Potawatomi

Where the Earth Still Speaks and the Sky Still Listens

The morning mist rolled softly across the edge of the forest, carrying with it the quiet songs of the river. The Potawatomi people called this land Bodewadmi, “the Keepers of the Fire,” for they believed that the flame of life and wisdom must never be allowed to die.

Among them was Wakanda, a young woman whose heart beat in rhythm with the earth beneath her feet. She was born on a spring morning, when the first wildflowers opened their petals to the sun. Her grandmother often said she carried the spirit of the morning dove — gentle but strong, a messenger between the living world and the spirits.

Each dawn, Wakanda would walk to the river with a bowl carved by her father. She would fill it with water and whisper a prayer:

“Migwetch, Nokomis — thank you, Grandmother Earth, for this day.”

To the Potawatomi, gratitude was not a ceremony; it was a way of life. Every meal began with a word of thanks to the plants and animals who gave themselves for their people’s survival. The children learned early that the forest was not theirs to take, but theirs to care for.

That spring, however, the land began to change. The river ran lower, and the trees whispered of strange men building roads beyond the hills. The elders gathered by the council fire, faces lit by its warm glow. “The world is moving,” said Chief Nodin, his voice deep like thunder. “We must remember who we are, even if the land changes beneath our feet.”

The fire crackled, sending sparks into the night sky. To the Potawatomi, each spark was a prayer carried to the ancestors — reminders that their people had endured storms before and would again.

Wakanda listened silently. She knew her duty was not only to remember the old songs but to carry them forward. That night, she dreamt of a great turtle rising from the lake, its shell shimmering like the stars. Upon its back grew forests, rivers, and villages — the world itself. The turtle spoke:

“Child of the fire, keep the balance. When the wind forgets its path and the river loses its song, remind them who they are.”

She awoke with tears in her eyes and knew what she must do. At sunrise, she gathered the youth of her village and led them to plant seeds — corn, beans, and squash — the Three Sisters, who grow only when they grow together. “These are our teachers,” Wakanda told them. “Each sister gives strength to the others. Alone, they wither. Together, they feed nations.”

Seasons turned, and so did the world. The people moved westward, some by force, others by hope. Yet, wherever they went, the Potawatomi carried embers from their sacred fire. They built new homes, new stories — but the spirit of the earth remained the same.

Years later, when Wakanda had become an elder herself, she told her grandchildren the tale of the turtle and the fire. “Never forget,” she said softly, “that everything alive carries a song. When you walk in the forest, walk as if your footsteps are prayers. When you speak, speak as if your words plant seeds. That is the Potawatomi way.”

The children nodded, their faces lit by the evening glow. Outside, the wind carried the sound of the river — singing once more. The land, though changed, had not forgotten them.

And somewhere deep within the forest, a turtle’s shell gleamed under the moonlight, and the eternal fire burned on — not just in the earth, but in the hearts of all who remembered.