Grandmother's Blueberry Pie

I invite you to join me as I share with you a story that embodies mindfulness and pieces of a beautiful memory making wild blueberry pies with my dearest kokomish, which is the meaning for grandmother in the Anishinaabe language. Storytelling is at the heart of Anishinaabe people's way of being since time immemorial. Through storytelling, we uplift teachings, moments, memories, legacies and so much more. Stories shared are a passing on of good medicine and knowledge from one generation to another and from one human being to another. So to begin, see if you can find a comfortable resting position. You might choose to soften your gaze or close your eyes for a moment here if it feels safe to do so. Perhaps you might imagine that you are someplace cozy, a place that invites a story. Give yourself permission to slow down and be still. With a deep inhale, see if you can quiet your mind and melt into a sense of calm. With a slow exhale, see if you can allow yourself to let go of something that is not serving you in this moment. Take a moment to check in with the quality of your thoughts at this time. Exhale judgment. Inhale compassion. You're welcome to open your eyes or you may choose to keep your eyes closed or gaze softened for the duration of this exercise. There was a place where my kokomish spent most of her time. Her kitchen was her place and so much magic and love medicine happened in her kitchen. Her life offerings were made in her kitchen and there, she made the most fabulous, heartwarming meals. Across the bay and the lands, she was known for her pies. My kokomish made the most delicious blueberry pies. This is no secret to those that knew her. She made her blueberry pies with a love that is so wild and wholesome, you can feel it on the first bite and also when her face swells with pride. Blueberry pie in Anishinaabemowin is miina-baashkiminasigani-biitoosijigani-bakwezhigan. I heard that this might be the longest word in the Anishinaabe language. It's also a word that brings with it equally the longest list of warm memories. The smell of fresh blueberries coated in sugar and a homemade crust curating notes of comfort and tenderness under strict surveillance at the perfect temperature so as not to burn. She trusted her experience and she trusted her knowledge. Her love was transferred to whatever she made. My kokomish did not rely on timers or measuring cups but on her sixth sense that was birthed into her by her own mother. Imagine that you are in such a place watching, listening and being nurtured by the sounds and smells of love. Imagine being nurtured by a kokomish or a mother who fed you such good medicine. My gachi-kokomish, great-grandmother, was traditional and lived a life close to the land. She was the one who taught my kokom how to be with...