Grandmother Flower, First Flower Of Spring

The Prairie Crocus opened her petals as the sun broke through the overcast. 

First Flower Of The Spring
Grandmother Flower Returns
By Dakota Wind
Mandan, ND (TFS) – I awoke to the distinctive call of Tȟašiyagmuŋka, the Western Meadowlark, outside my window this morning. Last weekend I went out looking for what the settlers called the Pasque Flower, or the Prairie Crocus. The Lakȟóta have two names for the same flower: Hokšíčhekpa, or A Child’s Navel; Uŋčí Waȟčá, or Grandmother Flower. My search was unsuccessful until today.

I hiked on a trail located at a recreation area in the rolling hills of Heart River Country. The sky overhead was overcast with gray clouds and teased the possibility of rain. A light wind blew in from the west and picked the cold up off a lake yet frozen. Last year’s grass was matted from the weight of this winter’s snow; banks of snow lie scattered about the prairie steppe in protest of the coming spring. 

It's easy to see the Prairie Crocus against last year's brown grass.

I stepped off the trail and ascended the north face of a hill, stepping between brush and broken sandstone outcroppings, until I stood on the top. The scree of Čhetáŋ, a hawk, and the honking of a lonely Maǧá, a goose, echoed off the icy lake. I imagine their conversation for a moment, the solitary Maǧá honked, “Tuktél huwó?” and Čhetáŋ screed out into the sky, “WótA!” Maǧá asking where his flock was, Čhetáŋ replying that it’s time to eat.

Škipípi, Chickadee, flitted among the trees and brush whistling, “Alí,” an inquiry if spring has indeed arrived. Wakíŋyela, Mourning Dove, cooed an announcement to all that surely a rain was due. Ištáničatȟaŋka, the Horned Lark, sang out, “Optéptečela, optéptečela!” thinking that perhaps another snow was coming instead. Of all the birds to sing in the spring, it is Tȟašiyagmuŋka whos whistle rises above all, “Oíyokiphi! Ómakha Théča!” or, “Take pleasure! The new year [season] is here!” 

I had to manually focus my camera on the Prairie Crocus' golden heart. 

I reached the top of the hill and fell into step with another trail that took me along the plateau edge and straight to Uŋčí Waȟčá. Her purple robe is outstanding amongst last year’s brown grass and shattered sandstone. Last year’s prickly pear shown bright red against the grass, little bulbs of Missouri Pincushion sat in little round clumps, barbs from both still sharp, but it wasn’t cactus that brought me to the hills.

They say, a long time ago, that a young man went to pray on the hill at the end of winter. It was cold, lonely, and dark, and the young man drew his robe tight about himself. As he did so, a little voice called out in gratitude for the extra warmth. Over the course of the young man’s time on the hill, the flower assured him that he would have his vision. The young man eventually left after his quest was finished, and the flower shivered in the cold. Creator looked down on the flower, and offered gifts of her choice. She wanted a robe of her own, and said that she enjoyed the colors of the mornings and the warmth of the sun. 

From the side, one can see the "fur" of the Prairie Crocus. 

Creator bestowed upon Uŋčí Waȟčá a purple robe and painted her heart gold. She’s the first flower of the new year and as the first moon passes, her robe opens less and turns gray. The first flower sings courage to all the other flowers of the new season and reminds them not to fear their time, but to rejoice because their spirits will go on to color the rainbows. Once in a while, however, the robe of Uŋčí Waȟčá is white, which indicates that a bison drew its last breath in that spot.

The urge to pluck the soft fuzzy flowers is strong, but I can’t take from the earth without leaving a gift in return, so I leave all the Uŋčí Waȟčá as I found them. Long ago, the Lakȟóta gathered and used the whole flower from root to petal in treating arthritis. Someday, as the pain increases in the knuckles of my hands, I may return for these gentle flowers. 

One of many Prairie Crocus growing on a south-facing bluff.

The sun broke through the clouds as I prepared to leave the south-facing hillside, and the flowers began to open. I snapped a few more pictures as I made my way back to the trail. A Kaŋǧí, or Crow, let loose a raucous laugh I felt was at my expense. I was dressed as though it were a summer day, and it was still spring. Kaŋǧí laughed out, “Kȟá!” as if to say, “[You] should have [dressed for the weather]!” I stood and stretched, stiff from the cold, and walked back to my car wishing for my coat.

