wisdom lives, in the woods, and humbly ask for help. I lay down my
gift, in return for all that is given, and start again.
So much depends on the spark that is nurtured by shkitagen gold
and kindled by a song. So much depends on the air, its passage
through the tinder nest, strong enough to make it glow, not so
strong as to blow it out, breath of wind and not of man, bundle
swung back and forth through Creator’s breath to make it grow,
embracing bark and dust propagating heat on heat, oxygen is fuel
for fuel until smoke plumes billow in sweet fragrance, light erupts,
and you hold in your hand a fire.
As the seventh fire people walk the path, we should also be looking
f o r shkitagen, the ones who hold the spark that cannot be
extinguished. We find the firekeepers all along the path and greet
them with gratitude and humility that against all odds, they have
carried the ember forward, waiting to be breathed into life. In
seeking the shkitagen of the forest and the shkitagen of the spirit,
we ask for open eyes and open minds, hearts open enough to
embrace our more-than-human kin, a willingness to engage
intelligences not our own. We’ll need trust in the generosity of the
good green earth to provide this gift and trust in human people to
reciprocate.
I don’t know how the eighth fire will be lit. But I do know we can
gather the tinder that will nurture the flame, that we can be
shkitagen to carry the fire, as it was carried to us. Is this not a holy
thing, the kindling of this fire? So much depends on the spark.