the crane, the mist & the moon

stargazing from stillness

That word for elder in Ojibwe, Gichiaya’aa, means “great being” - someone who is gifted with the blessing of a long life. The Ojibwe people are incredibly humble, and this is the only instance I hear a person described as great. Mindimooyenh “old woman”, means, the one who holds us together. She holds our families together, our clans together, our communities together, and our nation. Akiwensii “old man” means to come from the earth. After a lifetime of being fed, clothed, sheltered, and healed by the earth, he realizes that the earth is literally him, and he is the earth.

The Seven Generations and the Seven Grandfather Teachings by James Vukelich Kaagegaabaw

Curving shorelines, sacred, in all contexts, carve through my consciousness as I lay in bed hoping to sleep.

A sea of fish fills my flesh each time I close my eyes, so still, expansive and beautiful.

I wake to find myself wrapped in the blue grey wings of a great being, whose head feathers fan out like sun rays above my head, and I feel so. held.

At home among the forest sermon at dawn, coyote cackles echoing through the silent snow-covered hills, chickadees flittering in waves from ground to tree and back, I walk outside into the mystery, carrying an ocean on the inside and a great being on the outside, quietly listening for the sound of the rising sun.

She Bear Looking In Tomorrow, Vasil Woodland

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Seeing the “we” as an “I”, as one living wave of human expression, blessed.

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Seeing the refracting light mirror of descendants and ancestors, blessed.

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Seeing the living threads from the moon to this body (and yours), blessed.

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Between the “I” and the empty… is there something?

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A Meditation

There is nothing but where the hands touch, or the feet, resting here on the earth.

There is nothing but the occasional sensation, inhale…exhale…nothing.

There is nothing but this light, in the dark.

There is nothing but clean, open, awareness.

There is nothing but a ripple from the inside out.

It is like glass,

and grace,

like soft snow falling on the roof.

There is no center,

the center is everywhere,

butterflies in the holy hands of an ancestor.

I want this to consume me. All of me.

There is nothing but the wind, blowing through tarps and chimes - this cooling night air - this and this and,

The chest releasing stories.

A memory, a movement, soars through the dark: untouched.

I want to see it. Everything.

Subtle absorption in the sublime,

but wait,

the sleeping child.

A beautiful anticipation.

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Blessings to you and yours,

Leah Bee