Donna Anderson

As we begin to feel the subtle shift in seasons, even before spring fully arrives, I find myself thinking about the different ways we try to change our lives. Sometimes transformation looks physical. We commit to working out, change our hairstyle, or refresh our wardrobe. Sometimes it is mental. We shift our thinking, practice positive self talk, and set new goals.

We begin to pin our hopes on what is coming.

Summer starts to take shape in our minds. Days on the lake. Early mornings on the golf course. Music festivals. Gardening. For many in Treaty 3 communities, it means returning to the powwow trail, maybe dancing for the first time in a long time. These visions carry us through the final stretch of winter.

There is something powerful about the first warm day. The sun feels different. It reaches deeper. People step outside and linger a little longer. For those who struggle through the winter months, especially with seasonal depression, this shift can feel like relief. The cold, the quiet, and the shorter days can weigh heavily on the mind. When the light returns, so does a sense of energy. A sense of possibility.

Spring asks something of us.

It asks us to wake up. To move. To clean. To prepare. Even something as simple as opening windows or beginning a spring cleaning routine takes energy. It signals a readiness to begin again.

In Anishinaabe teachings, this season carries the spirit of renewal. Life returns in visible ways. Animals give birth. Leaves begin to bud. The ice cracks and shifts on the lake, and the rivers begin to flow again. Ceremonies take place where items are feasted, and prayers are offered. There is a quiet but powerful understanding that everything is moving forward, even if it happens slowly.

It is a season filled with anticipation.

Our communities transform too.

After months of being inside, there is a noticeable shift. People gather more. The streets become busier. Tourism begins to return, bringing visitors back to a place many consider their second home. Restaurants fill up. Roads carry more traffic. Stores feel alive again. Construction and renovations begin, with homes and buildings being refreshed after a long winter. There is movement everywhere.

It feels like a collective exhale.

I felt that sense of renewal recently while spending time with Niisaachewan community members and attending their own day powwow, organized by youth. There was something powerful about witnessing young people take the lead in bringing their community together. The drums, the dancing, the laughter, and the pride were all there. It was a reflection of what happens when youth are supported and culture is nurtured.

But spring does not only reveal beauty.

As the snow melts, it also uncovers what has been hidden. In our communities, we begin to see more of those who are unhoused, now visible as they sleep outside in the warmer weather. The ground reveals scattered needles and other reminders of the struggles that exist year-round, even when they are less visible in the winter months.

This is also part of transformation.

It asks us to look more closely. To see what is in front of us without turning away. The transformation that would make the greatest impact is not simply the change of season, but a change in how we respond. Housing, safety, and support are not individual issues. They are community responsibilities.

Many people are loved. Many have families who care for them in ways that are not always visible. But there are also complex challenges. Addiction, trauma, and exploitation continue to affect our people. These are not problems that disappear with warmer weather.

If spring is about renewal, then we must ask ourselves what we are renewing.

Are we only renewing our homes and routines, or are we renewing our commitment to one another?

Transformation is often talked about as something personal. We set goals. We make plans. We try to become better versions of ourselves. But true transformation extends beyond the individual. It shows up in how we care for our communities, especially the most vulnerable among us.

Spring reminds us that change is possible. That growth can happen after long periods of stillness. That life continues, even after the harshest conditions.

But it also reminds us that transformation is not passive.

It requires action. It requires compassion. It requires us to be honest about what needs to change, and to be willing to take part in that change.

As we move toward warmer days, I carry both truths with me. The excitement of what is to come, and the responsibility of what is already here. The beauty of renewal, and the work that still needs to be done.

Transformation is not just about becoming something new.

It is about becoming more aware, more connected, and more willing to care.

We often speak about love as something we give outward. We love our families. We love our friends. We love our communities. We show up, we volunteer, we care, and we give. But we do not always pause to consider how love begins within us, or how deeply it shapes everything that flows from us. Love is not only a feeling. It is a practice. It is something we choose, return to, and carry forward.

