This morning is day two of snow on the ground, the kind that quiets everything except the noise inside my own mind. I’m sitting at my laptop, trying to tackle end-of-year business, and suddenly I feel like a collection’s agent. It feels ugly to go around asking to be paid. My profits have dipped these past few years while I dedicated myself to deep learning and leadership work. Even now, I'm juggling a long delayed project that weighs on me. Not because I'm not working, but because some circumstances are simply beyond my control. It's hard to hold myself accountable while also navigating situations I didn't create.
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And then I reach out to a friend for professional advice, and it hits me with a kind of sharp clarity:
I deeply loathe this part of the business.

Maybe the discomfort goes deeper than email threads or overdue invoices. Maybe it’s rooted in poverty, in how Native/Indigenous artists have always been viewed. I think of the artists I grew up seeing—walking down the street holding a painting or other creation in their hands, hoping to make a sale. I remember people complaining when they saw artisans coming toward their door. There was never a place for art to simply exist, to have artist’s work professionally on display, to be seen as legitimate. So, they circulated—business to business, crowd to crowd—waiting for someone, anyone, to say yes.

Yet when I look around my own home, at the pieces my family owns, I admire those acquisitions even more now. The beauty of the work, yes—but also the tenacity. The courage it took for those artists to subject themselves to the possibility of a hundred rejections just to survive. Now that I sit with it, I wonder if that’s where my own small strand of tenacity comes from. And maybe that’s why I’m apprehensive too. I carry the history and the memory of what it takes.

And even now—after all these years, all this work, all this sacrifice—I sometimes still feel like I am begging to be accepted. Begging to belong somewhere. Begging to be seen without having to shrink or explain myself. And the truth is: it rarely happens.

A bigger part of me has learned to whisper back, It’s okay. They don’t deserve what comes from the light you bring. That voice is protective, ancestral, steady. But the logical part of me still wonders: why can’t we simply support artists in a way that sustains them? Why must it require clawing at our own spirits? Why does survival have to be synonymous with self-extraction?

And in the quiet of these days, I’m noticing something else rising—something I didn’t invite. As we prepare for a new life in a new state, I can feel the past refusing to let go of me. Old traumas, long buried in decades of dust and survival, insist on resurfacing. People I haven’t spoken to in years are trying to reinsert themselves into my orbit, even if just on the perimeter. It’s unsettling how persistence shows up in the very people who once caused harm.

I don’t want to cut off parts of myself. I don’t want to prune away pieces of my own history or identity. But protecting myself sometimes requires exactly that—a trimming, a boundary that aches. Healing asks us to let go, yet the past seems determined to cling to the hem of my coat as I walk forward. And walking forward is what I must do.

The professional world echoes that same pattern. We are still dealing with the fallout of someone's lack of professionalism—someone who has chosen to twist words and shift blame towards many people, including a person I love. Months later, it should be obvious where the true problems lie with the person still there, still stirring the pot, still projecting. And yet, what hurts most isn’t the content of their accusations—it’s that they dare speak against others at all. As though their words exist in a vacuum. As though their whispers won’t roll downhill and gather force. But they do. They have real consequences. They even have the power to influence how my child is viewed in higher education and beyond. Their smallness becomes dangerous when institutions, neighbors, and community listen.

It is exhausting to build a new life while the old one keeps grabbing at your ankles.

Going back to the world of artistry, I think about a man who walked into the community hall while I was setting up my aunt’s funeral. He came in carrying a willow rocking chair—delicate, curved, lovingly made. I didn’t have room for it, not really. But I bought it because I appreciated his craft, his artistry, his survival. Sometimes that’s the best some of us can do—support each other not because we must, but because we know what it means when no one else does.

And still, despite all of that—despite the empathy, the lineage, the understanding—I cringe every time I must ask about money.

Even now, typing these words, my shoulders tighten. I wish this part didn’t feel like begging. I wish artistry wasn’t tethered to the shame of needing to be paid for what we give, what we pour out from breath and memory. I wish acceptance didn’t feel like a door that only cracks open for some, while others must build their own from scraps.

