Threads of Light, Rooted in Air and Land.

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.

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