"Snow Geese on Coon Lake" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
In the hush of the Freezing Moon--Gashkadino-giizis, as the Ojibwe call it—elder Mishko and his granddaughter Asema sat beside the shimmering waters where wild rice once bowed under its golden weight. Snow rested lightly along the shoreline, and a thin veil of mist curled over the lake. A small cedar fire crackled at their feet, sending its earthy scent into the cold night air.
Mishko’s blanket, worn soft by years of winters, was wrapped tightly around his shoulders. His long silver braid glimmered faintly in the moonlight. Asema, a girl of eight with bright, attentive eyes, knelt close beside him, drawing shapes in the frozen earth with a twig.
“Tell me again, Mishko-gize,” she said, her voice carrying the soft lilt of affection. “The story of the geese who bring the first snow.”
Mishko smiled, deep creases forming at the corners of his eyes. “Some stories,” he said, “grow stronger every time they are told. This is one of them.”
He fed another piece of cedar into the flames. Sparks drifted upward like tiny spirits ascending toward the moon.
“It was long ago,” he began, “when winter came early and stayed too long. A famine settled across our villages—so fierce that the drums grew silent and even the strongest hearts trembled.”
Asema leaned in, the firelight dancing across her mittened hands.
“The elders prayed to Gitchi-Manitou,” Mishko continued, “their voices carried by the North Wind. And the Great Spirit answered—not with a storm, but with a dream given to a young girl. Her name was Orenda. Brave of heart. Clear of spirit.”
He paused, letting Asema breathe in the name.
“Orenda gathered the softest duck feathers—the kind used to warm babies in their cradle boards. Then, with help from the North Wind, she wove a great white blanket. Into it she poured every hope the people still carried, even the hopes they had forgotten.”
As he spoke, the Freezing Moon reflected silver on the lake, and two white shapes—a pair of early snow geese—glided silently across the water as if called forth by the tale itself.
“One night,” Mishko said, “while the village slept, Orenda climbed the highest hill. She tore her blanket into a thousand pieces and cast them into the howling wind. As she sang her prayer—pure, strong, bright as winter starlight—the feathers swirled upward, transformed by the moon’s magic.”
“They became the first snow geese,” Asema whispered, eyes shining.
Mishko nodded. “Yes, little one. And as they rose, Orenda cried, ‘Fly south, Nigauna! Return when the world needs hope!’”
The next morning, the starving people awoke not to bleakness, but to a world blanketed in soft white—snow spun from the feathers of Orenda’s gift. With the dawn came renewed strength. The famine ended. And the people learned again that every winter, no matter how harsh, carries within it the seed of spring.
Asema touched her grandfather’s arm. “But where is the joy, the surprise?” she asked with a mischievous smile.
Mishko chuckled, pointing to the sky as a V-formation passed overhead, their cries echoing against the quiet winter air. “Look closely. Their numbers grow each year. The snow deepens not from harsher cold, but from stronger spirit. The geese are our ancestors—Orenda among them—returning to remind us that hope is renewed each time we remember it.”
At that very moment, a single white feather drifted down, landing softly on Asema’s red mitten. She gasped, holding it to her chest.
As she looked up, snowflakes began to fall—silent, soft, luminous—each one a whispered promise from the past.
Mishko wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “See, Asema? Even winter knows how to give back.”
The fire snapped gently, and the lake glowed like polished blue stone as the world shifted, ever so quietly, toward the first snowfall of the season.
* * * * * * * * * *
Yesterday afternoon, on a cold late-November day, I drove past the little lake called Coon Lake. Its waters were the gray-blue of a day preparing for winter, the air sharp with the first hint of December’s breath. And there—moving with effortless grace—swam two beautiful snow geese.
For reasons I can’t wholly explain, their presence lifted me. Perhaps it was their whiteness against the cold water; perhaps it was the reminder that even in the bleakness of approaching winter, life glides on—serene, luminous, faithful to ancient rhythms.
And now, it is morning.
Their image lingers like a blessing.
My reverie of Mishko and Asema fades as music gently brings me back. Grieg’s Holberg Suite pours into the quiet of the wee cottage, its bright, boisterous notes sparkling like the first flakes of a new snowfall. I sip my coffee, warming my hands around the mug, and smile at the simple magic of beginning a new day.
I think of Dr. Wayne Dyer’s words:
“You’re the result of all the previous pictures you’ve painted for yourself,
and you can always paint new ones.”
A powerful truth.
So I wonder--
What picture will I paint for myself today?
What new colors? What new brightness? What quiet miracle?
I know this much:
The legend of the snow geese—ancient, hopeful, shimmering—will find its way into the canvas of this day.