I thought I was by myself this morning, but in the midst of creation, Makȟóčhe Wašté, the Beautiful Country, was laughter, whistles, and songs that filled the air, and even the wind let up when I passed by the frozen lake.

Dakota Wind is an enrolled member of the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe. He is currently a university student working on a degree in History with a focus on American Indian and Western History. He maintains the history website The First Scout.

New Moon, New Year In The Moon Counting Tradition

Settlers called the first flower of spring "Prairie Crocus" or "Pasque Flower," but the Lakota people know it as Hoksicekpa, A Child's Navel, or "Wanahca Unci, Grandmother Flower. 

Moon Counting Tradition
New Moon, New Year: 2017-2018
By Dakota Wind
Great Plains, N.D. & S.D. (TFS) – Waná wétu ahí, Spring as arrived. Maǧá, the geese, have returned over the past month from their sojourn in the south, Wakíŋyela, the Mourning Doves, greet the mornings in the Missouri River valley with their queries of possible snow, and Škipípila, the Chickadees, whistle their queries into the wind if spring has indeed returned. Tȟašíyagmuŋka, the Western Meadowlark sings to all, “Oíyokiphi! Ómakȟa Tȟéča yeló!” “Take Pleasure! The New Season [Year] is here!”

The Lakȟóta moon counting tradition calls for incising a notch on a willow switch, a stick would suffice, with the passing of each moon (month). At the end of the year, one should have thirteen notches. The new month in this new cycle is known by a few names: Pȟeží Tȟó Alí Wí (The Green Grass Moon), Maǧá Aglí Wí (Moon When Geese Return), or Wakíŋyaŋ Aglí Wí (Moon Of Returning Thunder).

The 2017 spring equinox occurred on Monday, March 20. Many Lakȟóta journeyed to a special place in Ȟesápa, the Black Hills, to participate in an annual tradition reaching back thousands of years to welcome the Thunder. Some Lakȟóta call this special place Hiŋháŋ KáǧA Pahá, the Making Of Owls Peak. For many years, this highest peak of Ȟesápa, was known as Harney Peak, which some now call Black Elk Peak, in honor of the Oglála holy man.

When spring arrived, not all Lakȟóta made the journey to Ȟesápa. When winter camps broke, many took to the open Great Plains to engage in the first big game hunt of the Ómakȟa Tȟéča. This kind of hunt is called WanásA. Spring was also the time when the Húŋkpapȟa journeyed east to Čaŋsáŋsaŋ Wakpá, Creamy White Tree River (White Birch River; the James River), to trade with the Iháŋktȟuŋwaŋna (Yanktonai). One rendezvous point was where the Íŋyaŋ Iyá Wakpá, Talking Stone River (the Cannonball River) converges with Mníšoše, another rendezvous point where the Oglála met with the Iháŋktȟuŋwaŋ (Yankton), where the Čaŋsáŋsaŋ Wakpá converged with the Mníšoše.

In the Lakȟóta calendar tradition, the year is referred to as Waníyetu, or Winter. It was called such because winter was the longest season of the year, typically lasting five moons. Wétu, or Spring, lasted two months. Blokétu, or Summer, lasted four months. Ptaŋyétu, or Fall, lasted two months. The Lakȟóta calendar tradition may need to be revised in the future to reflect a change in weather. Deny climate change or acknowledge it, the growing season in North Dakota since 1879 has lengthened twelve days.

Since the equinox, a light rain fell, even as blankets of snow still linger on the landscape. Some might even say that the Thunders stayed on over the winter. Indeed, lightning and thunder was present at Standing Rock. The Mníšoše, the Water A-Stir (the Missouri River), has been breaking for a month now. Geese gather on and around the sandbars to feed before taking flight north.

This morning, in Heart River country, where the Heart River converges with Mníšoše, light wisps of clouds stretched across the eastern horizon and caught fire in the first rays of morning. Fog enveloped the Missouri River valley over a still Mníšoše, so still as to be a perfect mirror. The air is cool and crisp enough to leave whorls of frost on car windows, and a wind so light as to be barely a whisper.