But maybe naming it is one step toward releasing the weight of it. Or at least toward reminding myself that asking to be paid is not a burden—it’s a right. That acceptance is not a prize—it’s a basic human dignity. And that artists deserve to thrive without sacrificing the very spirit that makes the work possible.

Today, the snow feels like a teacher. It doesn’t ask permission to fall, to soften the earth, to quiet the noise. It simply takes its place and transforms the landscape. Maybe this season is asking the same of me—to settle into my own belonging, even when acceptance is scarce, and trust that the light will return in its own time.

Winter has a way of reminding us that even the darkest months hold a slow, steady promise. Light returns, not because we earn it, but because it is inevitable. Perhaps my work, my voice, my survival are their own kind of solstice—small illuminations that keep breaking through, no matter how many times the world tries to dim them.

So, before I pack another box of my old makeshift studio—the little room that held so many seasons of me—I pick up a paintbrush, the familiar weight grounding me. A canvas white like the snow that now surrounds us. This is how I move foward: one stroke, one bead, one stitch, one color, one breath at a time. Even if the world can't see it yet, I am making my own prints in the snow, shaping my path the only way I know how. 

And as I look outside, the snow covers everything in sight—old footprints, uneven ground, all the places I’ve trudged through. It feels like an invitation. A fresh blanket of possibility. A chance to step forward with softer steps and a clearer heart.
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Maybe this is my beginning again.

A New Season of Becoming
A new season began not long ago—in so many ways. Whether the season is astronomical, celestial, calendar, or one of life itself, there are big changes on the horizon for me and for my family. These shifts are both personal and professional, and before anything else, they began with something simple yet radical: rest.
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The Art of Rest
Rest isn’t just something we needed from a busy week—it was something our bodies and spirits needed from a lifetime of navigating both tumultuous and calm waters and air. These forces continually shape us, teaching us to bend without breaking, to float, to fly, to land.
Over the past few years, I had intentionally paused much of my artistic work to pursue educational ambitions and to contribute to something larger than myself—something that reached beyond one community into a whole region. It was a time of growth and challenge, filled with moments of gratitude and lessons learned through my fellowship.
But like so many creative people, I found myself figuring much of it out alone. Not without support or kindness, but through the shared resilience of others who were also learning as they went. There are so many artists and creative changemakers who carry a deep love for their communities—especially for those who have been silenced, ignored, or left out. And there are also those who recognize their privileges and use them to create genuine leverage for others.
I’m still unpacking all the lessons from this chapter, and closing of this novel, but one thing stands out clearly: we must reclaim rest as a necessity, not a luxury.

