Daughter to the Sky
A non-fiction essay as lived by Cinnamon Spear
I was born a daughter to the sky.
Vast expanses overhead have become my breath. My family and I would sit amongst prairie hills studded with pine trees, consuming countless sunsets. You could see for miles and miles. The sky would flow from a crisp blue to a subtler shade of purple. Passionate pinks and oranges would come just out of that finally resting upon a vibrant yellow source. I caught myself thinking once, “This looks exactly like a painting.” Yet, I was quick to remember that such a painting could only be based on what was right in front of me since Earth is the original artist. The lower the sun slipped, the more intense the colors became until the horizon swallowed the sun and yellow turned to orange. Slowly, the pink and purple would disappear and you were left with a velvety twilight. I held onto those sunsets as long as I could before fully embracing the black, sparkling sky.
The stars were my heroes. After a bad day, you could go outside and lift your head to the cosmos to see them shining for you. After a good day, you could do the same and they would be right there celebrating with you. As a child, I thought we humans should be more like stars, supporting one another no matter what. I loved that every person in the world, no matter their color, class, or creed, had the stars and moon to look up to, blessings from the universe offering light and hope to all. When I was a young girl I befriended the sun and as I travel the world now she remains my only constant. I realized this at eighteen years old. I once sat confused on a street bench in New Hampshire, feeling much too far from the pristine Montana plains that I’ve known as home. College brought concrete and my prairie breeze was traded for painted brick. Regretful and lonely, I lifted my eyes to the sky and found her—my friend. I turned my palms up and rested my wrists atop my legs, holding her warmth in my hands. I wasn’t alone. I drew upon her energy for strength like my people always have and recentered myself, smiling back in gratitude while basking in her presence. I’ve since come to know her beauty in many a setting. Peering through an arrangement of icicles, I’ve admired how she lifted herself sweetly above snow-capped mountains on an early morning in Denver, Colorado. I watched her tickle the tops of palm trees and warm the bases of cacti during a desert autumn day in Tucson, Arizona. I witnessed her disobey her bedtime by refusing to set until nearly midnight on a calm spring evening in Vilnius, Lithuania. I’ve seen her magic turn the entire ocean into a dancing pool of glitter from the beach in Waikiki, Oahu. I learned her rhythmic risings by studying how she slid across the horizon and back again throughout the year from the east-facing windows of my childhood home in Lame Deer, Montana. I am a daughter of the sky, but my heart beats from deep within the hills of my homelands on the Northern Cheyenne Indian Reservation. …show more content…
In a time much less littered by technology and handheld devices, my siblings and I ran in fields of green and brown, catching wood ticks and cockleburs but not minding either because they were no less a staple of summer than wildflowers, berry bushes, and butterflies. We would follow empty cattle trails up rises, climbing buttes to look down upon town as if we were on top of the world. We would lay our bodies flat at the point where earth and sky met and rest in the sanctuary of that connection. The world has much to offer us when we pay attention. There was a chokecherry tree outside the front door of our house. My sisters and I would watch its scrawny branches sprout hard green buds that would transition to a plush deep red before finally becoming juicy black bulbs. If left unpicked, they would eventually shrivel up and fall to the ground leaving the limbs naked again. The changing of seasons reminds us of the fragility of life. Since I
A non-fiction essay as lived by Cinnamon Spear
I was born a daughter to the sky.
Vast expanses overhead have become my breath. My family and I would sit amongst prairie hills studded with pine trees, consuming countless sunsets. You could see for miles and miles. The sky would flow from a crisp blue to a subtler shade of purple. Passionate pinks and oranges would come just out of that finally resting upon a vibrant yellow source. I caught myself thinking once, “This looks exactly like a painting.” Yet, I was quick to remember that such a painting could only be based on what was right in front of me since Earth is the original artist. The lower the sun slipped, the more intense the colors became until the horizon swallowed the sun and yellow turned to orange. Slowly, the pink and purple would disappear and you were left with a velvety twilight. I held onto those sunsets as long as I could before fully embracing the black, sparkling sky.
The stars were my heroes. After a bad day, you could go outside and lift your head to the cosmos to see them shining for you. After a good day, you could do the same and they would be right there celebrating with you. As a child, I thought we humans should be more like stars, supporting one another no matter what. I loved that every person in the world, no matter their color, class, or creed, had the stars and moon to look up to, blessings from the universe offering light and hope to all. When I was a young girl I befriended the sun and as I travel the world now she remains my only constant. I realized this at eighteen years old. I once sat confused on a street bench in New Hampshire, feeling much too far from the pristine Montana plains that I’ve known as home. College brought concrete and my prairie breeze was traded for painted brick. Regretful and lonely, I lifted my eyes to the sky and found her—my friend. I turned my palms up and rested my wrists atop my legs, holding her warmth in my hands. I wasn’t alone. I drew upon her energy for strength like my people always have and recentered myself, smiling back in gratitude while basking in her presence. I’ve since come to know her beauty in many a setting. Peering through an arrangement of icicles, I’ve admired how she lifted herself sweetly above snow-capped mountains on an early morning in Denver, Colorado. I watched her tickle the tops of palm trees and warm the bases of cacti during a desert autumn day in Tucson, Arizona. I witnessed her disobey her bedtime by refusing to set until nearly midnight on a calm spring evening in Vilnius, Lithuania. I’ve seen her magic turn the entire ocean into a dancing pool of glitter from the beach in Waikiki, Oahu. I learned her rhythmic risings by studying how she slid across the horizon and back again throughout the year from the east-facing windows of my childhood home in Lame Deer, Montana. I am a daughter of the sky, but my heart beats from deep within the hills of my homelands on the Northern Cheyenne Indian Reservation. …show more content…
In a time much less littered by technology and handheld devices, my siblings and I ran in fields of green and brown, catching wood ticks and cockleburs but not minding either because they were no less a staple of summer than wildflowers, berry bushes, and butterflies. We would follow empty cattle trails up rises, climbing buttes to look down upon town as if we were on top of the world. We would lay our bodies flat at the point where earth and sky met and rest in the sanctuary of that connection. The world has much to offer us when we pay attention. There was a chokecherry tree outside the front door of our house. My sisters and I would watch its scrawny branches sprout hard green buds that would transition to a plush deep red before finally becoming juicy black bulbs. If left unpicked, they would eventually shrivel up and fall to the ground leaving the limbs naked again. The changing of seasons reminds us of the fragility of life. Since I