One more sign by which the Lakȟóta know and celebrate Ómakȟa Tȟéča is by the blossoming of Hokšíčhekpa, A Child’s Navel (Prairie Crocus; Pasque Flower), also called Wanáȟča Uŋčí, Grandmother Flower. It is the first flower to appear and the first to take her journey. She sings songs to the other flowers, that their time will come, and not to worry when it does, for their spirits come together to make the rainbow. The entire flower is medicine, used to treat dry skin and arthritis. Her petals are purple and furry like a bison robe, and her heart is golden like the sun, though once in a while Wanáȟča Uŋčí emerges with a white robe which indicates a spot where a bison breathed his or her last breath.

I hiked the rolling hills in Heart River country over the weekend searching for Wanáȟča Uŋčí, but my search bore no results. I found dried and weathered prairie aster from last summer, hard and wrinkled prairie rose hips my grandmother would have called SákA, and lichen ranging from grey and green to brilliant orange and bright red on sandstone jutting out of the hillsides. The Lakȟóta call lichen Ziŋtkála Ipátȟapi, which means "Bird Embroidery." I’ll check again in a week’s time.

The Lakȟóta waníyetu, year, will last until March 16, 2018, which is 354 days. Or, as some would have it, the new year began on Monday, March 20, 2017. Ómakȟa Tȟéča yeló!

Dakota Wind is an enrolled member of the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe. He is currently a university student working on a degree in History with a focus on American Indian and Western History. He maintains the history website The First Scout.

Spring Returns

A black capped Chickadee rests on a branch.
Spring Returns
Pȟežítȟo Alí
By Dakota Wind
Bismarck, ND – My youngest son and I went for a hike north of Mandan, ND a few weeks ago. At the time, all the snow had melted but for icy remnants tucked away in constant shadow of tree, bush, or along the river banks. The sunlight was as light and warm as a constant summer day.

Meteorologists were prognosticating that there was one more snow on the way, but my faith in their reports is only about fair to partly. Then we heard the Mourning Dove. The Lakȟóta call this bird Wakíŋyela, and they say its springtime song it warns of late snow. There it was, cooing in the branches of quaking aspen and the buffalo berry bush, its song answered by the questioning tweet of škipípi, the chickadee. The Lakota say that when the škipípi sings in springtime it’s really asking if it’s still winter or if in fact that spring is here. We head home.

Then it snowed, but not enough to constitute an emergency shutdown of schools, roads, or work, but enough to lay a soft blanket of powder on the land. There was no roaring wind that came with the snow either, and at best, it might be described best as a quiet light breeze. The snow itself melted as soon as it touched the earth, at least until the earth itself was cold enough to maintain a little accumulation. Then it warmed up, and the snow melted away as quietly as it had come.

I decided to take another hike, and it was a good thing I did. A cool breeze embraced me in my solitary walk. But this breeze came somewhat from the south, over the rolling hills, and across a lake before it enfolded me.

The trail was long but not grueling, and only slightly muddy. A little snow remained collected in the shadows of trees and brush which grew on the north side of this one particular hill. The other side, the one I was aiming for, was covered with last year’s brown grass. The wind and snow had matted the middle grasses to the hilltop like hair on a fevered head.

Sandstone jutted out of the hillside like a toe that worked its way through an old sock. Broken sandstone, worn and blasted from years of wind and rain, lay strewn upon the sides of the hills. 

A Pasque Flower, or Easter Flower on the Northern Great Plains. 

I searched for the first flower of spring and eventually found it on a hillside facing the sun. Glowing in the sun and ready to open their purple petals to the sun. The settlers and their descendants call it the Pasque Flower or Easter Flower, but to the Lakȟóta its known by two names: Hokšíčekpa, which means “Child’s Navel,” because it resembles a child’s bellybutton that is healing after the cord has fallen off; Waȟčá Uŋčí, which means, “Grandmother Flower,” because as it is the first flower of the new year, it is also the first to die.

The Lakȟóta say that the Grandmother Flower sings to the other flowers of the season, telling them to have courage, and that all things go in their time. The flowers have spirits too, you see. They are the colors of the rainbows.

I looked around where the Grandmother Flower was growing and saw the return of something green. It was there, determined to grow, pushing its way through the surface of the earth.

I lay down upon the hillside and reached out and touched the flower before me. It looks like it has a coat of soft fur, and indeed, it is soft to my caress. The petals and leaves as well. Botanists could tell you that it is an ice age flower. That it evolved over time to bloom in the cold and ice. The Lakȟóta could tell you that this flower was gifted her coat, and the color of its coat, by the creator ages ago. Regardless what you would believe, the flower is medicine too.

