The Soup Pot, The Relative and Aquilla

A couple weeks ago I threw a soup pot across the kitchen. It had been sitting in the sink too long, crusted and gross, and in my overwhelm I hurled it across the room.

Then I texted my therapist and told her that I was doing good and didn't need to attend my appointment that day. I’m not proud of that moment, but I am grateful for what it told me: check yourself.

So I did. I gathered my things and went to the woods—because that’s where I go when the walls feel too close and the noise in my own head gets too loud. "There is healing in the woods, my girl", I hear her voice, Niimama.

But this time, I also picked up the phone. I called a relative—someone I haven’t known very long, but who I felt might be the right person to call. She is an elder, and though our relationship is still new, I already trust her for spiritual guidance. I told myself: if she answers and has time, that’s meant to be. If not, I’ll go to Plan B.

She answered. She had time. And so I cried. I poured it all out. And she held space with me.

Not by coincidence, she said that she would be in my area that weekend for a Big Drum Ceremony. Now, I would go with her. She gave me something I didn’t even know I needed: direction, focus, something to look forward to. Most of all, she offered me the chance to step into healing alongside her, in a way I trusted, in a way that felt safe. Like family.

The Ceremony

At the ceremony, I learned more about what the Big Drum was, the songs, and the significance of the healing I was requesting. I had been told to bring a dish—wild rice, maple syrup, blueberries—in a wooden bowl, along with a bottle of tea and tobacco. Each offering had meaning, each was part of the larger prayer.

Then I was told to find an Ojibwe speaker, offer them tobacco, and ask them to pray for me and my need in our Native language.

That’s when my heart began to race. I didn’t know anyone to ask. I froze. Tears welled up in my eyes. I wanted to run. In that moment, I felt how deeply I needed the healing being offered and yet how unworthy a part of me felt to receive it.

But I stayed. I waited through it. I shared what I needed to share.

And when the food was eaten, I watched as everyone took in the dish I had prepared.

I realized that my prayers for healing—specific to me and to my family—were being digested by those present, carried in their bodies, and spread throughout the entirety of my ancestry. My family members who were there stood as representatives, but the prayers also reached those unseen, the ancestors who had long been waiting for me to step into this moment.

I thought then of communion, the ritual I grew up with in the Lutheran Church—bread and wine as body and blood, taken in as a way to connect with the divine. But this communion was different. This was something I had brought. This was my prayer, my need, woven into wild rice, blueberries, and maple syrup, taken in by people who regarded me as equal to everyone else there.

The sense of community was overwhelming.

When I left, I was told that the healing I may have experienced—or even helped unlock—might be something beyond my recognition. To be honest, I left doubtful. And there was shame in my doubt.

The Days That Followed

In the days after, I made decisions to hold firm to my boundaries, my beliefs about myself, and my value—without reservation. It was not easy. It is never easy to hold firm to authenticity when it feels questioned or threatening to others.

I was going to write about it, and I didn’t. I was going to do a lot of things, and I didn’t.

But then, on the way to work today, Creator gifted me something I still can’t quite comprehend.

It was me. It was clear. I had ignored the small signs, waiting for more proof. I had been given that proof now and it was heavy. And it was beautiful.

But yet I was not the only one who was deserving. I knew who needed to be there as clear as I knew my own name. In that moment, amidst my confusion, I still found that I knew what to do. After being told the responsibility I was being faced with, and after really feeling the weight of the responsibility, I let go. And healing has already begun.

Over and over. Like I know is true.

I will trust that still, small voice.

Healing happened today that I am still in awe of.

Lives were changed today. Questions were answered. That may sound lofty, but it is the truth. And I will continue to have faith that I am on the right path, because every sign and every message has endorsed this. After all, that’s what faith is, isn’t it?

I was gifted one of the most sacred gifts. One that I am not comfortable sharing the specifics of now, but one that has already touched many lives. I will be responsible with this gift.

I will honor and respect it.

I will listen to it.

I will learn from it.

And I will trust my elders, my relatives and my ancestors with the knowledge of what to do next.

I look forward to the next chapter.

Till then…

Sending good vibes...

Naazh

Reflection Prompt

Think of a time when you stood at the edge of something sacred or meaningful—when doubt or fear told you that you didn’t belong.

• What helped you stay?
  

• What offering, however small, did you bring?

• 
  

• Can you trust that healing might be happening even if you can’t yet recognize it?