Tapwe, nîtisânak — truly, my relatives,
This story is not just about a day. It is about iskwêwak, the women, the life-givers — those who carry the songs of creation in their bones and whisper the old stories into the ears of tomorrow.
Long ago, before there were towns or roads, before the land was divided by lines and names not our own, there was a young girl named Pîsimwê. Her name meant “She who shines like the sun,” and from the moment she could walk, she followed her nôhkom, her grandmother, through the forest, learning to speak with the plants and listen to the heartbeat of the land.
Her nôhkom would say, “Every woman carries a thread to the sky and a root to the Earth. We are the bridge between worlds, my girl. That is what it means to be a mother.”
Pîsimwê watched her mother, too — watched how she sang to the berries before picking them, how she prayed before setting her snares, how she knew when a storm was coming just by the way the birds flew. Her mother did not speak often, but when she did, her words were full of warmth and wisdom, like bannock fresh from the fire.
Years passed. Pîsimwê grew into a woman and, one spring, gave birth to a daughter of her own. She named her Wâsêyas, “the light that breaks through the clouds.” And it was then — with a baby at her breast and her mother’s songs on her lips — that Pîsimwê truly understood.
Motherhood was not just giving life. It was the remembering.
The carrying of names.
The teaching of footsteps.
The weaving of past into future.
On a morning just like today, when the geese flew low and the frogs began to sing again, her family gathered around a fire to honour the women — not with store-bought things or loud parades, but with stories, laughter, and offerings of tobacco to the land.
Her daughter placed wildflowers in her hand and said, “Nimama, you are the river that carried me here.”
And Pîsimwê cried — not because she was sad, but because she felt the sacred circle, unbroken.
So today, on this day the world calls Mother’s Day, we remember in our own way:
We honour the water carriers, the fire tenders, the knowledge keepers.
We remember the aunties who fed us, the grandmothers who prayed for us, the sisters who lifted us.
We give thanks to the ones who carried us on their backs and in their dreams.
Because in our ways, motherhood is not bound by blood or time.
It is the Earth herself — always giving, always holding, always loving.
And when we walk gently, speak kindly, and give back more than we take, we are living the teachings of our mothers.
Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network
