Come, nîtisânak, sit close and listen now. The fire is warm, and the stories are ready to be told. These are not just words—these are the echoes of our ancestors, and today I will give you one that was passed to me when my own heart was heavy.

Once, long ago—but also yesterday and maybe even tomorrow—there was a young woman from our nation. Her name was Kîsikâw Iskwêw, “Sky Woman,” for she was born under the dancing northern lights, and the people said she carried their spirit in her eyes.

Sky Woman had a heart that was always open—like the mouth of the Nelson River in spring, bursting with life. She gave, and gave, and gave. She offered her time, her thoughts, her laughter, and even her pain, to those who stood near her fire. But not all who came brought wood. Some came only to take her warmth, never to help the fire grow.

She spent many winters tending other people’s hearths, hoping they would one day help her build her own. But seasons passed, and she grew tired. Her laughter faded, her eyes lost their light, and still she asked herself: Why do I feel so empty when I give so much?

One night, her kokum came to her in a dream. Her kokum’s voice was gentle like the wind through spruce needles.

“Kîsikâw Iskwêw,” she said, “you are a flame, not a forest. You were not meant to burn yourself down so others can see.”

Sky Woman awoke crying. But this time, it was not sorrow. It was truth rising up from her spirit.

She began to walk differently after that. She stopped knocking on closed lodges. She stopped trying to heal those who only pointed at their wounds and never reached for medicine. She stopped pouring her spirit into empty cups.

And you know what happened, nîtisân? Her fire began to burn brighter. Slowly, people came—different ones this time. Not those who demanded, but those who shared. Not those who drained her spirit, but those who danced with it. They brought stories. They brought wood for her fire. And together, they made warmth that lasted through many winters.

This is what I want to tell you, my relative: not everyone is meant to sit by your fire. Some will come only to warm their hands, and leave you cold. Let them go. Let them walk their own path.

You are not the keeper of every broken spirit.

Protect your energy, like we protect our medicines. Not out of selfishness—but out of respect. Because your spirit, your laughter, your gifts—they are sacred.

And remember this, my grandchild: the Creator never asked you to shrink to be loved. He made you whole. Stay whole.

Now, stoke your fire, and open your arms to those who bring love, honesty, and joy. The ones who walk beside you, not behind you or ahead.

And one day, you’ll look around, and the circle around your fire will be full—but not crowded. Just right. Just enough.

That, nîtisânak, is how we remember who we are.

Do you feel that warmth? It’s your fire coming back to life.

John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network