My lekší Cedric shared with me that the Grandmother Flower can be used to treat dry skin. Others say that the whole flower is used to treat arthritis ailments.

The impulse to pluck the Grandmother flower is strong. The feeling is almost overwhelming as I lay on the ground looking at this flower. I remind myself that I have nothing to leave if I do take one, but also that I have no reason to take one in the first place. I take a few pictures instead, stand up, and dust off bits of dirt and grass. 

Origin of The Rainbow

"Rainbow over the Fort Pierre National Grasslands" by Greg Latza.
The Origin Of The Rainbow
The Spirits Of All The Flowers
Edited By Dakota Wind
Bismarck, N.D. - From the last snows of winter to the first frost of the next, from the Pasque Flowers and Easter Daisies in the lingering snows of spring to the White and Purple Asters of the cool fall, the native flowers of the open prairie rise from the heart of grandmother earth and beautify the grassy steppe.

The Lakȟóta say that long ago the flowers could speak. Long ago the Pasque Flower conversed with a young man and reassured him that he would receive a vision. They say that the Prairie Rose used to greet the Lakȟóta as they passed by, a shy flower anyway, became forever silent when its greetings were either unheard or unanswered.

They say that long ago, on a bright summer day, when all the flowers were out, dancing and bobbing in the wind with all their bright and beautiful colors, that they flowers were talking to one another about mortality and the hereafter. The Great Spirit listened to their conversation.

“I wonder where we will go with winter comes and we all must die,” said the flowers. “It doesn’t seem fair. We do our share to make grandmother earth a beautiful place to live. Should we not also go to a spirit country of our own?” they asked.

The Great Spirit carefully considered their questions and decided that the flowers would live on and their beauty would be remembered after the winter snows. Now, after a rain, we may look to the sky above and see all the pretty colors of the flowers from the past year making a beautiful rainbow across the heavens. [1]

In the ancient days, they say that the rainbow used to be solid, that one could actually touch the colors. Then one day a boy, in his rush to climb a rainbow, found sure footing and grip enough to climb the rainbow, and so he did. When he reached the top, he fired a blazing arrow to signal the people, but they couldn’t find it. When they searched for the boy, neither could they find him. The spirits kept the arrow and the boy elusive. Whenever they approached the rainbow it too proved elusive.

The Lakȟóta refer to rainbows as Wígmuŋke, or "A Snare." It is said that the wígmuŋke, causes the storm to end by trapping it, so that no more rain can fall. No one points at the wígmuŋke with their fingers, but use their lips or elbows if they gesture to it.

“When a rainbow comes everyone looks at it. But no one points at it. If you point at it you will suffer then. Your finger will grow very large. It gets big. It is bad to point at the rainbow.” Mrs. Amanda Grass, May 15, 1921. [2]

[1] Works Progress Administration. Legends Of The Mighty Sioux. 5th Printing ed. Whitefish, MT: Kessinger Publishing, LLC, 2008.

[2] Welch Dakota Papers

Purple Robe, Golden Heart: The Prairie Crocus

A Prairie Crocus flower blossoms on the Northern Great Plains.
Hokšíčhekpa, Wanáȟča Tȟá Unčí
Prairie Crocus, Grandmother Of The Flowers
By The First Scout
The Prairie Crocus is known by many names: Pasque/Passover Flower, Easter Flower, or Wind Flower. The Lakȟóta know this same flower as Hokšíčhekpa, or “Child’s Navel,” for it resembled a child’s navel in the process of healing after the umbilical cord has fallen off.

One of the legends associated with this flower is that long ago, it was white.

The Lakȟóta have the story of a young man who went to the hill to pray, a spiritual practice still with them today. As day became night, the air cooled, and the young man pulled his bison robe around himself for warmth. A small voice by his feet called out, “Thank you!” He looked down and was surprised to discover that it was a little white flower that addressed him.

As the days and nights passed, the young man and the white flower enjoyed one another’s company as they watched the yellow sun rise around a scene of purple mountains. The young man took great comfort in the little white flower’s companionship, who assured him that he would soon receive his vision.

