Long ago, before the names of months were written down, the people watched the sky to tell time. They didn’t need calendars—just the language of the stars, the shape of the moon, and the way the sun moved across the sky.
One morning, an old man named Mînamêw woke before the birds. The air was thick with dew, and the silence was so deep, it felt like even the trees were holding their breath.
He stepped out of his lodge and looked east. The sky was already painted with that golden hush—the one that comes only once a year.
He called out to his grandchildren, “Come now. Hurry. The sun is going to stand still today.”
The little ones laughed. “Nôhkom said the sun always moves!”
But Mînamêw only smiled. “Today, it slows down. Not to rest, but to remind us.”
So they walked—Mînamêw with his cane carved from lightning-struck birch, the children with bare feet skipping over cool moss and wet stone.
They climbed a hill the old man had climbed many times before. But this time, when they reached the top, he didn’t speak. He just waited.
And as the sun crested the horizon, something strange happened.
It didn’t rush up like usual. It rose slowly—stretching its arms across the sky, lighting every tree, every insect wing, every drop of river mist with a glow that felt ancient.
The children grew quiet. Even the wind sat down beside them.
After a while, one of them whispered, “Is the sun really standing still?”
Mînamêw nodded. “Just for a moment. Long enough for the earth to catch her breath. Long enough for us to remember.”
“Remember what?”
He looked at them with eyes full of sunrise. “That we belong to something much older than worry. Much bigger than fear. That even light must pause to listen.”
And in that stillness, they heard it.
The flutter of wings.
The far-off echo of a loon.
The heartbeat of the land, steady and true.
That night, they returned home different. Not because the sun had changed—but because they had.
Ever since then, when the summer solstice returns, the people say the sun is watching.
Watching who still remembers.
Watching who still listens.
Watching who still carries the fire.
—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network
