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Standing Bear Network, 65 Johnny Cake Trail South, Wakefield, RI (2025)

07/01/2025

Today is July 1st. Canada Day.

But for many of us, it’s not a celebration. It’s a remembering.

Today, I don’t wave a flag. I light a fire.
I don’t sing an anthem. I offer to***co.
I don’t wear red and white. I wear the colors of my ancestors — earth, blood, bone, and sky.

Because before there was a Canada, there were Nations.

Nehiyawak, Anishinaabeg, Haudenosaunee, Dene, Inuit, Tlingit, Mi’kmaq, and so many more — Peoples of the land, the stars, and the stories. We had laws. We had languages. We had lifeways that nourished body and spirit long before any Queen ever drew a line on a map.

So when they call today “Canada Day,”
I hear the echo of Treaties misunderstood and misused.
I hear the cries of children who never came home.
I hear the silence of stolen tongues, and the roar of rivers dammed without consent.

But I also hear the drum.

The drum that keeps beating. The languages returning. The grandmothers teaching. The youth rising. The sovereignty that never left — just forced underground for a time, like roots waiting for the thaw.

Today, I remember the ones who survived. The ones who resisted. The ones who carried the lodges, the pipes, the songs — even when it was forbidden. And I honour those still fighting for clean water, for land back, for truth, for justice, for our rightful place.

Let others have their fireworks.

We’ll have our sacred fires.

Ekosi.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network

—

07/01/2025

To My Grandchildren,
kisêyiniwak nîtisânak — the little ones who carry tomorrow,

One day, when your feet are tired from walking through a world that forgets how sacred you are, I hope you remember this place I’m about to tell you about.

When I step into the Sweat Lodge, my dear ones, I am not just crawling into a small dark dome made of willow and hides. I am returning — to the womb of the Earth herself. To that first place of warmth and spirit where healing begins, where breath becomes prayer, where pain becomes release, and where silence becomes song.

Inside that Lodge, it’s hot. It’s dark. It’s humbling.
But don’t be afraid.

That heat? That’s the breath of our ancestors, rising from the stones, the steam, the songs. We pour water on the grandfathers — the sacred rocks — and they sizzle and speak. Each drop of water carries memory. Each burst of steam is a story rising to the stars. A reminder that you are part of something older than time.

In that sacred space, I have cried — for the ones I’ve lost, for the ones I couldn’t help, even for the parts of myself I left behind.
And I have prayed — not always with words, but with my breath, my tears, my silence.

I’ve heard the songs of old men whose voices tremble like birch leaves in the wind. I’ve heard the laughter of children not yet born. I’ve seen strong people fall apart, and broken people come back together. I’ve seen hearts melt and spirits rise.

Because this Lodge, my grandchildren?
She doesn’t care how much you know or how long you’ve been gone.
She only asks that you come as you are — honest, respectful, open.

She will hold you.

She will teach you that healing is not a straight road. It’s a spiral, winding and sacred. And when the world gets too loud or too heavy, there is always this place — where you can sweat out the sorrow, sing back the light, and come home to your spirit.

When I crawl out, knees shaking, chest wide open, and steam lifting from my skin like a prayer, I remember:

We are still here. We are still sacred. And we are never, ever alone.

So when your time comes, my little ones —
Crawl in with your truth.
Pour water with care.
And listen with more than your ears.

Mîkwêc. Ekosi. All my relations.

With all the love this old heart can hold,
Kanipawit Maskwa
(Your Grandfather, Standing Bear)

06/30/2025

Somewhere near Saint Michaels, on the edge where Arizona kisses New Mexico, the fire has come again. They’re calling it the Oak Ridge Fire — born just this weekend, and already it’s swallowed more than 6,200 acres of land. That’s more than 6,200 acres of prayers, of roots, of songs buried beneath cedar and dust.

The smoke has reached far — over the mesas, through the canyons, into the lungs of nearby towns like Gallup. And while the cause is still under investigation, some say it may have started with those out gathering wood — doing what our people have always done to survive, even in a world built to forget us.

More than 400 firekeepers — responders, they call them — are now facing down this blaze. Still, the fire is 0% contained. The land is dry, the winds are restless, and the sun has no mercy this time of year.

President Buu Nygren has ordered evacuations — from Oak Springs to Hunter’s Point, and even parts of Saint Michaels. Families are leaving. Grandmothers are wrapping up sacred bundles. A shelter’s been opened at the Fighting Scouts Event Center, where 23 relatives already found safety Monday morning.

This is now the largest fire on Diné lands since June of 2020 — and one of the biggest in over a decade. The last one, Wood Springs 2, burned just north of here. Same winds. Same sorrow.

Crews are trying to protect what they can — homes, pipelines, medicine places. And tonight, a public meeting will be held at the Fighting Scouts Field House. The people will gather, in person and online, to hear the truth from those standing on the front lines.