I was reminded of this recently while emceeing an event where speakers and Elders spoke about love in the home. Not love as perfection, but love as presence. Love as patience. Love as showing up again and again, even when it is uncomfortable or tiring. What stood out to me most was how often self care and self respect were woven into these teachings. You cannot pour endlessly without replenishing yourself. You cannot teach love if you are denying it to yourself.

Showing up for yourself is not selfish. It is foundational.

There is an Ojibway phrase my mom teaches my son. Their way of saying “I love you.” The word is Gizhawenimin. Watching them exchange that word reminds me that love lives in language. It lives in repetition, in tone, and in the intention behind the words we choose. That single word carries tenderness, care, and connection. It also carries responsibility. It is love for one another, and love for where we come from.

Language itself is an act of love.

When we choose to speak our language, to teach it, or to learn it slowly and imperfectly, we are choosing to care for something precious. We are saying that our stories matter. That our ways of expressing love matter. That future generations deserve to inherit more than silence. Love for culture and language is not passive. It is active, deliberate, and often brave.

At that same event, I treated myself to a pair of earrings from an Indigenous crafter. They were made with shells shaped like hearts. I did not buy them for a milestone or celebration. I bought them as a quiet reminder. A reminder to care for myself with the same thoughtfulness I extend to others. For days afterward, I found myself wanting to radiate love. To soften my approach. To move through my days with more intention. To remember that loving myself is not separate from loving my community. It is part of it.

Self love does not always look like grand gestures. Sometimes it looks like rest. Sometimes it looks like boundaries. Sometimes it looks like forgiveness. Sometimes it looks like allowing yourself to receive beauty without justification.

When we love ourselves well, that love spills outward.

I see that reflected across our community in countless ways. Organizations like the Kenora Lake of the Woods Community Foundation exist because people care deeply. People give their time, their energy, and their resources because love moves them to action. That same spirit was present during the Festival of Trees. People come together to share stories, creativity, and pride, not for personal recognition, but out of love for community. Out of belief that this place matters.

People do not show up like that without love guiding them.

Love is also what brings people together during times of challenge and transition. It is what inspires volunteers, organizers, and leaders to keep going even when the work is heavy. It is what encourages people to check in on one another, to share food, to offer rides, to listen. Love shows itself in consistency. In generosity. In the quiet ways people keep choosing each other.

When we talk about love, it is important to move beyond idealized versions. Love is not always soft or easy. Sometimes love asks us to be honest. Sometimes it asks us to rest. Sometimes it asks us to change. Loving yourself may mean slowing down when the world tells you to keep pushing. Loving your community may mean holding space for discomfort so growth can happen.

At its core, love is about care. Care for self. Care for others. Care for culture. Care for the future.

The teachings shared by the Elders and event speakers reminded me that love in the home shapes everything beyond it. Children learn how to love themselves by watching how they are treated. They learn how to love others by observing how adults care for themselves. When we model gentleness, patience, and self respect, we give others permission to do the same.

Gizhawenimin is more than a word. It is a way of moving through the world. It is love spoken aloud. Love practiced daily. Love passed down.

When we pour love into ourselves, we strengthen our relationships. When we pour love into our communities, we build something that lasts. When we pour love into our language and culture, we ensure that future generations have words for care, connection, and belonging.

Love powers us. It sustains us. It quietly moves mountains without needing to announce itself.

And when we allow ourselves to live from that place, when we choose love as practice, we create communities of care, resilience, and hope.

When the first snow settles across the ground and the water begins to freeze, our bodies instinctively shift. We steady our movements and adjust to a different way of being. We slow down on the highway and measure each step, knowing that a thin layer of ice can undo us without warning. It might be a minor slip in a parking lot that makes us wince the next morning, or a life-altering accident that leaves a lasting mark. Winter reminds us that we cannot escape the hard lessons in life.  

Grief is its own kind of ice.

