Skywoman: an immigrant story of kinship

dreaming of who we could be

Jun 18, 2025

Skywoman was tired.

She was so, so tired.

Her back ached from carrying the weight in her belly, the soft roundness protruding from her for the last several months, stretching her hips and pelvic bones, stretching her soul into someone new.

And her feet, they hurt continually, holding up her precious body, preparing her for the journey ahead.

She was so tired, and she was scared.

What waited for her there, in this new home that she’d never seen, with creatures she desperately hoped would be kin to her? What danger lurked, what joys awaited, and would she be utterly alone or immersed in community and care?

Journeys can be as difficult as they are beautiful. She knows this.

Skywoman was falling.

She was falling through the air, and it was like slow motion.

The best relief was in that aching lower back. If it weren’t for the dread of knowing she was free falling through the sky, she’d simply surrender, let everything go quiet and limp, let her body feel what her soul was speaking, trusting that Creator wouldn’t let her go for nothing.

So she tried, just for a few seconds, to let her hands and shoulders relax, except for the seeds she was holding, the ones she’d grabbed along the way as she ascended—those she kept tightly clenched, a far off dream of life and renewal, of sowing stories of hope.

Who was the first to notice her, this pregnant woman falling through the sky?

Maybe it was mshike, turtle, or zheshko, muskrat, or maybe the trees noticed her and began to breathe heavier, maybe the wind began to blow stronger, letting everyone know that something was changing in their atmosphere—someone new had arrived, and kinship was the only response necessary.

The beskesiyuk, geese saw her, though. They noticed as they were making their own journey across the sky for the season. If anyone understands migration and the power of community, it’s the geese, flying in formation, trading roles and places to care for the elderly and the young, showing up as best they can.

The geese saw her and knew what they had to do.

This is it, she thought, those few moments of surrender now surrendered themselves to utter despair.

She was flying through the air, and she couldn’t stop it.

What kind of journey was this? Why did Creator send her here, and why in such a tumultuous way? Why couldn’t she ride down on a cloud or be slowly lowered by some giant, unseen hand? Why this, why now?

She closed her eyes, hoping the pain wouldn’t last long. She began to cry, apologizing to her own womb, that the life inside wouldn’t see the world she’d been so expectant to understand and journey on together.

The beskesiyuk huddled closer, closer, letting the air hold them. Maybe they whispered to the winds, “we need your help, steady yourself against our wings, just for a while” or maybe they asked the clouds to give them some space.

They layered their wings over one another, and even stacked their regal bodies a few layers thick, knowing the woman who was falling was pregnant with life, and would need extra support. They smoothed their feathers and took a deep breath, and when they caught her, they sighed with relief.

Slowly, slowly, they lowered her, gliding left and right, left and right, a rhythm to put a baby or an exhausted mother to sleep, just for a moment or two.

She opened her eyes suddenly.

A pilgrimage, she knew, can be a difficult journey, one often taken alone.

But to her surprise, she wasn’t alone. She was being held, and not just being held, but tenderly and slowly being lowered down to the waiting ground. How did they see her, notice her, and why did they care?

Why would geese care for a woman with a handful of seeds?

Why would they care about an outsider looking for home?

Mshike waited patiently, their shell shined clean from the algae, the stones, the water and mud that had rubbed against it year after year after year.

Turtle was old. They knew it was time to give something new to the next generation, but what? Then they heard what the geese were up to. They worked with others to gather the dirt, to begin forming the land.

They just needed some seeds. Where might those come from?

Prayers For Turtle Island by Jackie Traverse

In the steady lowering, Skywoman slept. It was the deepest sleep for being the shortest nap; she woke up with relief, but she felt shy and embarrassed. She’d just been in such distress, a stranger in a new land, and these creatures caught her, held her, waited as she slept.

They fed her body and her soul.

Yes, these geese accepted her, but would everyone else? Once they reached the ground, once their lives bumped up against the lives of those already established, what then?

Then she saw the turtle, and she knew.

Turtle felt the weight of her as she descended upon their back. They let their legs sink down into the mud a little, knowing this was it, this time, this sacred moment to welcome and hold someone who would change everything.

That’s what happens, isn’t it? Turtle thought.

We are changed by those who show up at our doors looking for home.

In an instant, Turtle felt themself changing. Their arms were becoming roots, their shell becoming land, the mud and water around them soaking up all the generous energy from below, from the depths, to draw life upward. And this woman would receive it all with care and love.

Mshike smiled as they became the earth.

Skywoman lay with her back against the new earth. Deep below the surface, she could feel the pulsing heartbeat of Mshike, this new friend who gave up their entire being to become the foundation of everything. She would always remember.

Once she was recovered enough, she got up and walked around, dropping the seeds into the fresh dirt with gentleness. She sang a song for each one, a song for their future, for the future world and creatures and peoples waiting to be born.

She was a visitor here, and yet, this was her home. She was its future, too.

I’ve been sitting with the story of Skywoman for about a week now, as we watch Donald Trump target immigrants across the nation, as he spews hate and wartalk, as he singles out the most vulnerable and rewards violence, greed, racism, and hate.

Skywoman is an immigrant, who came from another land. The animals met her with kinship and solidarity; they cared for her as she began her new journey.

May we be like the geese, like Turtle. May we show up to those who are showing up at our doorsteps, falling through our skies, longing to be part of the future, longing to plant the seeds they’ve been gathering in their pockets, seeds that will become a part of this sacred earth we all share.

A quick hello to folks who are new to our community—welcome! I’m Kaitlin, an Indigenous poet-storyteller, public speaker, and award-winning author.

Most especially, I’m a complex human who wants to be part of healing in the world, and I think that’s probably why you’r here, too. I love this community; I love the care we’ve created here, and I hope you feel that as you arrive.

I love sharing stories with you all subscribers here, but if you’d like a closer look at some of my life and want to have access to monthly writing sessions, please consider becoming a paid subscriber to support my work:

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Mostly, I just want to thank you for being here. Please let me know in the comments what brought you here, what you hope to learn, or a little of your story. It means the world to me to get to know the community and see it grow in kinship and care.

The Liminality Journal

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