(The Elder sits by a small fire, the crackling flames casting dancing shadows on his weathered face. He wears a simple leather shirt adorned with intricate beadwork. He gestures towards a dream catcher hanging from a nearby branch, its feathers swaying gently in the evening breeze.)
Hello, my young relatives. Sit close, listen well. I will share a story, a teaching passed down to me by my Dodo, my grandmother, a story woven into the very fabric of our people, like the threads of this dreamcatcher.
(I closed my eyes for a moment, picturing my grandmother.)
I remember Dodo, her hands gnarled with age, yet nimble as a hummingbird’s wings. She would invite me into the kitchen where she would often share a cup of tea with me. It was there, in the kitchen next to the window, under the watchful gaze of the setting sun, that she first told me this story.
Long ago, one of our women, a gatherer of berries, walked far along the riverbank. She knew where the juiciest berries grew, plump and bursting with sweetness, like tiny gifts from the Creator. She followed the river, the water singing its ancient song, until she reached her favorite spot, where the wild roses bloomed in abundance, their fragrant petals a splash of color against the green. But the earth, sometimes treacherous, gave way beneath her feet. She fell, striking her head on a smooth river stone.
When she awoke, disoriented, she looked up. Above her, a spider had spun its web, a delicate tapestry of silken threads, catching the last rays of the setting sun. The web shimmered, a fragile net against the darkening sky. She was alone, injured, and fear crept into her heart. She called out to the Creator, her voice a whisper in the vastness of the land. She prayed for strength, for guidance, for protection.
(I paused, looking into the fire before continuing the story.)
She drifted in and out of consciousness, her prayers a constant hum in her heart. As dawn approached, she saw the dew gather on the spider’s web. Each tiny droplet, a perfect sphere of light, reflected the first rays of the rising sun, like a thousand tiny stars caught in a silken net. She watched as the sun climbed higher, and one by one, the dewdrops vanished, drawn back into the morning mist. And as the very last drop disappeared, a young man from our village appeared as if from the morning mist. He gently lifted her, placed her scattered basket of berries back in her arms, and carried her home, his footsteps light upon the earth.
The village had been searching for her, their hearts heavy with worry. When she returned, safe, she told them of her vision. She spoke of the spider's web, shimmering with dew, and the message she received from the Creator. The spider, a powerful teacher, and the Creator spoke to her in her dreams: “Your prayers were heard. When the last dewdrop fades, help will arrive.”
She understood the meaning of this vision. She took a willow branch, bending it into a circle, representing the circle of life, the continuous cycle of day and night, of seasons, of life and death. She wove sinew across the hoop, mimicking the spider’s web, a symbol of protection and connection. She adorned it with feathers from the eagle, representing strength and courage, and beads, representing the dewdrops, the tears of the earth, and the interconnectedness of all living things.
That night, gathered around the fire, under the vast expanse of the star-filled sky, she shared her story and held up her creation. “This,” she said, “is a dreamcatcher. It catches the bad dreams, the troubling thoughts that can cloud our minds, like the web catches the dew. These bad dreams vanish with the first light of dawn, just as the dew disappears with the rising sun. The good dreams, the visions of hope and guidance, slip through the center hole, bringing us wisdom and strength.”
And so, the dream catcher became a sacred object, a reminder of the Creator’s love, the power of prayer, and the importance of hope. We hang it above our sleeping places, allowing the good dreams to guide us on our path, and the bad dreams to fade away with the morning light. This is a teaching passed down through generations, a reminder that even in our darkest moments, hope and help are always near, like the rising sun after the longest night. Remember this story, my relatives. Keep it in your hearts, and let it guide you on your journey.
Told to me by may grandmother “Dodo”, handed down from the generations, retold by me.