The Spirit Path

My name is Mishkwaagiizhigookwe, Red Sky Woman. I am Ojibwe from Lac Courte Oreilles, and I am the granddaughter of Loon Clan chiefs. I carry this name, this lineage, and this responsibility with humility and care.

I am writing this as a living record.

This blog exists to hold my vision quests, dreams, and spiritual journey as they come to me through meditation, the land, and ancestral presence. What I share here is personal, but it does not belong to me alone. It belongs to those who came before me and those who will come after.

Many of the messages I receive do not arrive loudly. They come through water, animals, silence, and repetition. They come through birds, loons on still water, stones, bears watching from the tree line, and elders who speak without words. Sometimes I understand the meaning right away. Sometimes I do not. I have learned that not all teachings are meant to understood, but felt.

I am sharing these experiences in hopes of keeping our culture alive in an honest way.

I write to remember the messages my ancestors are giving me, so they are not lost. I write so future generations may know where they come from, how to listen, and how to walk with humility.

Miigwech for being here.

Chidewiigan Ogichidaa

I began this meditation already hearing the drum. The rhythm was steady and familiar, accompanied by singing from our Native Badger band. Before anything else appeared, I saw Chidewiigan Ogichidaa Jim Miller. He was dancing, completely joyful, free in a way that felt untouched by illness or age. I was holding my daughter’s hand, and the two of us danced together. Our hair moved with the beat, swaying in the same rhythm. It felt whole. Nothing was missing.

After that, I was led into a pine forest. Water surrounded the area, quiet and still. In the center stood a massive birch bark tree with an opening large enough to enter. I walked toward it slowly. Inside, moss-covered steps descended downward, roots arching and parting to form a clear path. As I went deeper, the earth changed. Green grass faded into dark soil, then into exposed roots, and finally into the core of the ground itself.

At the bottom, another opening appeared, this time inside a birch tree. I stepped through and emerged into a different forest. There were no pine trees here, only birch. The grass beneath my hands was soft and alive. The trees felt ancient, not abandoned, but aware.

In front of me were four graves. One was a stone headstone, worn smooth by time. The others were spirit lodges, carefully tended, with offerings left behind. A crow flew down and landed on the old stone grave. It held a white rock in its beak. I said, out loud, “I am listening.” The crow dropped the stone into my hand and said, “Go ahead,” before flying away.

I did not know where to go, so I sat on the grave and waited.

I heard movement before I saw anything. The sound of dancing. I saw moccasins, feathers, and motion. When I looked up, there was a young man, maybe in his twenties, dancing in fancy dance regalia. He wore a white pelt and light blue beadwork around his headband. A feather was fixed to it. He carried a spear with an eagle feather attached. He danced with strength and purpose, then stopped, offered tobacco to a birch tree, and knelt to pray.

Afterward, he sat by the shore. I joined him. We did not speak. The silence felt intentional, not empty. He held my hand as we sat together. When I looked down, I saw red veins spreading from his hand into my arm, branching like birch roots. I looked away, then back again, and the red was gone. I understood this as connection, not harm, not possession.

Without words, I knew who he was. He was Louis Kingfisher, my ancestor.

We stood together, and I handed him the white stone the crow had given me. He smiled, pleased, and accepted it. The drumbeat grew louder. We danced together as the sound filled the forest. As the rhythm peaked, his spirit faded back into the old stone grave.

I stood alone for a moment, still surrounded by birch, still grounded. Then I opened my eyes.

This meditation did not feel like a message demanding action. It felt like recognition. A remembering. I listened. I waited. I returned what was given. That felt like this was my message.

Ojibwe Symbolism — First Person Reflection

When the drum began, I understood immediately that this was ceremonial. The drum is the heartbeat of the earth and the people. Hearing it before anything else told me I was being welcomed and protected. The singing opened the space. I was not entering alone.

The Badger song was significant. Badger medicine works beneath the surface. It digs. It heals through depth, not display. Hearing Badger before I went underground told me this journey would move through roots, memory, and ancestral truth, not surface imagery.

Dancing with my daughter while seeing Chidewiigan Ogichidaa Jim Miller dancing showed me continuity. Nothing in my line is broken. Hair carries memory and spirit. Our hair moving together meant shared lineage, shared breath, shared time. The joy told me this was not about grief. It was about life continuing.

The pine forest surrounded by water felt like a boundary place. Pine holds endurance and long memory. Water is spirit and transition. I knew I was standing where worlds touch, but safely.

The birch tree was central. Birch carries teachings, records, beginnings, and truth. Entering the birch meant entering ancestral knowledge directly. Descending through grass, soil, roots, and into the core showed me returning to origin. Roots are lineage. The core is source. I was being taken where memory lives.

When I emerged into the birch-only forest, I knew I was no longer in a physical place. Birch-only spaces feel like record-keeping places. The grass being soft and green showed me this knowledge is alive, not buried or forgotten.

The four graves spoke of completeness. The four directions. The four stages of life. The stone grave held ancestors who have fully transitioned. The spirit lodges showed ongoing relationship. These are ancestors who are still in exchange with the living.

The crow’s arrival was not casual. Crow carries messages between worlds and holds law and truth. When I said “I am listening,” I meant it. Receiving the white stone felt like being entrusted, not gifted. The stone carried responsibility, not ownership. When the crow said “go ahead,” I understood I had permission to act, but not to rush.

I sat and waited because waiting is respect. Power is not chased. Sitting showed readiness.

When the fancy dancer appeared, I felt vitality and resilience. Fancy dance carries survival through movement and beauty. His regalia mattered. White pelt showed clean intent. Light blue beads reflected water and sky, honesty and clarity. The eagle feather and spear showed responsibility and protection, not violence.

When he offered tobacco to the birch, I knew he understood where I had come from. Tobacco seals respect and agreement. His prayer confirmed shared lineage.

We sat in silence because silence is language. Not all teachings are spoken. Holding hands without words felt equal and intentional.

When I saw the red veins spread from his hand into my arm like roots, I recognized blood and kinship. Lineage moving through the body. When it faded, I understood the connection was acknowledged without harm or possession.