Healing and Stillness
When I was recovering from surgery last winter, I learned that healing rest is its own kind of journey. It’s not about vacations or sabbaticals—it’s the kind of rest that requires surrender. It’s the body’s quiet work, a wisdom of its own, often overlooked in a culture that values constant productivity. But let's not confuse resting to physically heal is not the same as resting our spirits to be repaired and rejuvenated.
In our household, that constant motion—the desire to help, to contribute, to care—came at a cost. It took time for us to realize that even service and love need balance. Eventually, we made the decision to prioritize our wellness, and that decision opened a door we didn’t realize we were standing in front of for so long.
After twenty-five to thirty years of living in North Dakota, we knew it was time to begin a new journey. The decision wasn’t easy, but once it was made, it brought a sense of direction that felt both grounded and liberating. Somehow, our bodies knew what to do next.
We rested. Not by retreating, but by breathing. By saying no. By saying yes to ourselves. There was a mental and spiritual freedom that followed—a quiet acknowledgment that change, when rooted in care, can be the most profound act of love.
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Threads of Light
Last night, I stood outside with my youngest, Niska, under a sky alive with color. The bitter cold wrapped around us, but it couldn’t touch the warmth of what we witnessed. The Aurora Borealis stretched wide across the northern horizon—our ancestors dancing above us on threads of light.
There was a comfort in knowing that my eldest, now in their new home, and my spouse, living temporarily hundreds of miles away, were all under this same sky. The distance between us didn’t matter. The miles could never measure the love I hold for them.
And as the corona of the Aurora emerged, Sky Woman revealed herself—descending from the celestial heavens to greet us. She came to remind us of what has always been: the interconnectedness of past and present, the gifts we carry, and the sacred power of forgiveness.
During my fellowship, I found myself tapping back into writing—something that had always been close to my heart, yet often set aside for other responsibilities. Writing has since become a way for me to process, to connect, and to share. So, I offer this piece—written beneath the same celestial sky—to my readers and supporters:
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“When Sky Woman Descended”
The sky opened,
as if remembering--
red veils of light
spilled down from the heavens,
a whisper of stories
handed from palm to palm,
fire to ember,
mother to child.
The air was bitter cold,
but the pulsating colors
brought warmth to our spirits,
to the waters,
to the quiet rhythm
of the land listening.
Sky Woman descended,
her gown of flame and breath,
offering the world her love again--
love not of possession,
but of returning,
of forgiving those
who forgot the language
of the heart.
Even in the world’s disarray,
she wrapped us in color and calm,
reminding us that beauty endures,
that forgiveness is a kind of light
the darkness cannot hold.
We stood beneath her glow,
silent as prayers,
while the stars blinked
like ancient witnesses.
The air carried warmth
of unseen worlds--
a promise that life,
for all its ache and unraveling,
is still a song worth hearing.
And so the sky taught us again:
to look up,
to feel small yet infinite,
to love in the brief flicker
between earth and cosmos.
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Air Plants and Belonging
Outside, the air has changed. The chill of winter creeps in, and with it, a sense of stillness that demands reflection. I know I need to start sorting—not just the things in this house, but the weight I’ve been carrying. What to keep. What to release.
People keep asking what I’m going to do next. I wish I knew. I want to keep giving to my community, but that giving has come at a cost—one that’s left me spiritually tired, emotionally tender, and too often unpaid for the labor of love I keep offering. I can’t force belonging anymore. I’ve tried, and it’s only bruised my roots.
In my creative work, I’ve often explored what it means to be rooted—in people, in community, in culture. Yet time and again, I’ve been told or shown that I don’t belong. These comments come unsolicited—sometimes casually, sometimes quietly, simply for being present in a space. While I know those words are often born from others’ insecurities or unhealed trials, that doesn’t make them any less harmful. I do not deserve mistreatment for showing up authentically, especially after dedicating so much of myself to lifting others.
It’s not always overt. More often, it’s subtle—the looks, the pauses, the exclusions that echo louder than words. But through those experiences, I’ve learned something powerful: belonging doesn’t come from others granting permission. It grows from within.
I cannot and will not force myself into spaces that require me to shrink. I am not meant to fold my light to make others comfortable.
Maybe I’m not meant to be rooted in one place after all.
Maybe I’m more like an air plant—alive in the open, thriving when surrounded by the right balance of warmth, sunlight, and care. Air plants don’t need soil; they draw nourishment from what floats around them—humidity, light, breath.
Perhaps my roots have taken a new form. Perhaps I’ve been learning how to grow differently all along.
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What Comes Next
So, what does all of this mean for me as an artist? Truthfully, I’m still discovering that. I know it starts with cleaning up my make-shift studio, organizing what’s been paused, and eventually reopening my website and shop. All while packing up nearly three decades of life, love, and memories into boxes by late spring as we prepare for the next chapter.
What I do know is that my work will continue to embody advocacy, travel, discovery, and art—the core elements that have always guided me. Change is never linear, but it is constant. And like any season, it holds its own beauty.

​Miigwech for walking this journey with me. May you, too, find rest, renewal, and your own threads of light beneath the same sky.