This is more than just acres burned. This is our lifeways in danger. This is another reminder that the Earth is hurting, and we must listen. The fire speaks — and we must not just watch. We must respond, not only with hoses and helicopters, but with prayers, unity, and memory.

Because this isn’t just a fire.

This is history burning.

And the smoke carries our ancestors’ breath.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network

06/30/2025

A long time ago, in a meadow where the rain met the sunshine, there lived a little one named Sîpihkokîsik—“Blue Sky.” She was no taller than a sunflower, with two braids and a soft smile that could warm even the cloudiest day.

Each morning, Sîpihkokîsik would step outside and press her hands gently over her heart.

“Thank you, heart,” she’d whisper, “for being strong when skies turn grey.”

And oh, the skies did turn grey.

Dark clouds would come rolling in. The wind would howl like a hungry coyote. Rain would fall, chasing even the bravest birds from the trees.

But Sîpihkokîsik stood tall.

While the plants around her drooped, she whispered to them, “Keep growing, little ones. The sun is still there, just hiding.”

She knew something special—something her Kokum had taught her.

“askiyiyimiwan,” her Kokum had said, sitting by the fire one evening. “That means resilience. It means the land gets hurt, but it keeps growing. And so do we.”

Sîpihkokîsik remembered. So even when thunder rumbled, she smiled. Even when others felt scared, she sang little songs to the flowers and hugged the tiniest sprouts coming up from the earth.

One day, after a long storm, the clouds finally parted. The sun peeked out shyly, and from the wet grass, a little flower bloomed near Sîpihkokîsik’s moccasins.

The birds returned. The wind softened. The earth smiled back.

And all around her, the land whispered, “Thank you for standing strong, little one.”

From that day on, children from the village would visit her and place their hands over their own hearts.

“Thank you, heart,” they’d say, just like her.

Because they had learned what askiyiyimiwan means—

To stand tall with a soft heart.
To keep growing through the storm.
To remember: the sun always finds its way back.

Tapwe 🌻

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network

06/30/2025

As I sit with this statement, I don’t just hear words on paper — I hear a drumbeat rising, steady as footsteps on the land. I hear our youth speaking, not from anger alone, but from love — love for the land, for the water, for those yet to be born.

Let’s be clear: these bills — Bill 5, Bill 6, Bill 97, Bill 54, Bills 14 & 15, C-5 and C-2 — are not just legislative documents. They are weapons disguised as policy. They are an assault on our Treaties, on our Nations, on our very ability to breathe as Indigenous Peoples. They come with a smile and a shovel, offering promises while digging deeper into lands that were never theirs to take.

That “Elbows Up” slogan? It’s not strength. It’s sleight of hand — a colonial distraction meant to bypass consent, extinguish responsibilities, and bulldoze through our sacred places in the name of economic ambition.

But our youth? They see through it. And more than that — they’re standing up. They are the fire now. They are not waiting for permission. They are reclaiming languages, songs, and ceremonies while facing wildfires, floods, and a system that treats their very existence as an inconvenience to industry.

I’m proud of them. But I’m also worried for them. Because when young people talk about physically fighting for the land, it’s not out of recklessness — it’s out of desperation. And that should shake the bones of every so-called leader in this country.

Our youth are not radical. They are real. And what they’re asking for is not a revolution — it’s respect. Consent. Life.

To the ones gathering at Queen’s Park… to the Aunties and Uncles feeding the fires… to the Elders watching with prayer…to every knowledge keeper, every hand drum beating back the silence — I say: êkosi. I stand with you.

Let the world know — we are not going quietly. Not this time. Not ever again.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network

06/29/2025

When I read about Sister Lucille and the l’yane — the buffalo — roaming her Texas homelands once again, something in my spirit stirred. Not just in admiration, but in recognition. You see, we are living in a time when the old stories are walking back toward us. Slowly. Softly. And sometimes, on four hooves.

This isn’t just about a herd. This is about a homecoming.

Lucille’s journey is one of remembrance, yes — but more than that, it is rematriation. It is the land remembering her. The buffalo remembering us. It is our languages, our DNA, our footsteps, and our prayers all meeting again in a place where we once thought we had been erased.

She didn’t just build a ranch — she reawakened a relationship. With the land. With the buffalo. With kin whose names were nearly forgotten but whose blood still speaks. And isn’t that what our ancestors hoped for when they sang to the stars and made offerings in the dirt?

What Lucille is doing with the Texas Tribal Buffalo Project is what so many of us are doing across Turtle Island: we are becoming visible again. Not through politics alone, but through presence — through the smell of sweetgrass, the sound of drums in the hills, and the sight of our children learning to walk beside the buffalo instead of just reading about them.

