word for the "civilized world" on both sides of the Everglades. But over time I came to see the world the way he did, one ran by a cancerous corporate greed sanctioned by governments which will stop at nothing to ensure its profitability. It is the mission of the New Seminole to carry on and I applaud all women who are willing to put themselves and the lives of their families at risk in order to save the world. 

Doing Sanctuary at the Miccosukee Embassy in Miami is taking its toll on me. Looking out the window at the trees isn't enough.  Like the Animals sing, "we-- Haalie and me-- gotta get out of this place." If it's the last thing we ever do. 

Seeing Nokosee once in a while isn't enough-- and the anxiety it brings doesn't balance out-- when he's with us, I can't shake the idea that he's going to get caught. 

Re-reading Hermann Hesse reminds me of my love affair with trees-- and the world. I grew up in trees, played tree tag with kids and when older, read books up high in the boughs. If you read my books, you know Haalie, our daughter was conceived in a gumbo limbo tree deep in the Everglades.  For those who aren't familiar with Hesse, ​here's a great short introduction by Maria Popova to his mind and his relationship with trees. He writes,  

Those words are supposed to be comforting. But all I hear is "We gotta get outta this place if it's the last thing we ever do." 

The Red Tide toxins that kill fish by the millions have finally made their way to Miami Beach. No one can remember it ever reaching the "Gold Coast." Usually when it blooms, it effects the Gulf Coast and parts of Florida south of the sugar cane fields such as Lake Worth. Now, because of currents and record setting blooms, it has found its way from the southwest coast in a current that connects to the Gulf Stream, carrying it around Key West and north into the waters of Miami Beach. Right now, tourists and locals alike are coughing their asses off and complaining of eye irritation near the beach-- they don't actually have to swim in the water because wave and wind action separates the toxins from the water making them airborne. 

Sadly, this could have been prevented if current Republican Governor Rick Scott and his party enablers who control the state legislature hadn't weakened every measure that came across their desks to fix the problem. Why? Because Scott and his cronies value business interests more than environmental protections. It's a proud Republican tradition. Plus they can't say no to Big Sugar's campaign contributions. You can read how Red Tide got to Miami Beach here. 

Even with a toddler, doing "sanctuary" at the Miccosukee Embassy in Miami sometimes gets monotonous. To combat the boredom, I started brushing up on my knitting and beading skills. This necklace is inspired by the Seminole patchwork designs. Maybe I'll add it to our "Store" page, right up there with our New Seminole Bad Ass Spices and books. Maybe. Right now I can't imagine selling it because it took so long to bake it. Sorry. I made the mistake of listening to some old rock music while I was a beading and I can't get that song out of my head no matter how hard I try.

Anyway, it appears this hardened terrorist has taken up knitting and beading along with raising a child. Who knew?

The "49 dance" is when guys and gals on the rez get together and get jiggy. Although it can be traced to the traditional Kiowa and Oklahoma tribes because of its rhythms, it doesn't commemorate bravery in battle. Instead it's celebrating fun and love, usually with a shot of firewater to help the dancers find their courage because, let's face it, striking up a conversation with someone you're attracted too can take all the help it can get. 

Busimanolotome Osceola, founder of the New Seminole (NS) and my father-in-law, encouraged our "tribe" to do this instead of the traditional powwow dances because-- I think-- he loved the dance's roots in rebellion, in the disruption of the status quo which, if anything, the NS were and are.  

My first introduction to the 49 dance came on a moonlit night deep in the Everglades on a hammock less than a foot above the water. The trees that had taken root there were covered by camo netting to hide us from the prying eyes of Uncle Sam's spy satellites (I know, I too thought our fearless leader was a tad paranoid until we shot down a drone over the Everglades).  This is what it sounds like-- and yes it traditionally uses English lyrics because the 49 dance's roots only date back to early 1900s.

But I took it a step further by pushing Busi's buttons-- which was easy to do if you read my books-- by dancing with Nokosee to music like this, supplied by BoomBox-- our tribe's black Alan-a-Dale-- on a giant ghetto blaster he carried everywhere we went, adding musical counterpoint to our fleeting moments while on the run from Army Rangers (our "charges" and "retreats"-- mostly retreats-- were signaled by BoomBox playing a cassette of regimental bugle music). This is also the song I sang to Nokosee on our wedding night again on a hidden hammock deep in the Everglades, a song we danced clockwise to in a circle where cultures collide and meld together, becoming something new. Something like the New Seminole.