Long before roads were carved into the earth and fences told the rivers where to go, there was a young girl named Pîsimwê. She lived at the edge of the muskeg where the tamarack trees leaned in to whisper to the wind. Her nôhkom, her grandmother, was a known healer — an mîkiwâhp iskwêw, a woman of the healing lodge. People came from all around to seek her help when their spirits were low or their bodies were hurting.
Pîsimwê followed her nôhkom like a little shadow, barefoot on moss, careful not to disturb the medicines that grew wild and free. “See this one?” her nôhkom said, kneeling beside a patch of low yellow flowers. “That’s wîhkês. It cleanses your blood and chases away the sickness that hides inside. But don’t take it until it’s ready. Medicines have their own timing — just like people.”
Each plant had a name. Each root had a song. The lodge where her grandmother worked was filled with the scent of sweetgrass, spruce gum, and dried berries. When people entered, they left their worries at the door. Inside, there was ceremony, laughter, steam from the rocks, and gentle hands guided by old prayers.
But one day, a sickness came to the village — not just of the body, but of the heart. The people forgot to listen to the land. They began to believe the old ways were too slow, too strange. Men in suits came with bottles and pills, promising easier cures. The lodge grew quiet. The medicine bundles sat unopened.
Pîsimwê was older now, and her nôhkom was growing weak. One night, as the stars sang through the trees, her grandmother called her close.
“Pîsimwê,” she whispered, “you must remember the old paths. When they forget, you must remind them.”
And so, when her nôhkom passed into the spirit world, Pîsimwê began again. She walked deep into the forest. She listened. She learned. She sang the songs her grandmother taught her — to the willow for pain, to the cedar for protection, to the bear root for strength.
Slowly, the people returned. One by one, they came to her lodge — not because she had all the answers, but because she still carried the stories. She reminded them that healing is not always fast, but it is deep. That the medicines are not just plants, but teachings. And that the land, when respected, always gives back what we need.
Even now, when you smell sweetgrass on the wind, or see a young person gathering medicines with care, you’ll know: the lodge still stands — not just in one place, but in every heart that remembers.
Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network