She said, “We’ve all been waiting for each other.” And I believe that. Our ancestors. Our future grandchildren. Even the buffalo. They’ve all been waiting for us to remember who we are.

This work — this beautiful, sacred work — isn’t just about conservation. It’s about constellation. Every herd that returns is a star re-lit in our sky. Every gathering, every DNA connection, every child sleeping in a tipi again is part of the Eighth Fire being kindled.

So to Lucille, and to all those walking the long road back to themselves, I say:

Keep going.
The buffalo are watching.
The land is listening.
And we are all finding each other again — just as we were meant to.

Tapwe.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network

06/29/2025

Long ago, before your kokums and mushums were even born, the Elders told a story — a special story, like a flame passed from hand to hand, heart to heart.

They said one day, there would come a time when the world would stand at a great fork in the path — two trails winding through the forest of life.

One path would look broken. The trees along it would be tired, the rivers would run dry, and people would forget how to listen to the birds, the wind, or even each other. That path was made by forgetting.

But the other path?
That one would be green and glowing. The trees would whisper again. The water would sing. That path would be made by remembering.

“That time is now,” said the Elder by the fire, his voice soft like the smoke rising to the stars. “The old ones call it the time of the Eighth Fire.”

“What’s the Eighth Fire?” a child asked, holding her braid in her hands.

The Elder smiled.
“It’s not just a fire. It’s a choice.
It’s a promise we made long ago.
It’s the light inside your heart that knows how to care for the land, how to love one another, and how to walk in a good way.”

The children leaned in.
“Who will light the fire?” they whispered.

“You will,” the Elder said, touching each of their hearts with his feather.
“The young ones. The ones who dream in two worlds — one old, one new. The ones who speak the language of both sorrow and hope. You will carry this fire, and the ones who came before will walk beside you.”

“But we’re just kids,” said the boy in the red shirt.
The Elder nodded.
“Even a small spark can light the way when the night is dark.”

And so, the children looked at each other. They saw courage in their eyes. They felt the footsteps of their ancestors behind them. And in their hearts, something warm began to glow.

They would learn the old songs.
They would protect the land.
They would speak the truth, even when it was hard.
They would walk the green path — together.

And in doing so, they would not just follow the prophecy.

They would become it. 🪶✨💫

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network

06/28/2025

This morning, as the sun stretched herself over the tree line and the smoke from last night’s prayers still lingered faintly in the air, I looked up and noticed three little house sparrows gathered on my tipi.

They weren’t just resting. No — they were playing, dancing, fluttering in that place where the poles meet at the top, right at the sacred heart of the lodge. Their feathers flickered in the light, catching gold as they spun and chirped like children at a round dance.

That tipi — she’s been standing nearly ten winters now.
She came home with me from Standing Rock in 2017, brought back from the lands of the Oceti Sakowin where so many of us gathered in resistance and prayer. She’s weathered blizzards, fires, summer rains that cleanse the spirit, and quiet mornings just like this one.

And in all that time, she’s stood not just as a lodge, but as a reminder.

A reminder of what it means to come together in a good way — to stand with one another when the world tries to divide us. To hold fast when the winds howl through the trees and when the waters rise around our hearts. Each pole in that tipi was once a separate tree, rooted far apart. But now they lean on one another, woven together at the top — not in weakness, but in unity.

And that’s where those three little sparrows gathered today. Right at the crossing point. The very place that holds it all together.
Where the weight is shared. Where the strength is born.

I stood there for a while, just watching them. These ordinary little birds — not flashy, not loud, not rare — just sparrows. But today, they were kistêyihtamowak — sacred messengers. They knew where they landed.

They reminded me that in times of struggle, when the world seems hard and the ground uncertain, unexpected beauty still arrives.
It perches lightly where pain once settled.
It sings where silence once ruled.
It dances where people once cried out for justice with frozen hands and fire in their hearts.

The sparrows knew what they were doing.
They gathered at the meeting point — just like we once did.
Just like we still do.
That mîkiwâhp holds stories now. Stories of resistance, ceremony, and kinship. And like all good teachings, it’s still speaking — even through the wings of tiny birds.

And I thought:
Maybe hope isn’t something far off.
Maybe it’s a small song at the top of the lodge,
a flicker of life in the morning light,
a sign that what we built — with prayer, love, and sâkihitowin — still lives.

Today, those birds reminded me:
The poles still stand.
The people still gather.
And the sacred continues to arrive — quietly, unexpectedly, beautifully — right where our paths cross.

Ekosi.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network

06/28/2025

Tânisi, Kîsikâw Pîsim — Good evening, Grandfather Sun.
As you dip low beyond the trees, we give thanks for another day.
You watched over us from above,
Guiding our footsteps, warming our hearts,
Reminding us of our place in this great circle of life.

Tonight, as the stars begin to gather like quiet Ancestors in the sky,
We pause in gratitude —
For the breath in our lungs,
For the laughter we shared,
For the lessons learned, even the hard ones.

