What Gives

Words / 2025 Variety

Mni Sota Makoce Seasonal Round

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What the land gives ... What the seasons give ... What the animals give ... What the plants give ... themselves to ... Relationship ... reciprocity ... attention ... patience ... Receiving from the land ... not taking ... from the land ... water ... and sky ... Living in languages or ways of knowing and understanding ...

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Ziigwan

The ice remembers being water.

The water remembers being ice.

Maang watches the edge of the lake where one becomes the other. Patient. The way Maang has always been patient. The way patience is not a thing you have but a thing you are.

Soon the sap.

Soon the sturgeon.

Soon everything that was still will move again.

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Mato walks to the sugar bush before dawn.

Her grandmother's grandmother's grandmother walked this same path. The maples don't know the difference. The maples know: now the nights freeze and the days thaw and it is time.

She carries the birch bark makuks. She carries the cedar spiles. She carries the knowledge of what forty gallons becomes.

One gallon.

Sweet enough to last until the next sweetness.

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The mathematics of sugar:

temperature below freezing at night
temperature above freezing by day
sap rises

tap the tree
cedar spile
birch bark container beneath

wait

gather

forty gallons of sap
into the vessel

hot stones if you have no kettle
drop them in
the water boils

stir
stir
stir

ten days to six weeks
depending

one gallon of syrup

keep boiling for sugar
keep boiling for candy

the children watch for candy

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Waabizheshi

has already calculated

how much sugar for the year

how much for cooking
how much for medicine
how much for trade
how much for ceremony
how much for the elder who cannot make her own anymore

enough

there must be enough

there is no sweetness otherwise until next spring

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Ma'iingan returns from the muskrat grounds.

Fur for trading. Meat for eating. Nothing wasted.

The spring muskrat — fat from winter, slow from waking. Easy to find if you know where to look.

Ma'iingan knows where to look.

His father knew. His father's father knew.

The muskrat don't move. The knowledge of where they live doesn't move either.

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Miskwaadesi, on the sturgeon run:

This is the largest gathering of the year.

Larger than ricing. Larger than anything.

The sturgeon come to the river mouths to spawn. Three weeks. Maybe four. They come and they come and they come.

Everyone gathers. Every family. Every band. People you haven't seen since last year's sturgeon run.

The nets go out. The spears. The stories around the fires at night.

Children running between camps.

Young people finding each other.

Old people remembering when they were young people finding each other.

The sturgeon feed everyone.

But the gathering feeds something else.

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Mik repairs the fish weir.

walleye running now

the weir funnels them

saplings woven tight
water passes through
fish do not

Mik's hands know this

every spring
same weir
same repairs
same fish
same hands

(different hands)
(same hands)

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Ajijaak digs the first wild onions.

The ground soft enough now. The green shoots visible if you know where to look.

She knows where to look.

Her daughters watch. They are learning where to look.

Someday they will know without thinking. Someday their hands will go to the right places the way water goes downhill.

This is how it has always been.

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the first foods of spring:

wild onions
wild leeks
the first greens pushing through

after a winter of stored food
the body wants green

the body knows what it needs

we listen

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Niibin

Heat.

The summer village on the lakeshore. Bark houses in rows. Smoke rising from cook fires. Children in the water. Dogs everywhere.

Maang sits in the shade and watches.

Nowhere to go. Nothing that must be done this exact moment.

This is summer.

This will not last.

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Waabizheshi's summer work, incomplete list:

Blueberries — found, picked, some eaten, most drying on the birch bark mats
Raspberries — same
Gooseberries — same
Juneberries — same
Chokecherries — not ready yet, watching
Cranberries — not ready yet, watching
Plums — watching
Wild grapes — watching
Elderberries — watching

The gardens — corn growing, beans climbing the corn, squash spreading beneath
Fish — Mik brings them, Maang smokes them
Birch bark — gathered for containers, for canoes, for everything
Bulrush mats — weaving
Cattail mats — weaving
Medicinal plants — Mato gathers, Mato knows

What else.

There is always what else.

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Ma'iingan

in the summer village

restless

the hunt is coming

he can feel it

the buffalo are somewhere west

waiting

he is here

waiting

this is the hardest kind of patience

knowing something is coming

not being able to make it come faster

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Mato teaches her daughter the plants.

Not by lecturing. By walking.

This one.

She points. Her daughter looks.

For fever.

They walk on.

This one.

She points. Her daughter looks.

For coughs.

They walk on.

By the end of summer her daughter will know thirty plants. By the end of next summer, thirty more. By the time she is a woman she will know what Mato knows.

She will know it in her body, not in her mind.

This is the only way to know it.

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The Three Sisters:

Corn grows tall.
Beans climb the corn.
Squash spreads beneath, shading the roots, keeping moisture in.

They need each other.

