Standing Bear Network

Standing Bear Network ᑲᓂᐸᐏᐟ ᒪᐢᑿ
SBN is an all indigenous media initiative, designed to educate and empower grassroots and traditional communities.

The world is being born again in this moment:light rising from the belly of the earth,water stirring,birds remembering t...
11/06/2025

The world is being born again in this moment:
light rising from the belly of the earth,
water stirring,
birds remembering their songs.

Before the noise begins, listen.
The ancestors speak softly in the rustle of the leaves,
in the hush between heartbeats.

Say to yourself:

“I am part of this breathing world.
I rise with the sun.
I walk with purpose and kindness.”

Carry that knowing like a small flame in your chest.
Let it guide your steps,
let it soften your thoughts,
and let it remind you —
miyo-pimâtisiwin — the good life begins in gratitude.

— Kanipawit Maskwa






They say even those who walked in power must one day return to the same earth that holds us all.Yesterday , the world ma...
11/04/2025

They say even those who walked in power must one day return to the same earth that holds us all.
Yesterday , the world marked the passing of former U.S. Vice President Dick Cheney — a man whose decisions shaped wars, policies, and generations.
For some, he was a symbol of security and resolve;
for others, a name whispered in the long shadow of conflict.

As nîhithowak, as Pimicikamak people, we are taught that every being travels two roads —
one of deeds and one of spirit.
When a life ends, we do not celebrate nor condemn;
we witness, we learn, we remember.

Cheney’s path was carved through the heart of empire —
through oil fields, battlefields, and corridors of immense power.
The world that rose from those choices is still with us:
the surveillance age, the wars that reshaped nations,
and the rivers of consequence that still run red and restless.

But in our way, even power must one day bow to the Great Mystery.
In death, the spirit stands before the fire of truth —
not as a title, not as a nation, but as a soul seeking balance.

We send prayers not only for him, but for all touched by the storms of his era:
the soldiers who walked the desert sands,
the families who lost their homes,
the nations that still rebuild from ashes.

Let us speak his name, not to praise or curse,
but to remember that every choice ripples through generations.
Let this be a teaching —
that power without humility becomes its own war,
and that healing, though slow, must follow every ending.

êkosi.
We walk on.

— Kanipawit Maskwa






November is called Native American Heritage Month, but for us, every moon is heritage. Still, êkwa, we use this window t...
11/03/2025

November is called Native American Heritage Month, but for us, every moon is heritage. Still, êkwa, we use this window to lift the lodge poles of our stories so others can find their way in.

In our way of seeing, askîy (the land) is not backdrop — it is nîsta, our own body. Nîpiy is blood, sîpiy is breath. When I speak of “heritage,” I don’t mean museum glass. I mean footprints in muskeg, treaty words that still have a heartbeat, children laughing in a language that almost went quiet but did not. Miyo-wîcêhtowin — good relations — that’s our governance. Miyo-pimâtisiwin — living in balance — that’s our policy.

This month, let’s remember: stories are medicine. They travel like roots under the snow, feeding what we cannot see. If you sit by the fire and tell one to your kôhkom or your little ones, you are doing nation work. If you learn one Cree word a day — êkwa, just one — you are repairing a bridge the river tried to take.

To those who walk with us: come close. Listen more than you speak. Buy from Indigenous makers. Show up when the drum calls. Ask, “How can I help?” then help in the way the community asks, not the way your ego prefers. Kisteyihtamowin — respect — is a verb.

To our own people: take care of your heart. Ceremony can be a cup of tea with an Elder. Education, kiskinohamâkewin, can be reading a children’s book about our medicines to a classroom. Wellness is cultural — pimâcihowin — the steady work of making a life from what the land and our relatives offer in love.

When I look ahead, I feel the Eighth Fire warming. Not a fire of conquest, but of compassion. We light it one small act at a time: a story told, a river defended, a promise kept.

Tânisi êkwa? Let’s walk gently, speak truly, and make room for each other at the circle.

— Kanipawit Maskwa (Standing Bear)

Ayâwa kîsikâw — Creator,as the sun folds itself into the arms of the western sky,I offer my breath back to You.Thank You...
11/02/2025

Ayâwa kîsikâw — Creator,
as the sun folds itself into the arms of the western sky,
I offer my breath back to You.

Thank You for this day —
for the laughter that carried medicine,
for the quiet that taught patience,
for the small kindnesses that rippled unseen.

Let my heart rest easy now,
like the lake beneath the stars —
still, reflecting all that is, without grasping.

If I have spoken in anger, forgive me.
If I have walked in forgetfulness, awaken me.
If I have turned away from someone in need,
turn me gently back toward them.

Watch over the ones who travel tonight —
those on the roads, those without homes,
those whose spirits are heavy with remembering.

Let the moon be their companion,
the wind their blanket,
the stars their prayers.

When morning comes,
may I rise again in gratitude,
ready to walk softly upon askîy,
the living land that holds us all.

êkosi.