Without being told, I knew he was Louis Kingfisher. Recognition came through feeling, not introduction.

Returning the white stone was necessary. I was never meant to keep it. Giving it back showed I understood the responsibility and respected the exchange.

Dancing together sealed the relationship. When his spirit returned to the old stone grave, I did not feel loss. I felt completion. The teaching was delivered.

Standing alone afterward showed integration. I returned whole, not carrying an attachment, but carrying understanding.

Kingfisher medicine came through clearly. Kingfisher moves between water and air. It waits, watches, and acts precisely. It does not rush. As ancestral medicine, it shows clarity returning to a family line and trust being placed in someone to see clearly.

I listened.

I waited.

I returned what was given.

That is correct medicine.

Miigwech ❤️

This morning, after I offered my tobacco, my meditation opened gently.

I found myself moving through the forest near the coast of Lake Superior. The air was cool, and the ground sloped toward the water. Berry bushes grew in scattered bundles along the banks, thick and alive. As I walked among them, I heard a presence speak, not aloud, but clearly. Berry Picking Woman (Miinan-gagwewin Ikwe). I understood this to be a spirit guiding me through the bushes.

I knelt down and reached into the leaves, pulling ripe raspberries from the stems. When I opened my hand, my palm was stained red. The color lingered, deep and unmistakable.

Movement caught my attention beneath the bush. A chipmunk darted and froze, watching me closely. I held out a berry, open-handed, patient. After a moment, it came forward and ate from me. Then more rustling followed. Two more chipmunks appeared, each taking a berry in turn. There was no fear, only awareness.

When I stood, I placed the remaining berries into a wooden basket woven with twine. A cool breeze passed through me, steady and calm.

That was when I saw her.

An elderly woman stood at the shoreline, wrapped in a white shawl adorned with red beaded flowers. I did not walk toward her. I only watched. I could see her profile, the way she faced the water, and I knew immediately that it was my Granny, Betty Nookomis. She was smiling, peaceful, letting the wind move around her as she looked out over the lake.

I called to her. Her smile widened with joy.

“I’m listening,” I told her.

She said nothing.

I asked again, pleading, “Can you tell me?”

She answered only one word.

“Silence.”

We stood together, side by side, looking out across the water. Then the forest faded. The chipmunks disappeared. The berries vanished. My Granny dissolved into the light and air. I opened my eyes, carrying the stillness with me.

Ojibwe Meaning

When I walked through the forest near Lake Superior, I understood that I was not simply moving through land. I had already offered my tobacco. That meant I had asked permission. The forest was no longer a place I entered. It was a presence that allowed me in.

Hearing the spirit I recognized as Berry Picking Woman told me that this was women’s knowledge guiding me. Berry picking has always been about survival through patience, about feeding families through careful hands rather than force. I knew I was being reminded of where I come from and how knowledge is carried forward quietly, season by season.

When I picked the raspberries and saw the red stain on my palm, I felt the weight of that color. Red is life. It is blood, lineage, and sacrifice. The stain told me I was participating, not observing. This was not symbolic in an abstract way. It was physical and personal. I was marked by what I was given.

The chipmunks showed me something about trust. At first they watched me carefully. When they came close enough to eat from my hand, I understood that my spirit was calm and aligned. In our way, animals do not approach without reason. Their presence told me I was meant to be there and that my intentions were clear.

The basket mattered. I gathered what I could carry, not more. I did not rush or take greedily. This reminded me that knowledge is something you hold responsibly. What you gather is meant to be carried forward, not consumed all at once.

The breeze that moved through me felt like acknowledgment. Wind carries messages. This one was not strong or urgent. It was gentle, confirming that I was seen.

Seeing my Granny standing at the water was the deepest teaching. Water holds memory. Standing beside her without approaching showed me that this was not a lesson delivered through words. She did not need to turn toward me. Her presence alone was enough. Her smile told me she recognized me and where I was standing in my life.

When she told me “Silence,” I understood that she was not withholding something from me. She was reminding me that some teachings cannot be spoken without losing their power. Silence is listening beyond language. It is trusting what has already been placed inside me.

When I began meditating, I felt myself lift into flight.

It was a beautiful day. The sky was a deep, brilliant blue, with faint clouds moving slowly across it. Then I saw the eye of a bird. In that instant, I understood I was riding on the back of a hawk as it flew.

Its feathers were rough and layered, brown in uneven tufts, touched with white. We glided through pure air far above the earth, moving toward a bright yellow sun as it slowly began to set. Below us stretched Lake Superior, vast and endless, so wide it felt like an ocean.

I became aware that I was holding something in my right hand. Three long strands of sweetgrass.

I released them and watched as they drifted gently through the sky, turning and falling until they disappeared into the water below. When they were gone, I felt lighter.

The hawk vanished.

I did not fall. But I drifted, suspended and calm, until I opened my eyes.

Interpreting the Hawk Ride

When I entered meditation, my awareness lifted into motion. The sky opened wide, blue and steady, and the air felt clean and alive. I was not alone. Recognition came first through the eye of the hawk. That meeting established relationship before movement.

Being carried on the hawk’s back felt like alignment. Hawks travel between sky and earth, holding vision without detachment. Riding with it placed me in a space of clarity and responsibility. I was shown what it means to see widely while remaining grounded.

The setting sun marked transition. Dusk carries power in Ojibwe understanding. It is the time when worlds move closer, when teachings travel quietly. The light was warm and deliberate, reminding me that change does not always arrive abruptly. Some shifts happen gently.

Lake Superior lay beneath us, vast and enduring. Water holds memory, ancestors, and continuity. Seeing it from above allowed respect without overwhelm. I was reminded that I can acknowledge depth and history without being consumed by it.

The sweetgrass in my right hand carried purpose. Three strands rested together, reflecting balance and harmony. Sweetgrass represents prayer, kindness, and connection. Releasing it into the air and watching it return to the water felt like an offering given freely. It was a gesture of gratitude rather than request.