The Dakota women tend them with hoes made from bison shoulder blades.

You plant together what lives together.

This is not complicated.

This is observation.

This is ten thousand seasons of watching what works.

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night fishing

Mik in the canoe
the torch burning — pine pitch, bright

the light draws the fish up

close enough to see
close enough to spear

the lake at night is not the lake by day

different world
same water

the fish don't know the difference

Mik knows the difference

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Ajijaak watches the rice beds.

Not ready. Weeks away.

But watching now means knowing when.

The heads heavy. The green deepening. The stalks bending a little more each day.

She will bind them soon. Cedar bark strips in her family's pattern.

But not yet.

Now she watches.

This is also work.

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Timpsila itkahca wi

The moon when prairie turnips are ripe.

Waabizheshi leads the women west onto the prairie.

The men have gone for buffalo.

The women go for timpsila.

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the prairie turnip

Timpsila

the most important wild food of the Dakota

more important than wild rice
more important than anything gathered

starchy root
half carbohydrate
protein
vitamin C — essential after winter

June

the blue flowers visible across the prairie
if you know what to look for

dig

peel

slice

dry in the sun
or roast over coals

braid on the stems for storage

pound into flour for thickening

keeps indefinitely

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Waabizheshi's hands in the dirt.

Her grandmother's hands. Her grandmother's grandmother's hands.

The turnip doesn't know the difference.

The turnip knows hands that know how to dig without breaking the root.

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the children dig too

learning

their turnips are smaller
sometimes broken

no one corrects them

they will learn by doing

this is the only way to learn

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Miskwaadesi, on the prairie:

The men think the buffalo hunt is the most important thing.

Let them think that.

The women know: timpsila. The flour lasts all winter. The thickening for every soup. The bulk in every stew.

Buffalo is important.

Timpsila is essential.

There's a difference.

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The Buffalo Hunt

Ma'iingan leads them west.

Four days out. The scouts have found the herd.

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before horses

before guns

this is how it was done:

young men in buffalo calf skins
making the sounds of distress
the cows come forward
maternal instinct

young men in wolf skins
behind the herd
circling
danger

the herd moves
toward the calves
away from the wolves

toward the cliff

the jump

the fall

the giving

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Ma'iingan offers tobacco before.

This is not ritual.

This is relationship.

You give yourself to us.

We receive.

We do not take.

There is a difference.

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The buffalo impound:

When there is no cliff, you build walls.

ten feet high
fifteen feet high

a chute
a hundred yards long

funnel the herd

into the enclosure

bows and arrows

the giving

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after the hunt

the women's work begins

butchering

nothing wasted

meat cut into strips for drying
bones cracked for marrow
fat rendered
hides scraped and stretched
sinew saved for thread
shoulder blades saved for hoes

everything becomes something

nothing wasted

nothing

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Mato renders the fat.

The fire low. The fat melting slow.

This fat will bind the wasna. This fat will preserve the meat. This fat will keep her family alive when the snow is deep and nothing moves.

Her daughter watches.

Slow.

Mato doesn't say it out loud.

Her daughter watches. Her daughter learns.

Slow.

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Manoominike-giizis

The rice moon.

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Ajijaak in the canoe.

Waabizheshi behind her with the pole.

push through the rice beds
slowly
paddles don't work here

the knocker sticks
cedar
thirty inches
one pound

bend the stalks with one
tap the grain loose with the other

ripe grain falls into the canoe
green grain stays on the stalk

some grain falls into the water

becomes next year

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Miskwaadesi at the rice camp:

Everyone is here.

This is the last big gathering before winter separates us.

Mornings we harvest.

Afternoons we process.

Evenings we feast and dance and tell stories until the fire burns low.

The young people find each other.

The old people remember finding each other.

The rice feeds the body.

The gathering feeds everything else.

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the parching fire

green rice spread in the container

over the flames

stir constantly with the cedar paddle

fifteen minutes
twenty
twenty-five

don't burn it

if you burn it, offer tobacco
apologize

the rice has its own spirit

treat it accordingly

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Mik's feet in the white moccasins.

The jigging.

twist on the balls of the feet
the hulls crack and loosen
the drum keeps time

or the feet keep time

no one remembers which came first

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The winnowing.

Waabizheshi with the birch bark tray.

toss the rice
the wind takes the chaff
the grain falls back

toss
toss
toss

the chaff saved for soup thickening
nothing wasted

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tobacco on the water before harvesting

the first rice blessed

offered to the spirits

then eaten by everyone

without this
the elders say
the rice won't ripen next year

Ajijaak does not know if this is true

Ajijaak does not need to know if this is true

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The Rice Chief speaks:

The lake is closed.

We have taken enough.

The beds must rest.

Come back next year.

No one argues.

This is not democracy. This is not tyranny.

This is listening to someone who knows.

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Dagwaagin

The leaves turn.