We pray for those without shelter tonight,
For those grieving, those in pain, those still searching for home.
Wrap them in your light, Grandmother Moon,
And carry their names gently on the wind.

Let our dreams be kind,
Our spirits open,
And our hearts strong enough to rise again come morning.

To the ones who came before — ekosî
To the ones who walk beside us — ekosî
To the ones yet to come — ekosî

May we walk the path with honesty, love, courage, and humility.
May we remember who we are.

Mîkwêc, kîsikâwêwinan.
Thank you for this blessed night.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network

06/27/2025

Long ago in a quiet village nestled beside the singing river, there lived a little girl named Miskwâw. Her hair was long and wild like the northern wind—flowing, tangling, and dancing in every direction. She loved her hair, but she didn’t yet understand why her kôhkom (grandmother) always insisted on braiding it each morning.

“Come here, nôsisim,” her grandmother would say, gently patting the woven blanket. “Let’s braid your hair before the sun climbs too high.”

“But why?” Miskwâw would ask. “It takes so long, and I like it flying free!”

Her kôhkom would only smile, her hands already weaving the strands. “Because when we braid, we’re not just fixing your hair—we’re fixing the world, one strand at a time.”

Miskwâw blinked. “We are?”

“Oh yes,” kôhkom nodded. “Every braid is a teaching. The first strand is your mind—all your thoughts and dreams. The second is your body—how you move through the world. The third is your spirit—the light that connects you to the ones before you and the ones still to come.”

She paused to tie the end with a strip of red cloth. “When we braid them together, they become strong—strong enough to carry love, memory, and even the sky.”

Miskwâw touched her braid with both hands. “My braid carries the sky?”

“In a way,” her kôhkom whispered. “Because when you walk with your braid, you carry your ancestors behind you and your prayers before you. That’s a big responsibility, little one.”

From that day on, Miskwâw never argued about braiding her hair. Each morning, she sat proudly as her grandmother’s fingers danced, weaving stories into her strands—stories of thunderbirds, berries, winter fires, and brave aunties who never gave up.

And every time her braid touched her back, she remembered:

Her mind was focused.
Her body was strong.
And her spirit?
Her spirit was braided to the stars.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network

06/27/2025

This is me, sitting on the swing in my backyard — the place I go when I need to be still, to think, to pray, to remember.

That thick braid down the center of my back? That’s not just hair. That’s my ceremony. That’s my medicine. That’s my history — woven tight with memory, intention, and everything I carry as a Pimicikamak man.

When I braid it each morning, I’m not just getting ready for the day. I’m grounding myself. I’m remembering who I am. I’m honouring those who came before me — the ones who had their braids cut in cold institutions, the ones who were told to forget who they were. But they didn’t. Not fully. And because of that, I’m still here. Braiding is a way of saying: I remember you.

They say a braid represents mind, body, and spirit — and it does. But for me, it also holds grief, love, strength, and resistance. It carries the voice of my grandmothers, the medicine of the land, and the old stories I was born to tell — stories older than English, older than borders.

Sometimes I sit out here and say nothing at all. The braid just rests against my back like the weight of every ancestor I carry. Other days, I speak — to the trees, to the winds, to the children I hope will never forget who they are. And even when I’m silent, the braid speaks for me.

It tells the land: I’m still here.
It tells the children: You’re sacred.
It tells the old ones: I never stopped listening.

Êkosi.

— Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network

06/26/2025

Today, in the quiet breath of morning, something sacred revealed itself.

Out on the fencepost near our kitchen window, where the dew still clung to the leaves and Waffles was busy sniffing out the day’s adventures, we saw something that made us pause — really pause.

A red cardinal — bold, brilliant like a prayer in flight — was feeding a baby cowbird.

Not his own. Not of his kind. But feeding it all the same.

Now, some folks might brush it off as strange or rare. And yes, it is. But I don’t believe in “accidents” like that. Not in the way our old ones taught us.

To me, that cardinal carried a teaching.

Sometimes, we are asked to care for those who are not our own — not by blood, not by language, not by clan. Sometimes, the ones Creator places in our path are not who we expected to raise, to guide, or to love. But the work is sacred all the same.

The cardinal wasn’t asking, “Is this my kin?” He was simply feeding life. Offering care. Answering the call of a hungry little beak.

That’s a lesson for us.

We live in a world that tries to divide — by color, by nation, by status, by story. But that bird reminds us: kinship is bigger than categories. True kinship sees need and responds with love. No paperwork required. No judgment given.

So today, I offer thanks for that feathered teaching. And I remind myself: some of our greatest acts of love will be for those the world says aren’t ours.

But our ancestors knew — when you feed another, you are feeding the spirit of Creation itself.

And that’s enough.

Tapwe.

—Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network

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