After the offering, lightness moved through me. Space opened. When the hawk withdrew, support remained. I drifted calmly, suspended by presence rather than form. This moment affirmed that guidance does not disappear when the messenger departs. What carries us is often larger than what we can see.

This meditation speaks to trust in movement, respect for release, and steadiness rooted within. It reminds me that I can offer prayer, return what I have carried, and continue forward with balance.

Symbolic Meanings in Ojibwe Understanding

Hawk

Ojibwe: Giniw

Meaning: Vision, awareness, messenger between realms. Giniw teaches how to see clearly while staying connected to the land.

Sweetgrass

Ojibwe: Wiingashk

Meaning: Sacred plant of prayer, gratitude, and kindness. Often used to open the heart and invite gentle strength.

Water / Lake

Ojibwe: Nibi

Meaning: Life, memory, ancestors, and emotional depth. Water carries teachings across generations.

Sun at Dusk

Ojibwe: Giizhigad (day) / Onaagosh (evening)

Meaning: Transition, reflection, and spiritual closeness between worlds.

Three Strands

Meaning: Balance and harmony. Often understood as mind, body, and spirit moving together.

The meditation

I meditated that I was in a pine forest in the rain. My clothes were soaked, heavy against my skin. Through an opening in the woods, I could see the lake. It was misty, the water blurred where rain met the surface. Above me, I heard a bird in the trees. It was a crow. It flew into its nest to escape the rain.

I walked toward the opening, feeling slippery stones, mud, and pine needles beneath my feet. When I reached the clearing, I sat on a rock and watched raindrops hit the water, each one rippling outward. After a while, I noticed movement beneath me. A turtle crawled up from the water and onto the rock beside me. Its shell was brown and weathered, but its body was a vivid green with stripes.

I stayed quiet. The turtle crawled onto my leg and said, “Break.” I did not ask what it meant, though the word unsettled me. Then it said, “Break free.” It moved to the edge of the rock, lifted its face into the rain, and blinked its eyes slowly. Finally, it said, “…like me,” and slipped back into the water.

I understood it as an invitation to follow. I undressed to enter the lake, but I hesitated. I did not know what was beneath the rock, and the unknown made me uneasy. Still, I did not want to remain behind. I jumped in and swam toward the turtle. We moved slowly, side by side. When it dipped beneath the surface, I followed. The water was not deep, and we did not stay under long.

I turned onto my back and floated next to it. I relaxed my arms, letting them drift. The turtle gently nibbled at them, not hurting me. Then it climbed onto my stomach and rested there as I floated. I watched its face while rain fell around us. After some time, it slid back into the water and swam away. I did not chase it. I stayed where I was, floating and looking up at the hazy clouds above.

Ojibwe symbolism and meaning

The pine forest and rain

In Ojibwe understanding, the forest is not scenery. It is a gathering of living beings. Pines are elders among trees. They endure storms and remain green through winter, carrying memory and continuity. The rain is cleansing and truthful. Being soaked means I did not shield myself from the experience. I entered the teaching fully, without protection.

The crow – Aandeg

Aandeg, the crow, is a watcher and a bridge between spaces. Crow did not speak because crow was not the teacher in this vision. By flying to its nest, crow acknowledged the moment and stepped aside. This showed that I was seen, that the space was safe, and that another spirit was coming forward to teach.

The lake – Nibi

Water, Nibi, is sacred. Lakes hold memory, emotion, and spirit movement. The mist over the water shows partial knowing. In Ojibwe teachings, mist appears when only what is necessary is being revealed. My hesitation before entering the water was not weakness. It was respect for what I could not yet see.

The turtle – Mikinak

Mikinak is one of the oldest teachers. Turtle lives both on land and in water and carries its home with it. Turtle teaches patience, grounding, and survival without force. When Mikinak said “Break free,” it was not telling me to escape my life. It was showing me how to release fear. Turtle does not fight the water. Turtle belongs to it.

When the turtle touched me and climbed onto my body, this showed shared balance and consent. The teaching was not above me or ahead of me. I was capable of holding it without being overwhelmed.

Floating and letting go

Floating on my back was the completion of the lesson. I trusted Nibi to hold me. I stopped moving toward something and allowed myself to be supported. When the turtle left, it meant the teaching was complete. In Ojibwe understanding, teachers leave when the lesson has been received. Not chasing it showed respect and understanding.

What this means to me...

This meditation taught me that breaking free does not mean forcing change or abandoning who I am. It means releasing fear of what I cannot see and trusting that I am already capable of moving through deep emotional waters. Like the turtle, I can carry my protection with me. I do not have to struggle to survive.

I learned that stillness is not stagnation and that floating is sometimes the most honest form of movement. I do not need to chase guidance or cling to it. When I allow myself to be held by the water, by life, by spirit, I am safe.

This was not a lesson about becoming someone new.

It was a lesson about trusting who I already am and learning how to move gently, steadily, and without fear.

I meditated tonight and followed a path through the forest. A glowing golden light led me forward until I reached a campfire beneath a wide, star-filled sky. I sat near the fire and felt calm, held by the night.

Slowly, I saw Granny, Aunt Karol, Penny, and Cody appear faintly. They did not speak. They simply came, watched, and then faded away. Their presence felt like acknowledgement, like they were letting me know I was not alone, even though this moment was not meant for them to carry.

Then Uncle Louie came to me.

He was wearing a bear head pelt and dressed in tribal regalia. In his hand, he held an eagle feather fan. He sat beside me near the fire, and I noticed the slate necklace he wore. It was the same slate necklace that the Bear has worn in my other meditations. When I saw it, I understood this was not coincidence.

I asked him, “Are you the Bear?” referring to the Bear who has appeared to me before.

He answered simply, “Yes.”

He took my hand as we sat together watching the fire. There was no fear in me. Only warmth and familiarity. He said to me, “Be brave.”

Then he looked up at the sky and pointed with his eagle feathers to one single star. He said, “Waabanang-giizis,” the Morning Star. This is tied to Waabanang, the East, the direction of beginnings, spirit, and first light. It is also my mother’s Ojibwe name. In that moment, I felt lineage, direction, and identity align.