The days shorten.

Everything that must be done before snow must be done now.

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Waabizheshi's fall inventory, incomplete:

Wild rice — cached in the buried canoe, cached in the underground pits, enough
Timpsila — braided and hanging, ground into flour, enough
Dried berries — blueberry, chokecherry, cranberry, enough
Smoked fish — hanging in the lodge, enough
Dried venison — enough
Pemmican — Mato is still making it
Maple sugar — from spring, still enough
Corn — dried, stored, enough
Beans — dried, stored, enough
Squash — some dried, some cached whole in the pits

What else.

The medicines.
The firewood.
The winter clothes.

What else.

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Ma'iingan leads the fall buffalo hunt.

the animals fat now
preparing for winter

easier to find
easier to kill

the meat must be processed fast
dried fast
before rot

the women work without stopping

everything depends on this

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Mato makes wasna.

The lifeblood of the people.

dried bison meat
pounded to powder

dried chokecherries
pounded to powder

rendered fat
bone marrow if you have it

one part meat
one part fat
berries to taste

mix

pack into rawhide bags

seal

wait

three thousand calories per pound

no expiration

this is what survival tastes like

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the corn wasna

for those who want sweetness

toasted cornmeal
fat
dried fruit
maple sugar

no meat

different

also good

also keeps forever

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The underground cache:

Mik digs.

bell-shaped pit
narrow at the top
wider at the bottom
three feet deep
four feet
five feet

lined with bark
lined with hides

food packed in birch bark containers
layered
covered with insulating grass
sealed with earth

concealed

marked only in memory

one cache per month of winter

return as needed

the earth keeps it cool
the earth keeps it safe
the earth keeps it

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Ajijaak watches the waterfowl.

the ducks that fed on the rice beds
sluggish now
fat
easy to catch

they taste like rice

a delicacy

she takes only what she needs

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the whitefish run

October

before the lakes freeze

nets out

last major fish harvest

smoke them fast
dry them fast

winter is coming

winter doesn't wait

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Waabizheshi's final inventory:

Everything cached.
Everything counted.
Everything in its place.

The underground pits — sealed, concealed, marked only in memory.
The buried canoe full of rice — on the south hill where the drainage is good.
The dried fish.
The dried meat.
The pemmican.
The sugar.
The medicines.

The stories Miskwaadesi holds.
The patience Maang embodies.
The vigilance Ajijaak carries.
The healing Mato knows.
The building Mik does.
The leadership Ma'iingan provides.
The perspective Wambli sees from above.

What else.

Nothing else.

We are ready.

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Biboon

Snow.

The village scatters.

Twelve people per camp. Sometimes fewer.

The animals are dispersed. We must disperse too.

This is how winter works.

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Ma'iingan

in the small camp

with his family

his wife
his children
his mother
his wife's parents

twelve people

in the sheltered woods

far from everyone

he checks the snare lines

rabbit
snowshoe hare

the winter protein

not glamorous

essential

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The snowshoe hare:

Small.

White in winter.

Everywhere in the woods if you know where to look.

Ma'iingan knows where to look.

snares set along the runs
check daily

the hare don't stop because it's cold
the hare don't stop because it's snowing

neither does Ma'iingan

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Mato makes Labrador tea.

the leaves from the bog plant
gathered in summer
dried
saved

brewed now
golden
honey-colored
cedar and pine aroma

for warmth
for comfort
for coughs
for colds
for the ache in the joints when the cold settles in

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ice fishing

Mik flat on his stomach
over the hole in the ice

blanket over his head
blocking the light

wooden decoy on a stick
jiggling

the fish come to investigate

close enough to see
close enough to spear

this is patience

this is cold

this is how you eat fish in winter

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Ajijaak opens a cache.

dig through the snow
dig through the frozen earth

the bark lining
the containers inside

wild rice
dried berries

enough for two weeks

seal it again
cover it again
mark it again in memory

move to the next camp

the next cache

this is how you survive

one cache at a time

one moon at a time

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Miskwaadesi, by the fire:

Tell me again about the sturgeon run.

The children ask.

Miskwaadesi tells.

Tell me again about the summer village.

Miskwaadesi tells.

Tell me again about the rice camp.

Miskwaadesi tells.

This is winter.

This is what stories are for.

This is how the knowledge passes.

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wohanpi

Dakota soup

bison meat from the cache
timpsila flour for thickening
dried wild potatoes

simmering over the fire

the smell of it filling the small lodge

warmth

this is warmth

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wojapi

berry soup

dried chokecherries reconstituted
timpsila flour thickening

warm or cold

sweet

the children's favorite

Mato makes extra

there is always room for wojapi

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Ma'iingan does not sleep well.

he dreams of the geese returning

he dreams of the sap running

he dreams of the summer village

the fires
the stories
the drums at night

he dreams of everyone together

he wakes

the lodge is dark

his family breathing around him

he is grateful

and lonely

winter is long

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the stores run low

late winter

the hardest time

the caches picked through
the snares producing less

the body tired

waiting

for spring

which comes

which always comes

but slowly

so slowly

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Wambli Circling

Above it all.

