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Marriage, no Proposal

On Thursday, February 9, 2017, I was minding my own business with Bastest and yogifying to work out the kinks remaining from Standing Rock. I had the kind of sweat that only Seane Corn can create. Somewhere between vin and yasa, all proceedings were interrupted by two Old Ladies, Grandmothers of the invisible persuasion. One at my right arm, the other at my left. They gently took me by the forearms and I had the sudden feeling that I was entirely under-dressed and stinky for the occasion, like I should have at least showered because they were actually doing the dressing of me.

I had an inkling of what was happening but wanted reassurance that I wasn’t going bananas so I contacted a friend who said something along the lines of “um…..Ingrid…you’re being dressed in white doeskin…you’re radiant…you’re getting married…” Confirming what I already knew and making me really curious about who the Grandmothers had me marrying. No first date, no first kiss, no test-drive if you know what I mean. Straight from down dog to doeskin with no howdy-doo or other introduction in between.

The next night, in vision, a young Indigenous woman, a breathing relative of at least one of the Old Ladies from the day before, brought me an infant; holding him out to me in her arms in a silent prayer of the Universal “Please, help my child. Please.”

A few days later one of those FB moments that raised an eyebrow and elicited a ‘run roh’ happened. Another breathing person from the same family, popped into my stream. They do. Sometimes they just do and sometimes there’s a little nudge from the beyond or the Beyond just makes the damn connection themselves because I am sometimes a little slow on the jump.

Two days after that, interrupting a potato-filled brunch, that connection’s great-great-or maybe-three times great grandfather, showed up with his entourage shaking his own head-feathers and rattling my cage. His message was clear—“without delay contact the great (x2 or 3) grandson. He’s the bridge.” Do not pass go, do not stop to collect anything. “Move and do.” And, I did. Who am I do argue with a shaker, rattler and roller like that?

Since then, other things have unfolded. Being spiritually married into a family I’ve never met (although somewhere in the brain blob there’s a niggling that I actually have but many, many ages ago) was the least of the striking things. The unfoldings there connected to those in northern Cree country, the tethering of spirit animals in times of stillness and struggle, coupled with the haunting silence of the living and loud Voice of the otherwise voiceless combine to create simultaneous awe and despair.

The ties to this family and the First Nations they represent are profound for individuals and the community-at-large. The relationship as I know it now began two years ago when I dropped roots in a January 2015 sweat that spread under the Great Lakes and reached out into the north. Two years later, those roots are becoming realized. The young child brought to me by the mother is real. He’s eight years old and I’ve been asked to go to him so that he might reach age nine. Other youth-related requests in the region surrounding Lakes Superior and Huron come through with such a striking clarity they can only be ignored by choice and dismissed in fear.

It’s been a long seven months. I vacillate between patience and ire, trust and defeat, holding the line, weaving, waiting.

This is real, they are real, I am real. We are.

Many thanks to Jayme Hopkins, who allows the Old Ones to pour through her into a way that guides as well as any map!

Below is a representation of Lake Superior and First Nations surrounding it as well as those farther east and a smidge farther north into the almost-Arctic circle.

I see you. I feel you. I love you. I’m coming.

I never did make it to Serpent River or the other First Nations along Lake Huron who have called me home since January 2015. I wait. I wait for safety and means to arrive in such a fashion that travel there is support and support for the work shows itself.

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