Uncle Louie stood and began to dance like a Bear around the fire. He was joyful, playful, alive with energy. Nearby, I noticed a white rabbit hiding close to the edge of the light. He said, “Don’t be scared.” His voice was gentle, reassuring.

Then suddenly, he transformed into a grizzly Bear.

He roared at the flames and swiped his paws toward the fire, not in anger, but in strength and protection. Afterward, the Bear came and sat beside me. I still was not afraid. I felt completely comfortable. The Bear lay down next to me and fell asleep, while I remained sitting, staring into the fire, until I slowly came out of my meditation.

Understanding Makwa

In Ojibwe, Bear is Makwa. Makwa represents strength, courage, protection, healing, and leadership. Bear medicine is not aggressive by nature. It is grounding and protective. Makwa teaches us how to stand firm, how to be brave, and how to protect what is sacred without fear.

Makwa is also a healer and a guardian of the people. When Bear appears calmly and stays close, it is a sign of acceptance, trust, and guidance rather than warning.

My Summary

This meditation was a confirmation.

Uncle Louie is connected to Makwa, and Makwa has been walking with me through my earlier meditations. The slate necklace tied them together as one continuous presence. His message to “be brave” was not asking me to change, but reminding me of who I already am.

The Morning Star, Waabanang-giizis, showed me that I am aligned with my direction, my lineage, and my spirit path. The Bear’s joy, protection of the fire, and peaceful rest beside me told me that I am safe, watched over, and supported.

I was not being tested.

I was being protected.

I entered meditation and found myself near the Chippewa Flowage during a heavy snowfall. The snow was impacting the ground, the trees, and the water all at once. Everything felt hushed. I followed a man walking ahead of me. He was wrapped in fur pelt and wore Aagimag snowshoes. His pace was steady and unhurried, as if he knew exactly where he was going. I followed without fear.

He stopped near a wigwam set back from the water. Outside, a fire burned steadily despite the falling snow. Its glow did not fight the winter. It simply existed within it. Nearby, a young woman and two children held hands and danced in a loose circle. They laughed openly, their movements natural and unrestrained. The woman appeared to be in her twenties. Her long black hair shone against the white snow. All three were dressed in pelt and appeared comfortable, grounded, and fully present. An older man stepped out and joined the children, moving gently as he danced with them. The scene felt complete and balanced. No one was missing. Nothing felt out of place.

The meditation shifted, and I found myself walking again, this time beside an elder. I knew she was my grandmother, one I never met in this life. I did not see her face. I only saw her thick gray and black hair and the heavy fur pelt wrapped around her. We walked together through the snow until we reached a frozen area overlooking the Flowage. The water was solid with ice and reflected light in small sharp points beneath the snowfall.

We sat down together and looked out at the frozen water. She pointed toward it and said, “Isn’t this beautiful,” not as a question, but as a statement. I asked her if she was cold. She answered, “No. This is me.” I understood that she was speaking of the land, the season, and her place within it. I asked her who she was to me. She said, “I am you.” I understood this to mean that she was my ancestor and that her life continues through mine.

She rested her head on my shoulder, and we sat together in silence. I felt warmth spread through me while the snow continued to fall. The cold no longer felt distant or harsh. It felt familiar. We remained there together, grounded, connected, and at ease.

Reflection

This meditation centers on continuity, identity, and belonging. Winter is shown as a lived environment rather than a hardship. The fire, the wigwam, and the family demonstrate how life continues through structure, relationship, and care. The elder’s words affirm that ancestors are not separate from the land or from us. They are carried forward through memory, body, and presence.

The warmth I felt while sitting with my grandmother reflects ancestral closeness and reassurance. It reminds me that I am shaped by those who came before me and that I walk with them, even when I cannot see their faces.

I entered meditation and found myself once again in the pine and cedar forest. There was a slight chill in the air. The forest felt still and quiet, as if it was waiting. Nothing was there but me. I looked up and saw a clear blue sky, and far ahead an eagle flew above the treetops in the distance. I became aware of the pine needles beneath me and the thick cedar canopy surrounding the space.

Then I sensed movement. A large, dark silhouette emerged from the woods. A grizzly bear stepped forward. I was startled and afraid as it came face to face with me. I could feel the heat of its breath as it sniffed me, letting out a low snarl. As it moved closer, I noticed something familiar. Around its neck was a necklace with a flat piece of slate rock. That was when I realized this was the same bear from my last meditation, the one I had seen across the Chippewa Flowage. I recognized it the moment it stepped fully into view.

The bear did not harm me. Instead, it walked beside me and rubbed its entire body against mine as I sat still. Its fur was stiff and coarse. I could smell the deep, earthy scent of soil and forest on it. Then it laid down peacefully next to me. It chewed gently on leaves for a moment and rested its head on the ground.

I asked quietly, “Will I always have fear?”

The bear replied, “Ground.”

It shuffled its front paws into the dirt and said, “Earth.”

After a while, it stood and began to walk away slowly. Wanting it to stay, I asked, “Where do I go from here?”

Without turning back, it answered, “Home.”

Then it disappeared back into the forest.

I remained there, continuing to meditate in the now-empty woods. I laid on my back and watched the trees above me sway gently. After some time, the eagle returned. It circled overhead several times, then dropped a brown, speckled egg. I watched as the egg began to hatch. Shortly after, I came out of the meditation.

Ojibwe Symbolism and Meaning

Makwa (Bear)

In Ojibwe teachings, Makwa represents grounding, healing, protection, and inner strength. The bear is closely tied to the earth and teaches how to survive through fear by becoming steady rather than reactive. Seeing the same bear return shows that the teaching is continuing and deepening, not beginning again. The bear being close, touching me, and resting beside me reflects reassurance and acceptance.

Asin (Stone / Slate)

Slate is an ancient stone formed through pressure and time. A slate necklace represents wisdom earned through endurance, lived experience, and generational memory. Recognizing the necklace means recognizing the lesson. What was once seen across water is now fully present and embodied.