We know of its potential to disrupt and derail. It can stop us in our tracks or send us into a spiral we did not see coming. When grief arrives, our hearts freeze in place while our minds struggle to keep moving. Some of us thaw in isolation. Some thaw in the warmth of community. We are all different in how we melt our way back into life.

There is no healing in the sense of returning to who we once were. Instead, we learn to mend the fragile relationship between heart and mind. The only way to survive deep loss is to forgive ourselves. We must forgive the sluggish thinking, the lack of interest in life, the emotions that arrive without warning, and the guilt that swings between quiet simmer and rolling boil.

Many find comfort in the familiar stages of grief. Naming what we feel can bring relief. Others anchor themselves in faith or spiritual connection, trusting that a higher power holds them even when the circumstances are impossible to understand. And some struggle through their grief like a person lost in the snowstorm, slipping into harmful ways of coping, just trying to find their way through the cold.

I have been many of these people at once.    

For me, grief brought a kind of isolation I did not know how to break. Being in public felt overwhelming. Being in community felt too vulnerable. So, I stayed alone until I eventually made the decision to come home to Kenora in 2019 where I could grieve with my family and the people who raised me. I am grateful that returning home was an option. Many do not have that choice, and many carry their grief far from the places that shaped them.

There are Anishinaabe teachings and ceremonies entrusted to knowledge keepers that help communities move through grief. These teachings are not mine to share in detail. What I can share is that they bring me comfort. They remind us that grief is not meant to be rushed or hidden. It is meant to be acknowledged and carried with care.

One teaching that my family follows is to quiet ourselves when there is a death. We steady ourselves. We slow down. We sit with it. It is not about being stoic or shutting off emotion. It is about honouring the person who has passed by creating stillness around their memory. In that quiet, we recognize the importance of the life they lived and the impact they leave behind.

As I prepared to write about grief this month, I observed many communities experiencing loss. I watched how people gathered, how they fed one another, how they shared stories and remembered the best parts of those they lost. There was sadness, of course, but also love. There was gentleness. There was care. Communities came together to honour their loved ones in the ways they knew best.

What I have learned through my own grief, and from witnessing the grief of others, is that we are not meant to navigate loss with perfection. We stumble. We withdraw. We reach out at the wrong times or not at all. We forget things. We cry in conference rooms and grocery store aisles. We become tired in a way that feels heavy in the bones. And still, we keep going.

Hope comes softly, not as a sudden burst of sunshine, but as small glimmers that remind us we are still alive. A laugh we did not expect. A memory that warms instead of wounds. A friend who texts at the perfect moment. A teaching that settles in our heart. A ceremony that brings peace. A sunset that catches us off guard.

Hope does not erase grief, but it gives us a place to rest.

Forgiveness is part of that hope. Gentleness is part of that hope. Community is part of that hope. Honouring our loved ones is part of that hope.

In winter, we learn to walk carefully on icy ground. We take our time. We stay aware. We adjust. Over time, we become skilled at recognizing where the danger lies and where the footing is steady.

Grief asks the same of us.

It teaches us to move through life with more awareness and more tenderness toward ourselves and others. It teaches us that our hearts can break and still continue. And it teaches us that even in the coldest seasons of our lives, we are never truly alone. Our loved ones walk with us, and our communities stand around us, steadying us as we find our way.  

October in Kenora stitched itself together in ways I did not expect this year. I found myself moving between spaces that could not have been more different. There was a mental health gala with Winnipeg Jets alumni, a film screening about the history and conflict at Anicinabe Park, a night of laughter and pointy hats at the annual Witches Walk, and a Fall Feast in Wauzhushk Onigum where my mom was asked to offer an opening prayer. On paper, these events have nothing in common. The crowds, the moods, and the purposes were all different.

As the month unfolded, a quiet thread kept appearing. Community. The real kind. The kind that shows up, speaks up, cooks meals, laughs loudly, shares stories, faces truths, and keeps trying to build something better. Somewhere in the middle of all this, I found myself thinking about Mino Bimaadiziwin, which is often understood as living the good life in Anishinaabemowin. These moments reflected that teaching in unexpected ways.

