I was called to the sacred waters of the Great River Misi Ziibi to make my offering. My head was stirred up in mystery. I set out down the levee, walking into medicine. Wild tangled grasses bent from nomads tramping out to build their camps, dog walkers with their beasts happily off-leash, fishers dreaming today’s catch – intention wears a path. High blue sky, clumps of tall goldenrod, feathers. “There’s always a path, even in wilds,” came, “trust the people, trust the wilds”. The hot high sun bit my quarantined skin, pale from six months of being sick with Covid19 and sedentary resting. It felt so good to be in that burning with the insects, lone crow and dank earth/water smells.
My offering – a black, heart-shaped rock that fit perfectly in my palm – my rubbing thumb a metronome. I slipped down the muddy banks, barefoot in sticky clay, footprints pooling with copper water spiraling gray. Great River has taken everything I’ve ever offered, or not wanted to let go of. Whispering into my rock what came while I walked, “What do I believe in? I believe in change. What’s my intention? I intend to change. What do I offer? My whole heart.” It’s as simple/complex as that, I am. I spun her into the river with a friendly splash, a tiny black shadow against the bigger shadow of a freighter churning up the currents, the horizon going going gone, small so very grand -