A Reflection on the Anishinaabe Teachings That Guide My Feet
Before I ever heard the phrase “the good road,” I felt it. Out on a trail at mile 40, when the body is aching but something deeper says keep going. When your feet are blistered, the woods are empty, and you catch yourself whispering thanks to no one in particular—for the sky, for the dirt, for your breath. That’s when it came to me: this is a road, and not just in the physical sense. This is the path I choose to walk. A reflection of how I move through life, not just through terrain.
Later, I came across the Seven Grandfather Teachings from the Anishinaabe people—a confederation of Indigenous Nations that includes the Ojibwe, Odawa, and Potawatomi. These teachings, passed down through generations, speak of seven guiding principles gifted to a boy who was taken in by seven sacred beings—the Grandfathers. When I read the story, it was like being handed a map for something I already half-knew.
The story and its teachings are not mine—they belong to the Anishinaabe people, and I share them here with respect, not as appropriation, but as reverence. I don’t remember where I read it or how to find the exact retelling, so I’ve adapted it here for you to read, too.
What spoke to me most was the idea of the Good Road: a path each person must walk with intention, humility, and heart. As a long-distance trail runner, that metaphor hit like lightning. I don’t run just for races. I run to remember how to live. And this story reminds me of why I keep showing up—on the trail and in life.
Sunrise over Lake of the Clouds in Michigan, USA, one of the regions where the Anishinaabe people settled after western migration.
To learn more, visit https://firstnationelders.com.
Years passed, though no sun counted them. The boy listened. He listened with his skin, with the soles of his feet, with the space behind his eyes. He came to understand that to live well was not to know much, but to move rightly. He learned how to stand without taking. How to speak without deafening. How to feel the shape of truth before naming it.
At last, when the boy’s spirit stood like a steady flame, the Grandfathers called him to the center of the lodge. Their eyes were stars. Their robes were woven from the breath of ancestors. The eldest spoke first. “You have heard us,” he said. “You have seen with more than eyes.” Another nodded. “Now you must walk. Not here. Below.”
The boy nodded. He did not ask for a path. He knew it would make itself.
But before he turned to leave, they gave him one more companion. A turtle, ancient and patient, with a shell like the shape of the Earth. “This one will remind you,” said the Grandfathers, “that slowness is not weakness. That carrying is not burden. That wisdom walks.”
And so he returned.
No longer a boy, though still young to the eyes of others, he stepped softly into the world. The people did not recognize him, but they felt something shift when he passed. He walked through their villages without a herald. Sat with their elders. Ate with their children. He spoke, but not often. And when he did, his words carried weight—not like stone, but like water cupped in the hands.
Some asked him, “Who are you?”
He would answer, “I am one who walks the Good Road.”
And when they asked, “Where does it go?” he only smiled.
He moved through places where the Earth still ached. Where trees bent not with wind but with sorrow. Where laughter was brittle and eyes were dry. But he did not preach. He tended. A hand here. A gesture there. He showed, through quiet action, how to listen again. How to honor. How to live as though the Earth were watching—which, of course, she was.
Some mocked him. Others ignored him. But a few—just a few—began to walk too. Not behind him, but beside. And that was the beginning of remembering.
The man grew older. His hair grayed like ash before a rain. His legs slowed, but his eyes never dimmed. One day, he simply kept walking. Into the trees. Into the mist. No one saw him again. But now, in quiet places, when the wind hushes and the birds fall still, you might hear footsteps—not ahead or behind, but within.
That is the Good Road. And he is still walking.
The Boy Who Walked the Good Road
Long ago, when the sky hung heavier with stars and the people still remembered how to speak to the fire, the world began to lose its balance. The rivers still flowed, but they no longer carried the stories of the stones. The animals withdrew into silence, their voices muffled by the weight of forgetting. Among the people, kindness waned. Greed crept in like frost beneath a door. Elders sat with heavy eyes. Children were born with empty hands. The songs that once shaped the morning had grown faint, like smoke disappearing into grayness.
High above, where the seasons met and danced, the Seven Grandfathers gathered. They stood beneath a canopy of unblinking stars, old as breath, their faces carved by time and spirit. The first Grandfather spoke with the voice of rolling thunder, slow and grave. “The people have lost their way,” he said. “They wander without direction, blind to their place in the circle.” Another nodded, his voice dry as leaves. “They have forgotten how to walk. They trample without seeing. They speak without listening. If this continues, even the Earth will close her ears.”
One by one, they murmured agreement. And so they summoned a messenger—light without shadow, thought without flesh—to journey across the world in search of a child. Not a warrior. Not a prophet. A child, still soft with unshaped knowing. One who might carry the teachings, not as commandment, but as breath.
The messenger passed over mountains and through cedar groves, across sleeping lakes and snow-covered plains. For days uncounted, he wandered until he came upon a newborn, cradled in the arms of his mother, his eyes wide as moonlight. The messenger watched. The baby did not cry. His gaze held the quiet of deep water. “This one,” the messenger whispered to the wind. “This one remembers.”
With care, the child was lifted and carried to the place beyond the sky, where the Grandfathers waited. There, among them, the boy grew—not in the way of aging, but in the slow blooming of soul. Each Grandfather took him in turn, not to instruct, but to show. One brought him into the forest and made no sound for three days. Another walked with him through fog and told no stories, only gestures. Another gave him fire, then left him alone to watch it live and die.