On the last morning, the Morning Star rose into the sky and the young man received his vision; it was revealed to him that he would be a medicine man and help his people. For assuring the young man and for keeping him company, Morning Star gave the little white flower the option of choosing for herself three gifts.

The little white flower asked for a heavy robe of her own to keep her warm, the color of the purple mountains for her dress (petals), and the warmth of the golden sun in her heart. To this day, in the early spring, when winter snow can still appear, the little flower’s lavender robe opens to reveal her golden heart.

On occasion, Hokšíčhekpa opens a white robe. A white Hokšíčhekpa is very rare. When one encounters a white one, they say a bison drew its last breath in that very spot.

The Lakȟóta people say that the Hokšíčhekpa is the Unčí (Grandmother) of the flowers. She is the first to appear, announcing that spring is here and the bison will bear their young. She addresses all the other flowers as grandchildren. When all the birds have returned, and the animals have come back out, it is her time to die.

Hokšíčhekpa even inspires the other flowers with a song of encouragement, “Take courage children of the flower nation, you shall appear all over the land. As you wake and rise from Grandmother Earth, I stand here old and gray.”

She shows by her example that all must go on to the land prepared for them by their ancestors. Each spring Hokšíčhekpa returns to share the same message to the next generation of flowers.

The Council Of The Flowers

Fragrant Water Lilly in bloom, S.D., photo by National Park Service.

The Council Of The Flowers

Lowliest Flower Becomes Loveliest

As told by Mrs. Kick The Corn, 1915. (Note: Text has undergone some minor editing such as traditional Lakȟkóta names for the flowers.)

FORT YATES, N.D. - A long time ago all the Wanáȟča (Flowers) lived anywhere they happened to be. The Uŋžíŋžiŋtka (Prairie Rose), the Čhuŋwíyapehe Iyúwi (Wild Grape), the Waȟčázi (Sunflower), the Waȟpé Tȟó (Violet) and all the rest, lived side by side. They could not keep their families together. They were not pleased about this, so it was decided to hold a great council of the Wanáȟča Oyáte (Flower Nation) and divide the land among them, so that each could have their own places to live in.

So they all gathered together in one place and each made a speech and ate of the feast which was prepared. After several days of speech-making and celebration, it was decided the Uŋžíŋžiŋtka should grow on the prairie in the sunshine; the Čhuŋwíyapehe Iyúwi should live among the trees in the shade; the Waȟpé Tȟó should grow in the shade of the cool, moist forest places; the Waȟčázi should grow along the hot, dusty trail and all the other Wanáȟča and Čháŋ (Trees) should have his own place.

Then the council broke up and everybody started home. But a poor, ill-favored Wanáȟča came limping into camp just as the Wanáȟča Oyáte were going away.  It was tired, hungry and almost dead. It had had so far to come to the council that it had not arrived in time to present its claim to any ground to live in.

They decided to hold another council just for this poor Wanáȟča. But there was no other place for it to have, as all the ground was gone. But Iŋktómi (Spider) spoke with wisdom and said that there was some ground which had not been taken. This should be the poor Wanáȟča’s home, and on account of it having come so far and being so tired, he would call upon the Iŋktómi Oyáte to make it the most lovely Wanáȟča on Makȟóče’s (Grandmother’s) blanket.

So everyone was satisfied and the council broke up again and the Wanáȟča Oyáte went to their new homes. The Waȟpé Tȟó went into the cool, shady places; the Waȟčázi joyfully went to the dusty trails; the Čhuŋwíyapehe Iyúwi started to climb the great trees; the Uŋžíŋžiŋtka found a warm spot under the sun out on the prairie; and all the rest found their new places.

The ill-favored, stinking, little Wanáȟča which had come last to the council, then went to its new home in the ground beneath the waters of the ponds and slowly-moving waters of the small creeks, and grew to be the most beautiful of all flowers and, with the most pleasing breathe.

It is now called Mniȟčáȟča (Water Lily).

Wanáȟča: Flower

Uŋžíŋžiŋtka: Prairie Rose

Čhuŋwíyapehe Iyúwi: Wild Grape

Waȟčázi: Sunflower

Waȟpé Tȟó: Violet

Oyáte: People or Nation

Čháŋ: Tree

Iŋktómi: Spider or Trickster

Makȟóče: Grandmother Earth

Mniȟčáȟča: Water Lily