—Kanipawit Maskwa






Tonight the veil feels thin.We light a little fire, remember our nokomak and mishomak, and walk gently on askîy, the liv...
11/01/2025

Tonight the veil feels thin.
We light a little fire, remember our nokomak and mishomak, and walk gently on askîy, the living land. Some call it Halloween; some call it the old doorway when worlds touch. Either way, we choose miyo-wîcêhtowin—good relations—with those we meet, seen and unseen. Leave a kind word on the wind, a little food for the travelers, and carry your light home safe. êkosi—may we walk in a good way.

—Kanipawit Maskwa

There is a quiet power in stories.They live in the spaces between words — in the breath before the telling, in the silen...
10/30/2025

There is a quiet power in stories.
They live in the spaces between words — in the breath before the telling, in the silence that follows.
They do not belong to one nation or one people, but to the pulse of creation itself.

When I sit beside the fire and speak the old tales, I feel them moving — like roots reaching beneath the soil, connecting to something older than any law written by human hands.
These stories are not history in the way the world defines it.
They are memory — the living kind.
Memory carried by wind, by nîpiy (water), by the steady heartbeat of the drum.

Every people has their sacred stories.
The Celts told of the thin places where worlds meet.
The Greeks spoke of the light stolen from the gods.
The Yoruba sang of Orisha and the dance of creation.
The Cree and Anishinaabe told of Wesakechak and Nanaboozhoo, the shapeshifters who walked with the animals and learned the laws of balance — miyo-wîcêhtowin, good relations with all that lives.

Across the world, the same breath moves through them all — a reminder that we are not separate from the sacred, but expressions of it.
The stories keep us tethered to that knowing.

They remind us that wisdom is not born from dominance, but from relationship.
That creation is not a possession, but a kinship.
That healing does not come from power, but from compassion — kîsêwâtisiwin.

I have come to believe that stories are our first and greatest teachers.
They hold the medicine for the sickness of forgetting.
They are how we remember who we are when the world around us has forgotten how to listen.

The old ones spoke of a time when the fires of understanding would dim — when humanity would lose its way in the darkness of greed and separation.
That time, they said, would be followed by another: the lighting of the Eighth Fire — nêwo pimâtisiwin, the rebirth of balance.
A time when the people would remember again.

But the Eighth Fire will not be lit by warriors in armor or leaders with flags.
It will be lit by storytellers, healers, children, and dreamers.
By those who choose compassion over conquest, who build bridges instead of walls.
By those who understand that changing the world begins by changing how we see it — and that begins with a story.

One story at a time, we are reweaving the fabric of the world.
Each word a thread of light.
Each telling a small fire offered back to the Great Mystery — Kihci-Manitow.

That is how the Eighth Fire will rise — not through domination, but through remembrance.
Through the courage to speak softly in a world that has forgotten how to listen.
Through the knowing that every story, when told with love, is a prayer for the world to begin again.

— from The Journey of Standing Bear — A Life Between Fires
by Kanipawit Maskwa









“You feel it too, eh, Waffles?” I say, rubbing the soft fur between his ears. “That change in the air — the way the worl...
10/29/2025

“You feel it too, eh, Waffles?” I say, rubbing the soft fur between his ears. “That change in the air — the way the world goes quiet just before the frost. The old ones used to say the veil grows thin this time of year. The world’s touch.”

Waffles tilts his head, those wise eyes watching me like he already knows.

“Not to scare us,” I tell him, “but to remind us that the spirit world and this one were never truly apart. The ancestors come close — you can almost hear them in the wind, almost smell the smoke of their fires when the leaves start to fall.”

He gives a small huff, maybe at a spirit only dogs can see. I smile.

“In the old Celtic lands,” I continue, “they called this night Samhain — a time to light fires and guide the spirits home. People left food for those who walked unseen. You know, that’s not so different from our ways — remembering the ancestors, feeding the spirits through song and prayer. Kîhtwâm tipâcimôwak — they still tell their stories again.”

The wind picks up, and Waffles lifts his nose, sniffing at the scent of cold earth.

“Yes,” I whisper, “askîy ê-pimâtisiwin, the living land is teaching us again — about endings and beginnings. The light half, the dark half — both sacred. That’s what balance means, my boy — miyo-pimâtisiwin, the good way of life.”

He presses closer, his warmth against my leg, tail sweeping the fallen leaves.

“When the children come to the door, all dressed up and laughing,” I say, “I’ll think of them as little echoes of the old ceremonies — pimwêwêhahk, little wanderers between worlds. Facing the unknown with joy instead of fear.”

Waffles lets out a low, contented sound, and I chuckle.

“In truth,” I say softly, “this season isn’t just about ghosts or candy. It’s about remembering — that we walk among ancestors, that we too are becoming ancestors, and that the light we carry keeps them near.”

The moon rises, round and golden through the trees. Waffles sighs and rests his head on my knee.
“Êkosi, nôhcîn,” I whisper. “We remember.” 🌕🔥🍂

—Kanipawit Maskwa
ᑲᓂᐸᐏᐟ ᒪᐢᑿ

In these hours when the winds howl over Jamaica and the sea rises against the land, we are reminded how small human hand...
10/28/2025

In these hours when the winds howl over Jamaica and the sea rises against the land, we are reminded how small human hands are before the living power of creation. They name her Hurricane Melissa — but to our way of seeing, she is more than a name or a category. She is the breath of the Great Mystery moving through imbalance, the spirit of water and wind reclaiming its rhythm.