Looking down.

the sugar bush where Mato stirs in spring

the sturgeon river where everyone gathers

the summer village loud with children

the prairie where Waabizheshi digs timpsila

the buffalo grounds where Ma'iingan hunts

the rice lake where Ajijaak binds the stalks

the autumn camps where the smoking fires burn

the scattered winter lodges in the sheltered woods

all of it

one thing

the people moving through the seasons

the seasons moving through the people

no difference

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The Feast

Once a year. Twice. More.

Whenever there is reason.

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the elders eat first

(as they should)

the women and children next

(as they should)

the men last

(as they should)

this is order

this is respect

this is how it has always been

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Maang at the feast.

patient

as always

the wild rice with maple sugar
the way everyone likes it

the fish with maple sugar
the way the old ones like it

the venison
the bison
the rabbit stew

the wojapi sweet and thick

the laughter

the stories

the children running

Maang eats slowly

there is nowhere else to be

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The spirit dish:

Before anyone eats.

A birch bark container.

tobacco
wild rice
berries
a little of everything

offered to the spirits

offered to the ancestors

offered to those who are not here
but are always here

we eat second

they eat first

this is relationship

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Miskwaadesi offers tobacco.

to the east
to the south
to the west
to the north

to the earth below
to the sky above

to Gichi-Manidoo

thank you for what we receive

we do not take

we receive

there is a difference

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The Four Sacred Medicines

Tobacco — asemaa

The first medicine.

Carries prayers to the spirit world.

Precedes all ceremonies.

Given first. Given always.

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Cedar — giizhik

Purification. Protection.

The tea for fever.

The smoke for cleansing.

The branches for the floor of the sweat lodge.

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Sage — bashkodejiibik

Cleansing.

Releases negative energy.

Burned before ceremony.

Carried for protection.

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Sweetgrass — wiingashk

The sacred hair of Mother Earth.

Braided in twenty-one strands.

Attracts positive energy.

Burned after sage.

Sage pushes away. Sweetgrass invites in.

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Mato carries all four.

in a bundle

wrapped in hide

close to her body

always

her mother carried them

her mother's mother carried them

the medicines don't know the difference

the medicines know what they know

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What the Land Gives

Mni Sota Makoce.

Land where the water reflects the sky.

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What it gives, incomplete list:

The bison on the prairie
The deer in the woods
The moose in the wetlands
The elk, the caribou, the bear
The rabbit, the hare, the beaver, the muskrat
The turkey, the goose, the duck

The walleye in the lakes
The whitefish in Superior
The sturgeon at the river mouths
The trout, the pike, the sunfish, the eelpout

The wild rice in the shallows
The timpsila on the prairie
The corn, beans, squash in the river valleys
The maple sap in spring

The blueberries, the chokecherries, the cranberries
The plums, the grapes, the elderberries
The gooseberries, the raspberries, the juneberries

The wild onions, the wild leeks, the wild potatoes
The wild ginger, the sunflower seeds, the nuts

The Labrador tea, the cedar, the sage, the sweetgrass
The pine needles for tea
The birch bark for everything

The water

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we do not take

we receive

there is a difference

the animals give themselves

the plants give themselves

the water gives itself

we receive with gratitude

we offer tobacco

we use everything

we waste nothing

we leave enough for next year

and the year after

seven generations forward

always

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Miskwaadesi, final teaching

You ask what we owe the ancestors.

Wrong question.

The ancestors gave us everything. Every technique. Every timing. Every prayer. Every prohibition. Every story that teaches without lecturing.

We don't owe them.

We ARE them.

My hands are my grandmother's hands.

My grandmother's hands are her grandmother's hands.

The rice doesn't know the difference. The timpsila doesn't know the difference. The buffalo doesn't know the difference.

They know hands that know what to do.

When I dig timpsila, my grandmother digs timpsila.

When I bind the rice stalks, my grandmother binds the rice stalks.

When I stir the wasna, my grandmother stirs the wasna.

When I offer tobacco, my grandmother offers tobacco.

She is not gone.

None of them are gone.

They are in the rice. They are in the sugar. They are in the smoke rising from the parching fire. They are in the sound of the knocker sticks on the gunwale. They are in the blue flowers of the timpsila across the prairie. They are in the fat rendering over the slow fire. They are in the cedar tea steeping in the wooden bowl.

You want to honor them?

Do what they taught us.

That's all.

That's everything.

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Ganawenindiwag

We Take Care of Each Other

The Land and the People

The People and the Land

No Difference

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