Nibi (Water)

In the earlier meditation, the Chippewa Flowage stood between me and the bear, symbolizing emotional distance, transition, and ancestral memory. In this meditation, there is no water between us. The crossing has already happened. The lesson has moved from observation into lived understanding.

Giizhig (Eagle)

The eagle represents spiritual vision, guidance, and connection to the Creator. The eagle appearing again confirms that the grounding work is supported from above. It shows balance between earth and sky.

Egg

An egg symbolizes birth, renewal, and potential. The hatching egg represents a new phase forming quietly and naturally. It shows that grounding allows growth to happen safely and in the right time.

What does it mean to me?

This meditation taught me that fear does not disappear by being avoided. It softens when I ground myself fully into my body and the earth. The return of the same bear shows that I am no longer standing on the other side of the lesson. I am within it. The slate necklace reminds me that strength is built slowly, through time and lived experience. When the bear said “Home,” it was not sending me somewhere else. It was telling me to settle into myself, into the land, and into what I already carry.

Meditation

I found myself in the woodlands, standing within a forest of tall cedars that stretched into the sky. One cedar stood apart from the rest. Its bark moved like water, turning into waves. I stepped into it and felt held, protected, as if the tree itself had wrapped around me. Inside, a wooden tunnel opened downward. I realized I was inside a great root. I climbed down until it opened into another forest.

I caught flashes of fast movement on both sides and heard a low growl. Ahead of me on the path stood a gray wolf. It growled. I bowed before it and held out my hands. The wolf sniffed my head, then began to lick my hands. I did not speak aloud. I asked quietly if it had a message.

It said, “Strength is all you know.”

The wolf ran. I called out and ran after it, but suddenly lost sight of it. The forest spun. The trees twisted and spiraled, then fell, blocking my path. I saw the wolf standing calmly on the other side. It said, “Strength is wisdom,” and told me to climb.

I climbed over the fallen trees. My legs were scratched, my feet hurt, and I heard a snake moving beneath the wood. I kept climbing. When I reached the top, I found myself standing on cedar leaves. I rubbed them between my hands and breathed in their scent. The feeling was peaceful and grounding. The wolf waited patiently for me.

It said, “See.”

Together we walked until we reached the shore of Chippewa Flowage. I felt at home again, in the place where my ancestors lived. We sat side by side in silence, watching the waves move across the water.

I turned to the wolf and asked, “Who are you?”

It answered, “I am you.”

We sat a little longer. When I looked again, the wolf was gone. I reached out where it had been sitting, but there was only air. When I turned back toward the path, it was clear. The trees stood tall again, untouched. I watched the water of the Flowage until I gently came out of the meditation.

Ojibwe Symbolism and Meaning

In Ojibwe teachings, cedar is a sacred protector and cleanser. Entering the cedar and moving through its roots reflects ancestral grounding and protection, a return to the original strength that holds life together beneath the surface. Roots are memory, lineage, and survival carried quietly underground.

The wolf is a teacher of instinct, endurance, and loyalty. Wolves walk between independence and community. Meeting the wolf is meeting the part of myself that knows how to survive without fear, that understands strength not as force, but as persistence, awareness, and wisdom gained through hardship.

The fallen trees represent obstacles formed by fear and confusion. Being told to climb instead of retreat speaks to resilience. Pain, scratches, and fatigue are part of learning. Strength becomes wisdom when it is lived, not avoided.

The snake beneath the climb reflects ancient fear and transformation. A reminder that fear can exist beneath the path without stopping forward movement.

The cedar leaves and their scent bring calm and clarity, showing that even after struggle, grounding and peace are always present.

Water at the Chippewa Flowage represents home, memory, and continuity. Sitting in silence honors ancestral presence and listening without words.

What does it mean to me

This meditation showed me that the strength I carry is not something separate from me. It is inherited, learned, and lived. The wolf was not guiding me from outside myself. It was reminding me that my resilience, wisdom, and ability to endure already exist within me. When the path clears and the forest stands whole again, it is because I chose to climb, to see, and to trust who I already am.

Meditation

I entered a meditation that carried me far north, into an Arctic landscape seen from above. The land below was frozen solid, covered in snow and ice, silent and still. It was night. A full moon hung in the sky, its light reflecting sharply off the cold, dark water where ice had not fully closed it in. Everything felt ancient, untouched, and vast.

As I hovered there, a white hawk appeared near me, flying just above my line of sight. It circled slowly, deliberately. Moonlight spilled across its wings, turning them almost silver as they moved through the night air. I did not ask for a message. It just happened.

Then I heard a single word, clear and calm. “Seek.”

The hawk continued its circling for a moment longer before flying off into the darkness. After it disappeared, the silence returned, and with it came the final words.

“Seek, find.”

Ojibwe Symbolism

In my understanding through Ojibwe teachings, the frozen Arctic landscape represents a place of deep truth and preservation. Ice and snow are not emptiness. They are protection. What is frozen is not gone. It is being held until the right time. Standing above the land shows spirit sight, the ability to see beyond the surface and beyond personal emotion. This is a perspective given when I am ready to observe rather than interfere.

Night carries the energy of dreams, ancestors, and inner knowing. It is the time when spirit speaks without distraction. The full moon, Giizis, represents completion, reflection, and truth revealed by light that does not burn or force. It simply shows what already exists. The moon reflecting on water tells me that emotional truth can be seen clearly when the mind is still.

The white hawk is a sacred watcher. In Ojibwe symbolism, hawks are messengers of awareness and clarity, but they do not rush. They teach patience, focus, and discernment. The color white connects to spirit, honesty, and purification. The hawk circling me shows guidance without interference. It does not land. It does not speak directly. It teaches by presence and movement.

I entered this meditation while listening to Thich Nhat Hanh, as he invited the presence of mother and father into the body and the breath. I'll explain what this means in Ojibwe afterwards.

In my meditation, I found myself standing on the shore of Lake Superior. It was daytime, but the air was foggy, and the horizon was soft and partially hidden. Waves rolled steadily in front of me, and I watched the line where water met sky.