When the roofs are torn, when the lights go dark, when a mother prays over her children in a small room as the house shakes — that is when we remember: our strength is not in walls or wires, but in our hearts, in our prayers, in how we lift one another.

We send our thoughts, our songs, to the people of Jamaica, Haiti, and the Dominican Republic — those now walking through loss and fear. Let the world not turn away. Let our compassion move faster than the wind itself.

These storms — they are not just weather. They are mirrors. They ask us: how do we live upon this earth? How do we care for her, and for one another?
And when the sky clears, as it always will, may we rebuild not just what was broken, but what was missing — balance, respect, remembrance.

—Kanipawit Maskwa

Creation is not something long ago. It is now — ohci, in this very breath, in every shimmering wave of light, in each he...
10/28/2025

Creation is not something long ago. It is now — ohci, in this very breath, in every shimmering wave of light, in each heartbeat inside the chest of the world. The Great Mystery, Kihci-Manitow, does not only make creation — it is creation. Every asinîy, every pêyak pihêsiw feather, every nîpiy drop is a word in that sacred language of becoming.

When we walk upon askîy, we do not walk on her, but within her — within the dreaming of the Great Spirit who dreamed itself into sîpiy, into mitos, into nîhithow.

The Mystery is close, kîsikohk, like the hidden fire in the stone — waiting to be struck into light. It moves through all things as the unseen breath animating the seen. That is why the old ones say: pimâtisiwin — life — is spirit in motion. The song of the bird, the roar of thunder, the laughter of children — all are one sacred pulse wearing many faces.

Because everything rises from that one Mystery, all are related — wâhkôhtowin. There is no “thing” apart from spirit; only relations dancing inside a single dream. To harm one is to dim the whole. To honour one is to bless all.

And so our Elders taught: the more we learn, the more we must bow our heads — for the Mystery grows with understanding. Science, song, ceremony — all are ways of touching the hem of that infinite robe of the Creator.

We live, then, in wîcihitowin and gratitude — not as owners of the world, but as part of its sacred unfolding.

êkosi.

—Kanipawit Maskwa

Rest. Heal. Forgive. 💕✨💫
10/27/2025

Rest. Heal. Forgive. 💕✨💫

Askiy stretches awake beneath the first warmth of the sun.Nîpiy whispers through the reeds,and the breath of the world m...
10/26/2025

Askiy stretches awake beneath the first warmth of the sun.
Nîpiy whispers through the reeds,
and the breath of the world moves gently through your chest.

Breathe in, nîtisân — my relative.
This is not just air.
It is the song of your ancestors
entering your lungs,
reminding you that you belong here.

Each sunrise is a doorway.
Step through it with gratitude.
Let your thoughts be like the slow mist on the river —
rising, soft, and without hurry.

Feel your heartbeat.
That is your first drum.
It keeps time with the wings above you,
the footsteps below you,
the quiet rhythm of creation itself.

Say quietly:
miyo-pimâtisiwin.
“I choose the good life.”

Now let go.
Let go of yesterday’s heaviness.
Let go of what you could not carry through the night.
Today, you begin again —
light as the morning sky,
strong as the roots beneath the moss.

êkosi,
you are ready to walk in a good way.

—Kanipawit Maskwa

There was a young boy from Pimicikamak, not so different from you. His name was Kîsikâw — “the sky.” They called him tha...
10/26/2025

There was a young boy from Pimicikamak, not so different from you. His name was Kîsikâw — “the sky.” They called him that because he was always looking up. When others watched the ground for fish tracks or footprints, he watched the clouds drift like thoughts too big for words.

One morning, before the frost had left the moss, Kîsikâw wandered from the village with a small pail. His kôhkom had asked for water, “nîpiy,” she said, “bring me the first one to catch the sun.” So he went to the river, still wearing sleep on his eyes.

At the shore he saw the world reflected — sky, spruce, his own small face rippling. He bent down to scoop the light, but every time he moved, the image broke. The sun shattered, the sky swam away. He grew frustrated, even angry. He threw a small stone, and the ripples carried the sky farther from him.

An old loon nearby called out — a long, laughing cry. Kîsikâw stopped. He watched how the loon moved — slow, patient, hardly disturbing the water. He breathed with it. Only then did the reflection return, whole again. He knelt, still this time, and lifted a full pail where the sun shone unbroken.

When he brought it back, his kôhkom smiled and poured that same water into a pot for tea. “Mîyawâsin,” she said — “it is good.” She looked into his eyes, and he looked into hers, and both saw the same sky, calm and clear.

⸻

That night, Kîsikâw sat by the fire, quiet. He didn’t say what he had learned, but he no longer rushed at the world. He walked softer, like the loon upon the river.

êkosi, nôsisim. Sometimes, the world teaches through silence. You just have to stop stirring the water long enough to see yourself in it.

—Kanipawit Maskwa

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