This morning I woke up thinking about how wonderfully our bodies have been created.
We eat a meal, and our bodies begin the work of breaking it down, drawing nourishment from it, and using that nourishment for energy, growth, and repair. What cannot be used passes through. So much happens within us without us having to direct it. It made me pause in gratitude.
Kitchi Manitou, even within my own body, there are teachings waiting for me to notice.
Then I thought about the trees.
For a season, their leaves receive sunlight and help sustain the tree. As autumn comes, many trees draw nutrients back from those leaves before releasing them. The leaves fall to the ground, where they slowly become part of the soil, nourishing the life around them.
Looking at this photograph, I see that bright red leaf resting among the yellow leaves and green grass. My eye is drawn to its beauty. It reminds me that something can reach the end of one purpose and still have something to offer.
Even what we release can nourish what comes next.
That brings a question to my own heart: what am I receiving, and what am I continuing to carry?
The words I listen to, the relationships I give my time to, and the thoughts I return to all affect how I walk through my day. Some leave me feeling grounded and encouraged. Others leave me unsettled, exhausted, or questioning my worth.
I am learning to pay attention to that difference.
I am also learning that I can keep a teaching without carrying every burden attached to it. An experience may have helped me recognize the importance of boundaries. I can carry that understanding into my next season. I can remember what happened, honour what it cost me, and seek support for the hurt that still needs care.
Some things take time to release. Grief, especially, has its own seasons. Love and memory may stay with us while the way we carry sorrow slowly changes. We need tenderness with ourselves through that process.
The tree gives me a picture to sit with. It releases its leaves while remaining rooted. For a season, its branches stand bare. There is room for rest before new growth appears.
Perhaps I can allow myself that room too.
I do not always need to fill the space left behind. Sometimes I need quiet enough to recognize what I am ready to receive next.
When I look at the fallen leaves, I see a reminder of the care woven through creation. Nourishment passes from leaf to tree, from leaf to soil, and into new life.
Through my Anishinaabe way of seeing, I find a teaching in that relationship: my life also needs receiving, gratitude, rest, and release. I can be grateful for what helped me grow and still allow it to fall away.
Kitchi Manitou, Miigwetch for the teachings within my body and upon the land. Help me recognize what nourishes my life. Give me patience with what still needs healing, and courage to release what I am ready to set down. Keep me rooted in Your love as I make room for the season ahead.
— Waubshki Migisi
from the heart of Loon + Sturgeon 🪶
