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Reflections from Midegah: The Leaf, the Sun, the Feather and the Heart of the Mother
The Relationship That Sustains
There is a strong bond that runs through families in every place I have traveled. It does not belong to any single system or institution. It belongs to the living relationship itself.
Consider the tree. From the roots through the trunk and out along every branch, the whole of the tree reaches toward the leaves. Everything it has is given so that the leaf may keep its relationship with the sun. That relationship is the closest the tree will ever come to the light.
The leaf holds water—one hydrogen and two oxygens—countless times over in small chambers across its surface. The width of those openings matches the dimension of a photon that has crossed the distance from the sun, a 93 million mile relationship. Light arrives. The water is parted. Hydrogen remains. Oxygen is released. We breathe what the leaf has offered. The prayer of the tree and the prayer of the body meet in the same air.
You would not remove the leaf and set it down among the roots. The tree would die. You would not cut the branch and place it at the base. The tree would die. Everything in the living form is ordered toward service of that relationship with the light. Congregation and service are not the same thing. One gathers. The other gives what is required so that life can continue.
The First Memory
The drum is the symbol of remembrance. It carries the sound of the mother’s heartbeat—the first memory shared by every person who has come into this world. Before songs or teachings begin, the drum calls people together. It is not a call to something foreign. It is a call back to the first relationship we knew: the feeling and sound of the one who carried us.
That heartbeat did not begin with us. It was given when the mother and the father were formed as reflections of the Creator. Strength was placed in the father so that he might provide for and protect the strength and endurance of the mother. Her strength and endurance are the generations yet unborn. Within her, the elements she receives from the earth are shaped into a body that can hold spirit and light. Birth is the crossing from that sacred water into the walk of this earth. The heart we carry still remembers the rhythm that first held us.
A mother loves the child who has done great harm with the same love she gave when the child was small and without offense. That is not weakness. It is the shape of a love that does not calculate worth before it gives. We are asked to remember that measure when we decide how we will treat one another.
Your heart was formed from your mother’s heart, which was the inheritance of the sacred mother from the lineal first mother, whose heart was a reflection of the Creator’s heart. Remember to have Heart.
Balance and the Direction of Effort
The Eagle feather teaches the same order. The thin edge shows the direction of flight. The thicker edge supplies the lift or descent. The shaft holds them together in balance. The thin edge belongs to the mother. The thicker edge belongs to the father.
The effort of both is directed so that the Great Eagle may be held high enough to meet the light. The center of the feather is the place of balance. The Seven Grandfather Teachings live in that center: wisdom, respect, humility, honesty, truth, courage, and love. They remind us that our own walk is with the Creator, and that the most necessary step in that walk is to let another person walk their own.
If you are asked for your view, offer it. If you are not asked, be encouraging. Be supportive. The Great Peacemaker would have us focused on the family and on the heart of the mother rather than on the need to correct every path we do not fully understand.
The balance you carry was formed in the order given to the mother and the father, which was the inheritance of the first pairing whose strength and direction were a reflection of the Creator’s own. The thin edge and the thick edge meet in the shaft so that the whole may rise. Remember to keep the balance.
Learning to Speak Again
Poems helped me learn to speak after I could not. I had severed my tongue at the age of 5. The words had to be shaped carefully so that they could be felt by another person. Elders have always asked that teachings be shared in a way the heart can receive, not only the mind. When we study what our ancestors carried, we find they did the same. We write because the teaching asks to be given form.
We do not need perfect people. We need people willing to turn, and people willing to allow another the room to turn. Forgiveness is not ours to withhold once it has been asked. The mother does not withhold it. We are asked to remember her measure.
The words you carry were formed in the care given so they could be felt, which was the inheritance of those who shaped speech so the heart could receive it, whose own speech was a reflection of the Creator’s. We speak so that another may turn.
Remember to give the words room.
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