The Compass
For Tanner, Dylan, and Bella — and for anyone who carries the Stone name forward.
What It Means to Be a Stone
Being a Stone isn't a title. It's a practice. It means you show up — to the table, to the ride, to the hard conversation, to the celebration. It means your presence is something people can count on.
It means you treat time as sacred. When you say you'll be somewhere, you're there. When you commit to something, you follow through. This isn't rigidity — it's respect. Respect for the people who rearranged their lives to be in the same place as you.
It means you tell the truth, even when it's uncomfortable. Especially then. A family that can't speak plainly to each other isn't really a family — it's a performance. We're not performing.
And it means you carry the older generations with you. You know where you came from. You know the sacrifices that made your life possible. You honor them not with words, but with how you live.
The Lakota words here — Wóčhantugnake (generosity/compassion), Wówičakhe (honesty/truth), Wóohola (respect/honor) — are drawn from the traditional Lakota virtues, Wičhóȟ'an, the way of doing things. We live in their homeland. These values were here long before us.
The Lakota Thread
We live on Pȟahá Sápa — the Black Hills. In Lakota, literally "hills that are black," but more than that: the heart of the world to the Oceti Sakowin, the Seven Council Fires that make up the Lakota, Dakota, and Nakota peoples. This is not history. This is present tense.
Mitákuye Oyásʼiŋ
All my relations — a Lakota prayer and worldview that places every living thing in relationship with every other. Not just blood relatives. The bison, the hawk, the river, the stone. All of it is kin. You open ceremonies with it. You close ceremonies with it. You say it because it is true.
Lakota relational time doesn't ask "what's on the calendar." It asks "who are we accountable to?" And the answer includes the land itself. The seasons aren't just weather — they are the shape of the year:
The Lakota kept waniyetu wówapi — winter counts — pictographic calendars drawn on hides, recording the most significant event of each year. One image per year, chosen by the keeper. Not the most news-worthy event. The most meaningful one. What would your winter count say about this year?
Tȟatȟáŋka — the buffalo — is the center of Lakota life, spiritual and practical. Every part of the animal was used. Nothing was wasted. Greg Stone's work with Dakota Bison is not separate from this thread — it is woven into it. The bison are returning to the plains. Who carries that work forward is a question with weight.
[Rory: Add your personal thread here — what your connection to Lakota culture is, who you've learned from, how the BadWound family connection shapes this. This is yours to write. The language above is shared respectfully — you know the living relationships behind it.]
The Example We're Setting
We don't ask anything of you that we're not doing ourselves. Transparency is a Lakota value too — Wóksape (wisdom) comes from watching, not just being told. So here is what Rory and Nicole are actively committed to. Not as a performance. As a record.
Every family gathering, ride, and milestone is on a shared calendar — this one. Not to track each other, but to plan around each other. Time together requires intention. Wóuŋspe — learning — happens in proximity.
Rory runs a co-op that keeps bikes in the hands of people who can't otherwise afford them. The Pedal for Empathy ride happens every year. A commitment made publicly and kept. This is what community accountability looks like — Wóčhekiye, showing up for something larger than yourself.
Tȟatȟáŋka wičhóȟ'an — the way of the buffalo — is not abstract. Greg Stone has built something real on this land. Before he is no longer here to steer it, the family is having honest conversations about what happens next. Who carries it forward. How it stays true to what he built. We are not waiting for a crisis to ask the hard questions.
[Rory: Add Greg's story — what Dakota Bison is, what the land holds, what you're working through together. This belongs in writing while he can read it.]
We gather at the equinoxes and solstices — Wetu, Blokétu, Ptaŋyétu, Waníyetu — not because it's required, but because seasons deserve acknowledgment. The Summer Solstice gathering, the Harvest gathering in fall, the Intention circle at New Year. These mark time together on purpose.
Your Invitation
Tanner. Dylan. Bella. This is for you.
You are not spectators in this family. You are part of what it is and what it becomes. Mitákuye Oyásʼiŋ — all my relations — includes you. Specifically you. The gatherings on the calendar are for you as much as for anyone. You're invited to show up as yourself, ask questions, disagree, bring your friends, and take up space.
What we ask from you is simple:
- When you say you'll be somewhere, be there. Wóohola.
- When something matters to you, say so. We want to know.
- When you need help, ask for it. That's not weakness — that's family.
- When something feels wrong, name it. Wówičakhe. We can handle the truth.
- When someone needs you, show up. Wóčhantugnake.
You don't have to have it figured out. You don't have to perform strength or certainty. You just have to show up — honestly, as you are.
The Lakota have a concept, Wóhwala — gentleness, a kind of quiet strength that doesn't need to announce itself. Bring that. Be that. The rest, we figure out together.
— The Stone Family