When I heard a gong, I heard the words spoken clearly: “Father, you are a part of me. I am a part of you. Let me cleanse.” I took off my clothes as an act of rebirth and walked into the cold water. I submerged my entire body and face beneath the surface. I could feel my father’s presence, but I could not see him. Then, from far away, I saw him standing on top of the water. He was young, dressed in white, his long hair moving in the wind. His green eyes reflected the sunlight as he looked toward the sun rather than toward me.

I told him, “Let us wash away this generational trauma.” I begged him to enter the water with me. He never did. Instead, he drifted farther away until the fog closed around him and he disappeared.

I swam back toward the shore. Then I heard the words again: “My mother, I am a part of you. You are a part of me. Let us cleanse.” I stayed on the shoreline as my mother emerged from the fog, walking across the water toward me. She was young and beautiful again. The wind lifted her hair, and as she came closer, she aged before my eyes. She removed her clothes and entered the water, swimming toward me. When she reached the shore, she took both of my hands and tried to pull me into the water with her. I could not stand or leave the shoreline. She released me and swam away.

I followed her and said again, “Let us cleanse. Let us wash away this generational trauma.” As I moved farther out, instead of swimming or floating, I began to sink. The water grew dark beneath me. I was not afraid, but I could not rise to the surface. Above me, I saw her swimming. She looked down at me but did not come back or try to save me. I tried to swim upward, but instead my body drifted slowly toward the surface on its own. When I reached the water above, she was gone.

I floated weightlessly, staring at the sun. In the distance, I could hear a storm. It was far away, and I was not afraid. I felt the wind shift, and light rain touched my face while the sun continued to shine. I called on my ancestors to come together as one. As Thich Nhat Hanh spoke of the living Christ and the living Buddha, I called on the "Great Spirit."

The storm passed. I continued drifting, and I felt warm sunlight spread across every part of my body. Then I saw a crane flying above me. My clan animal. A single white feather fell and landed gently on the surface of the water over my body. I reached out to take it, and then I noticed many more white feathers floating around me. The crane continued toward the horizon and disappeared. Throughout the meditation, I never fully left the shoreline. I only entered the water to a safe distance.

Ojibwe and English

Lake Superior (Gichigami)

In Ojibwe teachings, Gichigami is often understood as a great mother water. She holds memory, ancestry, and emotional truth. In English symbolism, a vast lake represents the unconscious and generational depth. Standing at her shore reflects readiness to engage with inherited pain while remaining grounded.

Fog (Aandeg)

In Ojibwe understanding, fog represents the spirit world and the space between knowing and not knowing. In English symbolism, fog suggests partial clarity and unresolved truth. The fog marked the limits of what could be seen or changed.

Cold Water (Nibi)

Water is life and purification in Ojibwe teachings. Cold water emphasizes seriousness and respect. In English symbolism, immersion reflects emotional vulnerability and willingness to face discomfort in order to heal.

Father Standing on the Water

In Ojibwe symbolism, remaining above the water suggests distance from emotional or spiritual labor. In English terms, this reflects a parent who is acknowledged but unavailable for healing work. His youth and white clothing reflect memory without repair.

Mother Entering the Water

Water connection reflects emotional closeness and inherited patterns. In Ojibwe teachings, this suggests deep relational ties. In English symbolism, her pull represents emotional entanglement. The sinking reflects the danger of carrying what is not meant to be carried.

Sinking and Drifting Upward

In Ojibwe worldview, surrender to spirit is sometimes the only path to survival. In English terms, drifting upward shows healing through release rather than force.

Storm with Sunlight

Storms represent disruption and trauma. Sunlight represents continuity and protection. Together, they show awareness of pain without being overtaken by it.

Crane and White Feathers (Ajijaak)

The crane in Ojibwe teachings is my clan symbol of leadership, voice, and responsibility across generations. White feathers represent truth, peace, and ancestral acknowledgment. Multiple feathers indicate communal support rather than solitary burden.

My Meaning...

This meditation showed me that I can acknowledge my parents without carrying their unresolved pain. My father could be seen and honored, but not brought into the water. My mother could enter the water, but following her too deeply was unsafe for me. I learned that healing does not come from rescuing or cleansing others, but from recognizing limits.

By calling on my ancestors and the Great Spirit, I shifted away from individual wounds and toward collective strength. The warmth of the sun and the crane’s feathers reminded me that I am supported. I stayed close to the shoreline because that is where balance lives for me right now. I can enter the water, but I do not have to drown in it to heal.

These are my words today.

Perseverance, life, and death.

Before this meditation, I offered my tobacco.

I walked down a forest path in the spring. I looked up and saw a bluebird, then a crow behind it on another branch. There was a squirrel on the ground beside the path. In an opening, I saw a large flat rock sitting on the shore of the Chippewa Flowage. I sat on it in the sunlight.

A crane stood in the water in front of me. It was white. I looked into its eyes and received the message, “Perseverance, death.” Then I heard it say, “Perseverance, life.” It echoed, “Life, death. Life, death.”

Afterward, it blinked its eyes and flew away. I watched it fly until it disappeared into the sky, then got up and walked back down the path I came.

*When I opened my eyes, a bluebird was sitting in a tree in front of me in real life.*

Crane Grandfathers in My Lineage

My Crane lineage reaches back to historical leadership among the Ojibwe, including Chief Mamongazeda, also recorded as Mamangazid or Mangosid, a recognized Ojibwe leader of the eighteenth century and a member of the Crane Clan. Through him and his descendants, the Crane teachings of balance, perseverance, and responsibility were carried forward across generations.

My ancestors would say that the crane appearing to me is not introducing a new path, but reaffirming an old one. The message of perseverance, life, and death reflects the same responsibilities carried by Crane leaders before me: to remain steady during transition, to endure loss without abandoning life, and to speak truth with care and restraint.

This is why the crane stood in water, the place between worlds. It mirrors the role my Crane grandfathers held, standing between conflict and peace, life and death, past and future, so the people could continue forward.

The Bluebird and My Aunt

The bluebird in this meditation represents my aunt, Karol Allred.

