My family is Native American, and I was raised with Native

Host: The firelight cracked and whispered in the still night, throwing shadows that danced along the edges of a clearing deep in the forest. The air was thick with the smell of pine and burning sage. Above them, a wide sky spread — a black ocean pierced with countless stars. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled, its voice rising like a prayer into the unseen.

Jack sat on a fallen log, his hands clasped, his grey eyes fixed on the flames. Jeeny sat across from him, a woven blanket draped around her shoulders, her dark hair catching the light like a black river. Between them, the fire’s glow pulsed softly — alive, breathing.

Host: The night was sacred. Even the wind seemed to know it, brushing softly through the trees as if careful not to disturb what was unfolding.

Jeeny: “Eric Balfour once said, ‘My family is Native American, and I was raised with Native American ceremonies.’” (She gazed into the fire.) “Do you ever wonder what that means, Jack? To be raised not just in a house or a city — but in a ceremony?”

Jack: (his voice low, steady) “Ceremonies don’t change the world, Jeeny. People do. You can light all the fires you want, chant to the stars — it doesn’t stop the world from chewing you up. Belief doesn’t feed you. It doesn’t pay rent.”

Host: The fire popped, a small burst of light. Jack’s face flickered between light and shadow, the skeptic and the believer colliding within his own features.

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the point. Maybe ceremonies aren’t meant to change the world — they’re meant to change us. To remind us that we’re not separate from the earth, or from each other.”

Jack: (snorts softly) “Sounds poetic. But you know what I think it really is? Nostalgia. A way to feel control in a chaotic universe. You burn sage, you sing to the moon — it’s comforting, sure. But it’s still just smoke and stories.”

Host: The wind shifted, and the flames bent toward Jack as though reacting to his words. A single spark floated upward and vanished into the darkness.

Jeeny: (softly) “You call them stories. But stories built civilizations, Jack. Stories taught people how to live before we had books or schools. When Native Americans danced for the harvest or prayed at the river, they weren’t being naive. They were being grateful. They were remembering that survival isn’t just about logic — it’s about belonging.”

Jack: “Belonging doesn’t stop bullets. Or pipelines. Or politicians.”

Jeeny: “No. But it gives people something worth defending. You think ceremonies are just superstition — but to them, it’s connection. To the land, to ancestors, to every life that came before. That kind of strength doesn’t die easy.”

Host: A silence followed — long, thoughtful, filled with the hum of crickets and the hiss of fire. Jack’s hands rubbed together slowly, like he was trying to find warmth not just from the cold, but from understanding.

Jack: “You know, I grew up in a place where survival meant something different. It meant numbers, strategy, hustle. There was no ritual for getting through the day — just work. Maybe that’s why I don’t get this stuff. It’s… foreign.”

Jeeny: (her voice soft, but sure) “Maybe it’s not foreign. Maybe it’s forgotten. The ceremony doesn’t have to be tribal — it can be a morning walk, a shared meal, a quiet moment before sleep. It’s how we make meaning out of existence. Without it, we become machines — efficient, but empty.”

Host: The firelight revealed a flicker of something in Jack’s eyes — not quite agreement, not yet — but the beginning of listening. He reached for a twig and tossed it into the fire. The flame rose, swallowed it, and kept breathing.

Jack: “You make it sound like ceremony is medicine.”

Jeeny: “It is. It heals what science can’t touch — the loneliness of being human. When Native people gather in a circle, it’s not about worship. It’s about remembering the circle of life — that what we take, we must also give. Tell me, Jack… when was the last time you felt part of something bigger than yourself?”

Host: The question landed like an arrow. Jack looked away, his jaw tightening, his breath shallow. The forest around them seemed to hold its own breath.

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe I don’t believe in anything bigger. Maybe that’s how I stay sane. Believing in nothing means nothing can betray you.”

Jeeny: (leans forward, her eyes glowing) “And yet, here you are — sitting by a fire, in the woods, under stars you didn’t make. You think that’s nothing? You’re surrounded by meaning, Jack — you’re just afraid to name it.”

Host: The flames danced higher, their light licking at the bark of nearby trees. A small gust of wind carried the scent of sage and earth through the air, wrapping the moment in an ancient calm.

Jack: “You sound like one of those old prophets. Next, you’ll tell me the river has a soul.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it does. The Lakota say water remembers. The Cherokee say stones have memory. You can laugh, but think about it — scientists have proven emotional stress changes the chemical structure of water. So maybe ceremony isn’t mysticism. Maybe it’s science we don’t yet understand.”

Host: Jack raised an eyebrow, but didn’t laugh this time. The crickets’ song swelled — a quiet orchestra behind them.

Jack: “Okay… say you’re right. Say ceremony connects us. What good is it now? The world’s burning — literally. Forests, oceans, everything. Believing in spirits won’t stop that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But forgetting them is what caused it. When we stopped seeing rivers as sacred, we polluted them. When we stopped dancing for the rain, we forgot gratitude. The world didn’t start burning when we believed — it started burning when we stopped.”

Host: The fire cracked, sending sparks into the sky like fragments of truth scattering into the unknown. Jack watched them rise, his expression softening, his shoulders lowering as if some invisible burden had shifted.

Jack: (quietly) “You know… my mother used to light a candle before dinner. Every night. Said it was for good spirits, though she never explained what that meant. After she died, I stopped doing it. I guess I told myself it was pointless.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Maybe it wasn’t about the candle. Maybe it was about remembering that even in darkness, something can still burn.”

Host: Her words fell like embers, warm and lingering. Jack looked into the fire, his face illuminated with something between sorrow and peace.

Jack: “So, ceremony isn’t superstition — it’s memory.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the language of gratitude. The same one Balfour meant when he said he was raised in ceremonies. It’s how you say to the universe, ‘I see you.’ And maybe that’s all the universe ever needed from us.”

Host: The moon climbed higher, silver and vast, bathing the forest in quiet light. The fire burned lower, glowing now instead of raging — steady, patient, alive.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Maybe we should make our own ceremony tonight.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “We already have.”

Host: The camera of the night pulled back — two figures by a dying fire, surrounded by ancient trees, beneath a sky older than memory. No churches, no altars, no gods — only earth, flame, and silence.

In that moment, ceremony wasn’t a tradition. It was the simple act of being alive — and knowing it.

Host: The wind sighed once more, carrying with it the faint smell of sage and smoke — and perhaps, somewhere in its endless path, the whisper of every prayer that had ever touched the stars.