Seeing Clearly: The Rope and the Snake on the Prairie

On the wide-open prairie, where the grass bends to the wind and dusk paints the land in long shadows, stories become medicine. They teach us not just what to see, but how to see.

The Rope in the Grass

The young one walked home alone, boots brushing through dry grass. The sky was heavy with the last light, and each step sounded louder in the hush of evening. Suddenly, they stopped short, heart pounding. Just ahead, something coiled in the path: a snake, silent and still.

The young one’s breath caught. They froze, shoulders hunched, hands trembling at their sides. Every muscle tensed, ready to run. The mind filled with memories, stories of danger, warnings from elders, the sharp pain of a bite. Fear rose like a storm, tightening their chest.

A gentle voice drifted on the wind.

“Child, what troubles you?”

The Old One approached, her steps slow and deliberate, a walking stick tapping softly against the earth. She saw the young one’s wide eyes and the way their fists clenched, knuckles white.

“It’s a snake, Old One,” the young one whispered, voice shaking. “I can’t move. What if it bites me?”

The Old One knelt beside them, her presence calm as the prairie after rain. She placed a steady hand on the young one’s shoulder, grounding them.

“You are safe with me. Let’s look together.”

The young one hesitated, eyes darting between the Old One and the shape in the grass.

“But what if it’s dangerous? What if I get hurt?”

The Old One nodded, her gaze warm and unwavering.

“It’s natural to be afraid. Fear is a wise teacher. But sometimes, the mind sees what isn’t

there. Let’s breathe together. Feel the earth beneath you.”

The young one took a shaky breath, feeling the Old One’s hand, a gentle anchor.

“Now,” the Old One said softly, “let’s see with clear eyes.”

She leaned forward, her movements slow and unthreatening, and gently lifted the object from the grass. It was not a snake, but an old, weathered rope, frayed at the ends.

The young one sagged with relief, knees buckling a little. The Old One caught them, steadying with both hands.

“It’s only a rope, child. The danger was in the mind’s story, not in the earth’s truth.”

Tears welled in the young one’s eyes, part shame, part relief.

“I really thought it was real. My heart was beating so fast.”

The Old One smiled and gently brushed a strand of hair from the young one’s forehead.

“There is no shame in fear. We all mistake ropes for snakes, shadows for threats, especially when we walk alone. The mind’s stories are powerful, but they're not always true.”

The Teaching Beneath the Story

In many Indigenous traditions, stories are layered. On the surface, this is a tale about fear and mistaken identity. But beneath, it is a teaching about the nature of reality, about how our minds create separation, danger, and suffering where there may be none.

Non-duality, a concept found in both Indigenous and global wisdom traditions, reminds us that the world is not divided into fixed categories of “self” and “other,” “good” and “bad,” “snake” and “rope.” These divisions are created by the mind, shaped by memory, trauma, and habit. The truth, like the prairie itself, is open and undivided.

When we mistake the rope for a snake, our bodies react as if the danger is real. The heart pounds, the muscles tense, and we are ready to fight or flee. But the threat exists only in our perception, in the story the mind tells. The Elder’s wisdom is not just in pointing out the rope, but in reminding us to look again, to question our first reaction, and to see with gentle eyes.

“Remember, much of our suffering comes not from what is real, but from what we believe to be real. The prairie teaches us to look again, to question the first story the mind tells.”

The young one nodded, wiping their cheeks.

“How do I know what’s real, Old One?”

The Old One’s eyes sparkled with kindness.

“By pausing. By breathing. By asking for help when you are afraid. By seeing with both mind and heart. You are never alone on this path.”

Ceremony of Seeing Clearly

If you wish to practice this teaching, try this simple ceremony:

1. Find a quiet spot, indoors or outdoors, and sit comfortably.

   
   

2. Close your eyes and recall a recent fear or worry, a “snake” in your path.

   
   

3. Breathe deeply, and ask yourself: “Is this truly here, or is it a story my mind is telling?”

   
   

4. Imagine an Elder beside you, inviting you to look again with gentle eyes.

   
   

5. If you discover only a “rope,” offer gratitude for the clarity. If the “snake” remains, offer yourself compassion and patience.

   
   

6. Open your eyes and notice the world around you. What else might be a rope mistaken for a snake?

Walking the Prairie with New Eyes

The prairie, like the mind, holds many shapes in its grass. Some are real, many are imagined. The Old One teaches:

“Do not believe everything you think. When you see with the eyes of the heart, you may find the world is less divided and dangerous than it first appears.”

As you move through your day, notice where your mind sees “snakes” that may only be ropes. When fear or judgment rises, pause and ask: “Is this truly here, or is it a story I am telling myself?” In that pause, you may find the freedom to see with new eyes.

May you walk your path with courage and gentleness, knowing that you can always pause, look again, and find support in the circle of those who care for you. The greatest medicine is not in never feeling fear, but in learning to see clearly, together.

This article is inspired by the oral traditions of Métis and Indigenous peoples and is offered in the spirit of sharing lived wisdom and ceremony. It also offers a glimpse into the teachings explored more deeply in my forthcoming book, Gathering at the Fire: Ceremonies for Remembering Who You Are. May it serve as a gentle reminder to see with both mind and heart, and to walk in peace on the land.