Ojibwemowin: Ozhaawashko-Bineshiinh

June 12, 1972 – March 30, 2024

In Ojibwe understanding, bluebirds carry gentle spirits, reassurance, and loving presence. My ancestors would say that the bluebird appearing first in the vision means she came before the heavier teachings, offering comfort before truth.

The fact that I offered tobacco before the meditation is an invitation. It is a sign of respect and a request for guidance. Because of that offering, the visitation was allowed to cross into the vision.

The crow behind her shows that she was not alone. She was accompanied by ancestors on the other side. She came safely, protected, and with permission.

Seeing the bluebird again after the meditation, sitting in a tree when I opened my eyes, confirms the visit. My ancestors would say this was not imagination. It was acknowledgment. Spirit crossed into the physical world to let me know she was truly there and truly heard. Miigwech

Ancestral Interpretation as a Whole

I believe My ancestors would interpret this meditation as a confirmation that I am being supported on both sides of the veil. My aunt came in the form of the bluebird to reassure my heart. The crane came to instruct my spirit.

Together, they tell me that perseverance is my path. To continue loving. To continue remembering. To remain grounded while life and death move around me.

They would say I am not meant to choose between grief and living. I am meant to carry both with steadiness and respect. This is Loon and Crane teaching together. Heart and responsibility. Memory and balance.

Great Grandfather Joseph Nickence "Little Goose" Lac Coutre Oreillis

I dreamt that I saw my great grandfather’s face in a picture, clear and familiar. Then the dream shifted and I was walking toward a small river. When I looked over, I saw him fishing in the water. His chair sat on the shore behind him. It felt like spring or summer. The air was warm and the sunlight filtered gently through the trees surrounding the riverbank.

I asked him if the water was good for swimming. He answered calmly and simply, no, there are too many rocks. I looked down at my feet and saw pebbles scattered everywhere along the riverbed. When I looked back into the water, I noticed large white stones forming a trail deeper into the river. They reminded me of moonstone, pale and luminous. I began stepping on them carefully, balancing one stone at a time.

As I moved, I realized I was walking away from him, toward the left side of the river, while he remained on the right. I stepped on three stones before I woke up. The water never rose above my knees.

Ojibwe and English Symbolism

In Ojibwe understanding, water is nibi. Nibi represents life, memory, spirit, and the space where teachings are carried. Seeing my ancestor near water shows guidance rather than warning. He is present as a teacher, not as a force pushing me.

Fishing represents patience, provision, and knowing how to take only what is needed. It reflects ancestral responsibility and balance with the natural world. His chair on the shore shows that he is settled between worlds, grounded and at peace, watching rather than intervening.

The rocks and pebbles are asabikeshiinh. They symbolize lived experiences, obstacles, and lessons already encountered. They are not meant to block the path but to remind me to be mindful of where I step.

The white stones forming a path are waabishkaa asabikeshiinh. White in Ojibwe symbolism is associated with clarity, truth, spirit, and the ancestors. Their placement shows that the path is intentional and supported. The moonstone appearance connects to giizis, the moon, which represents cycles, intuition, and inner knowing.

The left direction is often associated with the inward, intuitive, and spiritual path, while the right is linked to what is established and already lived. My great grandfather staying on the right bank shows his life is complete. Me moving left shows my responsibility to carry the teachings forward in my own way.

The number three represents stages of understanding rather than completion. Beginning, learning, and integration. The water staying below my knees shows I am not meant to be overwhelmed. I am being introduced, not tested.

My Summary

(My great grandmother, Bonita Nickence Denomie daughter of the Loonsfoot Chiefs of the Loon and Crane clans, Lac Coutre Oreillis)

Vision:

New Year 2026 After offering my tobacco, I entered meditation. I walked down a spring path and saw a woodpecker that led me forward. It guided me through a portal of vines. Beyond it stood an ancient tree, and there I met my second grandmother, Bonita. She appeared young. Her hair moved gently in the breeze, and she wore an Ojibwe dress decorated with flowers. She placed her hands on my head and healed me.

I asked her what my purpose was. She answered, Seek, Responsibility of the Earth. She then handed me a birch bark box. Inside were the skull and bones of a marten. She kissed my cheeks, and I felt her warmth. I hugged her and told her I loved her. She did not speak the words back, but she looked at me and nodded.

A breeze passed through us, and the roots of the ancient tree grew beneath our feet. She turned her face toward the sun, her hair lifting with the wind, and slowly she disappeared. I felt, without speaking, that I did not want to leave. I turned and followed the path back, with the woodpecker guiding me again. When I opened my eyes, I saw a white-tailed hawk flying across the horizon.

Symbols in Ojibwe and English:

Woodpecker

Ojibwe: Bineshiinyag wayaanag

English: Messenger, persistence, opening pathways, listening beneath the surface

Vine portal

Ojibwe: Inawemaaganag ji-bimaadiziwin

English: Connection between generations, passage between worlds

Ancient tree

Ojibwe: Mitig

English: Ancestral lineage, stability, long memory, life cycles

Second grandmother appearing young

Ojibwe: Nokomis inendamowin

English: Ancestral wisdom in its strongest and most whole form

Ojibwe floral dress

Ojibwe: Aki ode’iminan

English: Earth knowledge, women’s teachings, life cycles, balance

Healing by holding the head

Ojibwe: Minobimaadiziwin gagwewin

English: Restoration of balance, clarity of mind and spirit

Birch bark box

Ojibwe: Wiigwaasi-makak

English: Knowledge keeper, medicine container, protected teachings

Marten skull and bones

Ojibwe: Waabizheshi

English: Intelligence, adaptability, survival, ancestral knowledge that endures

Kiss and nod

Ojibwe: Zaagi’idiwin

English: Love, recognition, acceptance without words

Roots growing beneath

Ojibwe: Doodemag gagwewin

English: Deepening lineage, belonging, living connection to ancestors

Sun

Ojibwe: Giizis

English: Life force, truth, continuity, forward movement

White-tailed hawk

Ojibwe: Gekek

English: Watcher, confirmation, spiritual protection, clarity of message

Meaning of the Dream

This was an ancestral visitation and instruction. I was shown that my purpose is to seek knowledge throughout my life and to carry responsibility for the Earth, its history, and its future. The teachings I was given are not symbolic decorations but obligations. I am meant to protect memory, care for land and life, and move with awareness of those who came before me and those who will come after. The presence of the hawk in waking life confirms that this message continues beyond the meditation and will guide me as I walk forward.

