The Earth Remembers

Beneath the surface of the Earth, where roots tangle like old stories, our ancestors lie curled like seeds, silent, glowing, waiting. They were planted in a time of sorrow, when songs were outlawed and language was spoken only in whispers to the trees. But the Earth remembered. In her soil, their bones and dreams turned loss into memory, and memory into nourishment. Beneath our feet, the Little People, the Wa Wila, move softly through the dark, brushing soil from sleeping faces, whispering stories into resting ears, drumming softly with stones so the heartbeat of the land is never lost.

Above, the wind carries those old melodies through birch and cedar. A child walks the forest path, led by a feeling he can’t yet name, his steps falling in rhythm with something ancient. He kneels to plant maize, and the Earth shifts. A sprout rises where a hand once fell. A drumbeat echoes in the sky. From seed to sprout, from silence to song—they rise. You cannot kill a people whose culture is ceremony, whose very ancestors are sown into the land.

We are not buried. We are blooming.