Let me Tell YOU a Story

Let me Tell YOU a Story ~

This is a family story that has been passed down from generation to generation. Now it is my turn to tell you about my ancestors.

You probably gathered that I am a Native American, which is mostly correct. My family moved from Manitoba which the name is believed to have originated with Cree term "Man-into-wahpaow", meaning “the narrows of the Great Spirit”, which describes Lake Manitoba and how it narrows significantly at the centre.

This is where our story begins, as far as the origin, no one truly knows, because back then all learning was done through stories passed down from our fore-fathers.

This story is about a little girl, who became chief of our tribe. her name was Maligowen, which means "Ghost Traveler". It is not documented, but it was believed she died, or was transformed from our earth spirit.

Later she would become known as âcahk-mînowêsiw – Spirit Walker.

She was roughly 11 seasons old, when on a cold autumn night her life changed forever. Her father was the chief of the tribe and she had 2 older brothers who always teased her and taught her about hunting, and fighting which was rare.

Most females usually gathered berries and tended rice crops and curing meats to preserve by a method called pemmican — a mixture of dried meat, fat, and berries that could last for months.

Maligowen, being the chief's daughter was allowed and even encouraged to practice and learn all the skills from it's members. Her father was unique because of his vision to encompass change and learning.

The Cree were a very self-sustaining tribe, what we consider barbaric, was a natural way for them. They believed in blessing their crops, and the food provided by their hunts. The Cree were very spiritual and grateful and food was never wasted. They were part of nature and deeply respected what life brought them.

I want to paint an image of how majestic life was back then.

The wind carried no sound that morning—only memory.
It whispered through the spruce and the old birch trees, where the moss had grown thick enough to hold the footprints of spirits.
The sun climbed slowly, brushing the horizon with gold—the color of renewal, the shade of promise.

Maligowen stood at the edge of the lake where everything had begun.
The same water that had once mirrored a frightened child now reflected the calm face of someone who had seen both worlds and learned to walk between them.
The ripples at her feet carried stories—voices of ancestors, echoes of old prayers, the laughter of those who had once been and still were.

She knelt, pressing her palm against the water’s cool surface.
In that touch was gratitude—for the pain that had taught her compassion, for the silence that had shaped her strength, for the unseen hands that had guided her steps when she thought she walked alone.

The old teachings had said the world was a circle, and now she understood.
What you send out—love, anger, hope—returns in a form you might not recognize, but always with purpose.
What is taken is never lost; it simply changes shape.
The river that feeds the lake one day returns to the clouds, and the clouds to the river again.

Most Grateful and Prayers,

Curtis Brown