Cottonwood Woman

In my work, the Cottonwood tree serves as both a method of inquiry and a guiding metaphor, shaping my understanding of how to remember, listen, and create. Addiction reflects a personal struggle rooted in history. It grows from the same soil of displacement and silence that our Ancestors endured. Healing does not mean erasing scars. It means learning to grow around them.  The Cottonwood shows her wounds openly, yet she remains tall. Our stories, though steeped in pain, reveal the truth that what we carry is not shame, but the undeniable strength of survival. Addiction, rather than creating a void, outlines the contours of lost connections. The scars we bear become woven into our strength.

The Importance of Visual Storytelling

I composed this Storywork titled "The Cottonwood Woman: When Nature Spoke to the Nuche Ute" to honor the profound relationship between the land and Indigenous peoples, especially during times when the world feels distant. I represent the Cottonwood as the Mother Tree because she embodies a relative, an Elder presence, and a witness to our histories. Her roots hold the memories of our people, and her leaves carry our prayers. She remembers us, even when struggles such as addiction pull us away from family, land, language, and our true selves.

This Storywork is significant as it acknowledges disconnection without shame and provides a path to reconnection through active listening. The roots represent our sources of strength, Ancestors, places, kinship, and responsibilities, while the branches encourage us to reach for the light and future choices. It also serves as a culturally grounded teaching tool, centering Indigenous women as knowledge holders and survivors, emphasizing their vital roles in preserving our narratives.

Cottonwood Woman - When Nature Spoke to the Nuche-Utes

I am the Mother Tree. As long as the rivers have flowed and the winds have sung their songs, I have stood here, my roots deep in the earth, drinking from the sacred waters below. My branches stretch upward, always seeking the light, and my leaves tremble with the stories that I carry for the land and all who walk upon it. I have witnessed the ebb and flow of life around me, as people come and go, sharing laughter, tears, and moments of prayer. I have embraced their secrets and carried their sorrows, feeling the weight of their stories unfold.

One day, she came to me, a woman burdened by her pain. I heard her before I saw her; her cries carried on the wind like a broken melody. She stumbled to my roots and fell to her knees, her body shaking as though her spirit was trying to leave her.

 Her tears soaked the earth, and I felt the ache in her heart. She was like a branch torn from its tree, disconnected from the roots that once gave her strength. They remembered her, but she had forgotten how to listen and hear their voices.

  “Why are you here, child?”  I whispered through the rustling of my leaves.

 She looked up, startled by my voice, her tear-streaked face lifting to meet my gaze. “I am lost,” she said, her voice raw and broken. “The drink and the poison of drugs have taken everything: my family, my land, my language, my identity, my culture. I no longer know who I am. I came here because I did not know where else to go.”

 I swayed gently, my branches moving as if to cradle her in their shadow. “You came to the right place, child. I have seen your pain. I have heard your cries. You are not lost; you are only resting. You are not forgotten; you have simply forgotten yourself and how to listen.”

 Her head bowed low, tears cascading like heavy rain down her cheeks, each drop tracing a path through the dirt that clung to her skin, a veil shrouding the bruises of her soul. “I do not know how to find my way back,” she whispered, vulnerability woven into her words. I do not know how to find myself, which has been scattered in the shadows.”

“You are like me,” I told her. “Do you see my roots? They stretch deep into the earth and reach the waters that give me life. Moreover, do you see my branches? They reach upward, always toward the Creator’s light. You are the same; your roots connect you to your people, land, and Ancestors. Your branches hold the dreams of who you can still become. However, you must remember and listen.”

    “How can I?” she asked, her voice shaky. “What can I do to reconnect with my Ancestors and truly hear the essence of nature?”

     I reached down with my whispers and let one of my leaves fall into her lap. She picked it up and stared at it, her finger tracing its shape.

     “Do you see this leaf?” I asked gently. “Its shape resembles your heart, as it embodies your story. Every scar, every pain, every joy is etched here. Your heart encapsulates your bond with the land, family, and Ancestors. Take this leaf and let it accompany you on your journey. Allow it to remind you that you are never truly alone. The land remembers you, even when you may forget and fail to listen. I will always honor your memory and speak your name.”

     She held the leaf close to her heart, and gradually, her tears began to slow. The gentle breeze rustled through my branches, and I sang her a song about the rivers, the mountains, and the stars. I sang for the women who had come before her, those who wept beneath my shade and discovered their true roots. She remained with me until the sun began to dip below the horizon, her body calm, and her spirit felt lighter. When she finally stood to leave, she placed her hand on my trunk and whispered, "Turgruyayk – Thank you."

    I watched her walk away, her steps uncertain but steady. I understand that her journey will be challenging, but I believe she carries the strength of her Ancestors and the memories of creation's light in her heart. She will discover her path.

    Years went by, and she walked under my branches, accompanied by her family and children. She stood proudly, her eyes shining and her spirit vibrant. As she placed her hand against my trunk, she softly expressed her gratitude in the language of her Ancestors. In that moment, the connection was palpable; I could feel her presence as she recognized that I was listening. The land embraced her return, allowing her to rediscover who she truly is and to listen with the innocence she had as a child.

    For I am Mother Tree, and my purpose is to embrace those who seek solace beneath my branches. I gently remind them of their Ancestral roots, their inner strength, and the profound connection they have with the natural world. I serve as a bridge between the earth and the sky, weaving together experiences of sorrow and healing, and connecting what was lost to what can be rediscovered. Should you ever feel lost, I invite you to come to me, sit at my roots, and hold one of my leaves while you listen. The land remembers you, and I remember you. You can hear my voice, my blessings, and the prayer songs I offer just for you.

This is how we listen. In loving memory of Gina Simmons.