Rally for Children’s Mental Health Gala: Showing Up for Youth

My first event was the Rally for Children’s Mental Health Gala hosted by Triple P.L.A.Y. and Winnipeg Jets Alumni and Friends. The proceeds supported True North Youth Foundation’s Project 11. The room was filled with people dressed for an evening out, but beneath the formal wear was a shared determination to support children’s mental health.

What stayed with me most were the words and wisdom of the speakers, their stories, their courage, and their vision for our youth. Each one spoke from the heart about the challenges young people face and the importance of standing beside them with compassion and consistency. And beyond the program itself, the conversations happening between people truly moved me. There was honesty, hope, and a shared sense of responsibility in the room. You could feel a collective desire to make mental health supports more accessible for young people in our region. The work of youth wellness is serious, yet the atmosphere felt vibrant and alive. People cared, and that care was visible.

This, to me, is part of Mino Bimaadiziwin. It is the act of caring for the next generation and recognizing that good mental health is something we all help nurture.

Ni-Naadamaadiz: Red Power Rising and Witnessing Our Stories

The next day, I attended the screening of Ni-Naadamaadiz, Red Power Rising, produced by Tanya Talaga. The room and the energy were very different from the gala. The story explored history, conflict, truth, and the layers connected to Anicinabe Park. For many, this land holds meaning, memory, and complexity.

As the film played, I noticed the way people watched it. They leaned into the story instead of away from it. Stories about land and history, especially in a place like Kenora, are more than entertainment. They are reflections of who we are, of what has shaped us, and of the work that still needs to be done.

There is courage in sitting with hard truths, but there is healing too. Mino Bimaadiziwin is not about pretending everything is simple. It includes honesty, clarity, and the willingness to face what has shaped our communities.

The Witches Walk and a Night of Laughter

Then came the Witches Walk supporting The Leo Project and the Kenora Veterinary Clinic. If the gala was heartfelt and the film screening was reflective, this event was pure joy. People spent the night in costumes. Some were spooky, others were hilarious, and all were full of personality. Laughter moved through the streets, and strangers complimented each other freely. For one evening, the community showed up not to solve anything but to simply enjoy time together.

Community is not always solemn. Sometimes it looks like play. Sometimes it looks like laughter in the cold October wind. Joy is a teaching too. Laughter can be medicine. Allowing ourselves to have fun is one of the ways a community stays strong.

A Fall Feast and a Small but Meaningful Moment

The moment that grounded me the most this month happened at a Fall Feast. My mom was asked to give an opening prayer. She speaks Anishinaabemowin beautifully, but she remains humble as she grows into Elder roles, still feeling her way into responsibilities that others already see in her.

Watching her offer that prayer filled me with a quiet kind of pride. In our culture, stepping into these roles is not a performance. It is a responsibility. Seeing her in that moment reminded me of my own relationship with our language and how much I want to learn it. It was a reminder that community begins with small things: a prayer offered in the language, the sharing of food, and the presence of family.

MC’ing and Meeting the Next Generation

I ended the month by MC’ing a multi-day event for groups of teen girls. Looking at them, I saw pieces of myself at that age. Some were quiet, others were bold, and many were trying to figure out who they wanted to become. As I spoke with them, I realized how much I have grown from the shy and sometimes rebellious version of myself. I have become someone who tries to bring warmth into every room I enter. That realization was another teaching from this month. Being part of a community means thinking about the kind of presence we offer to others.

Weaving the Month Together

If there is one lesson that October shared with me over and over, it is this. Mino Bimaadiziwin is not a single path. It is a collection of choices. Some days it is honesty. Some days it is joy. Some days it is prayer. Some days it is showing up for young people. Some days it is the simple willingness to learn.

These events were different in every possible way, yet together they reminded me that the good life is found in how we lift one another up, how we face the truth, how we celebrate joy, and how we walk gently together into whatever comes next.