And with that thought,
I start this day.
* * * * * * * * * *
“The snow falls to remind us: the ancestors still walk beside us.” ~Ojibwe Teaching
~Wylddane
Mishko’s blanket, worn soft by years of winters, was wrapped tightly around his shoulders. His long silver braid glimmered faintly in the moonlight. Asema, a girl of eight with bright, attentive eyes, knelt close beside him, drawing shapes in the frozen earth with a twig.
“Tell me again, Mishko-gize,” she said, her voice carrying the soft lilt of affection. “The story of the geese who bring the first snow.”
Mishko smiled, deep creases forming at the corners of his eyes. “Some stories,” he said, “grow stronger every time they are told. This is one of them.”
He fed another piece of cedar into the flames. Sparks drifted upward like tiny spirits ascending toward the moon.
“It was long ago,” he began, “when winter came early and stayed too long. A famine settled across our villages—so fierce that the drums grew silent and even the strongest hearts trembled.”
Asema leaned in, the firelight dancing across her mittened hands.
“The elders prayed to Gitchi-Manitou,” Mishko continued, “their voices carried by the North Wind. And the Great Spirit answered—not with a storm, but with a dream given to a young girl. Her name was Orenda. Brave of heart. Clear of spirit.”
He paused, letting Asema breathe in the name.
“Orenda gathered the softest duck feathers—the kind used to warm babies in their cradle boards. Then, with help from the North Wind, she wove a great white blanket. Into it she poured every hope the people still carried, even the hopes they had forgotten.”
As he spoke, the Freezing Moon reflected silver on the lake, and two white shapes—a pair of early snow geese—glided silently across the water as if called forth by the tale itself.
“One night,” Mishko said, “while the village slept, Orenda climbed the highest hill. She tore her blanket into a thousand pieces and cast them into the howling wind. As she sang her prayer—pure, strong, bright as winter starlight—the feathers swirled upward, transformed by the moon’s magic.”
“They became the first snow geese,” Asema whispered, eyes shining.
Mishko nodded. “Yes, little one. And as they rose, Orenda cried, ‘Fly south, Nigauna! Return when the world needs hope!’”
The next morning, the starving people awoke not to bleakness, but to a world blanketed in soft white—snow spun from the feathers of Orenda’s gift. With the dawn came renewed strength. The famine ended. And the people learned again that every winter, no matter how harsh, carries within it the seed of spring.
Asema touched her grandfather’s arm. “But where is the joy, the surprise?” she asked with a mischievous smile.
Mishko chuckled, pointing to the sky as a V-formation passed overhead, their cries echoing against the quiet winter air. “Look closely. Their numbers grow each year. The snow deepens not from harsher cold, but from stronger spirit. The geese are our ancestors—Orenda among them—returning to remind us that hope is renewed each time we remember it.”
At that very moment, a single white feather drifted down, landing softly on Asema’s red mitten. She gasped, holding it to her chest.
As she looked up, snowflakes began to fall—silent, soft, luminous—each one a whispered promise from the past.
Mishko wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “See, Asema? Even winter knows how to give back.”
The fire snapped gently, and the lake glowed like polished blue stone as the world shifted, ever so quietly, toward the first snowfall of the season.
* * * * * * * * * *
Yesterday afternoon, on a cold late-November day, I drove past the little lake called Coon Lake. Its waters were the gray-blue of a day preparing for winter, the air sharp with the first hint of December’s breath. And there—moving with effortless grace—swam two beautiful snow geese.
For reasons I can’t wholly explain, their presence lifted me. Perhaps it was their whiteness against the cold water; perhaps it was the reminder that even in the bleakness of approaching winter, life glides on—serene, luminous, faithful to ancient rhythms.
And now, it is morning.
Their image lingers like a blessing.
My reverie of Mishko and Asema fades as music gently brings me back. Grieg’s Holberg Suite pours into the quiet of the wee cottage, its bright, boisterous notes sparkling like the first flakes of a new snowfall. I sip my coffee, warming my hands around the mug, and smile at the simple magic of beginning a new day.
I think of Dr. Wayne Dyer’s words:
“You’re the result of all the previous pictures you’ve painted for yourself,
and you can always paint new ones.”
A powerful truth.
So I wonder--
What picture will I paint for myself today?
What new colors? What new brightness? What quiet miracle?
I know this much:
The legend of the snow geese—ancient, hopeful, shimmering—will find its way into the canvas of this day.
And with that thought,
I start this day.
* * * * * * * * * *
“The snow falls to remind us: the ancestors still walk beside us.” ~Ojibwe Teaching
~Wylddane
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