Miigwech.

My 3rd great Uncle Louis II

Son of:

My 3rd great Grand Father

Louis Vincent Corbine “Kijebines King Bird”

My Vision:

After offering tobacco today, I was visited by a Yellow-rumped Warbler sitting quietly in a tree. In Ojibwe understanding, small songbirds often arrive as acknowledgment. They appear when an offering has been accepted and when attention is being gently called inward. The warbler was not loud or demand notice. Its presence signaled awareness, permission, and a soft opening of the doorway between worlds. 🪶

I entered meditation my through ancient trees that arched together, forming a tunnel. A warm yellow light poured through the opening ahead. When I looked up, the sky was blue and clear, and the branches slowly disappeared. As I stepped through, the world shifted. Stars rose and night arrived without fear.

Ahead of me burned a fire. Its flames were steady, its embers alive and breathing. From the firelight appeared my ancestor, Louis II, son of my Uncle Louis Vincent Corbine II, known as the son of my Grandfather Kijebines, Kingbird. He tended the fire with a fan of feathers, not feeding the flames too strongly, only keeping the embers alive. He wore a pelt medicine outfit, a single feather on his head, and a medicine bag across his shoulder. Behind him stood a wigwam, grounded and quiet.

He approached me and placed cedar into my right hand. He spoke one word in Ojibwe. Nibaa. When I asked if there was anything he needed to tell me, he repeated the instruction clearly. Nibaa. Bizindaw. Silence. Listen. I thanked him and embraced him before walking back through the trees.

Ojibwe term Kijebines. English meaning Kingbird. Kingbird medicine represents rightful authority, protection, and discernment. The Kingbird does not act from impulse. It watches, waits, and defends only when necessary. This reflects ancestral guardianship and the responsibility of holding knowledge without misusing it.

Ojibwe term Bizindaw. English meaning "Listen" This is not casual hearing. It is spiritual listening that requires patience, humility, and presence. It is an instruction to receive rather than speak.

Ojibwe term Nibaa. English meaning "Be still" or "quiet." This refers to intentional silence. It is a discipline of the spirit that allows truth to rise on its own.

Ojibwe term Giizhik. English meaning "Cedar." Cedar is medicine for protection, grounding, and truth. Placed in the right hand, it signifies responsibility and readiness to carry teachings forward.

Ojibwe term Mashkode-bizhiki-ishkode. English meaning "Sacred fire." The fire represents ancestral continuity and living memory. The embers symbolize knowledge that must be tended carefully, not rushed or consumed.

Ojibwe term Wiigiwaam. English meaning Wigwam. The wigwam represents lineage, home, and shelter for teachings. It signifies tradition held quietly rather than displayed.

Meaning

The meaning of the experience is clear and complete. The Yellow-rumped Warbler confirmed that the offering was received and that awareness was present. The passage from day into night marked the crossing from ordinary awareness into ancestral time. The Kingbird ancestor came not to speak at length, but to instruct restraint. Silence is the doorway. Listening is the path. Wisdom arrives when ego steps aside. This was not a request for action, but a reminder of how to receive guidance correctly.

I was not given answers... because I am being taught about how answers come.

Miigwech.

I was walking down a snowy path. I saw a white cardinal sitting in a tree above me and a white squirrel eating quietly in the snow beneath it. Everything felt still and observant, as if I was being watched gently rather than tested.

At the end of the woods, there was a flat rock. I noticed the Chippewa Flowage was frozen over. I sat down on the rock and watched as ice and water shifted and broke slightly where the current pressed against the stone beneath me. The movement was subtle but constant.

I looked up and saw land across an inlet of water. On the other side sat a grizzly bear in the snow. It was calm and unmoving. I asked for a message. The meaning came clearly: “Prideful suffering.” Then it reversed itself into “Suffering from pride.” Around the bear’s neck was a piece of slate worn like a necklace.

After delivering the message, the bear blinked softly and returned to the woods. I stood, walked out of the forest, and opened my eyes.

Symbols in the Vision

(Ojibwemowin → English meaning)

Biboon (Winter)

Winter represents truth revealed through stillness. It strips things down to what remains when distraction is gone.

Waabishkaa-bineshiinh (White cardinal)

White reflects clarity, purity of message, and spiritual attention. The cardinal signifies guidance delivered quietly.

Waabishkaa-ajidamoo (White squirrel)

The squirrel represents preparation and instinctive balance. Its whiteness reflects adaptation and survival through awareness.

Asiniig (Rock)

The rock represents grounding and endurance. Sitting on it shows steadiness while forces move around and beneath.

Nibi (Water)

Water holds emotion and truth. Ice breaking against current shows tension between resistance and movement.

Makwa (Bear)

The bear represents strength, introspection, and honest truth. When the bear speaks, the message is meant to be faced, not softened.

Makade-asiniig (Slate)

Slate represents weight, accountability, and unfiltered truth. Worn as a necklace, it shows responsibility carried close to the heart.

Meaning of the Vision

This vision was about self-reflection without judgment.

The frozen water showed emotional stillness, while the current beneath reminded me that movement never truly stops. Sitting on the rock placed me between resistance and flow. The white animals appeared as witnesses, not teachers, signaling that awareness was already present.

The bear’s message was direct. Suffering does not come from hardship alone. It comes from pride resisting change, humility, or truth. The reversal of the phrase showed that the pain follows the posture, not the circumstance.

The slate necklace revealed that this understanding carries weight. It is not meant to be discarded or ignored. The bear leaving after delivering the message showed completion, not abandonment.

This vision teaches that strength without humility becomes isolation. Endurance without reflection becomes suffering. Relief comes not from control, but from releasing pride and allowing truth to move.

Miigwech.