Braiding Sweetgrass

In our modern world, we have become strangers to the very earth that sustains us. We walk through landscapes without knowing the names of plants beneath our feet, consume resources without understanding their origins, and make daily choices that impact ecosystems we've never truly observed. This profound disconnection has created not only environmental crises but a deep spiritual emptiness, leaving many of us yearning for meaning and belonging in a world that feels increasingly fragmented and mechanical.

What if there existed an ancient way of knowing that could bridge this chasm between human and more-than-human worlds? Through the eyes of a botanist who is also a member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation, we discover that plants themselves can be our teachers, offering lessons in reciprocity, gratitude, and the sacred art of living in balance with all our relations. This journey reveals how indigenous wisdom, carried forward through countless generations, holds keys to healing both our relationship with nature and our understanding of what it means to be truly human in an interconnected world.

Long before the first European ships appeared on distant horizons, the indigenous peoples of North America understood their place in the world through stories that wove together the sacred and the practical, the spiritual and the scientific. Among the most powerful of these is the story of Skywoman, who fell from the celestial realm above and was caught by the wings of geese, gently placed upon the shell of a great turtle. In her hands, she carried seeds from the Tree of Life, and from these seeds grew all the plants that would sustain the people for generations to come.

This creation story stands in stark contrast to other origin tales that speak of banishment and exile from paradise. Where one tradition tells of humans cast out from the garden for their transgressions, Skywoman's story speaks of arrival as a gift, of a world created through cooperation between species, and of humans as the grateful recipients of the earth's abundance. The first plant to grow from Skywoman's seeds was sweetgrass, its fragrance a sweet memory of her touch, its braided form a reminder of the interconnectedness of all life.

When a botanist trained in Western science encounters these traditional teachings, something profound happens. The sterile language of Latin names and cellular processes begins to dance with stories of relationship and reciprocity. Plants are no longer merely objects of study but become teachers, relatives, and partners in the ongoing creation of the world. The sweetgrass that grows in hidden meadows carries not just chemical compounds but cultural memory, not just genetic information but the breath of the ancestors who first learned to braid its shining stems.

In indigenous ways of knowing, humans are often called the younger brothers of creation, the species with the least experience and therefore the most to learn. This humility opens doorways to wisdom that purely analytical approaches cannot access. When we listen to plants as teachers rather than simply studying them as subjects, we discover that they have been conducting sophisticated experiments in sustainable living for millions of years longer than we have walked the earth.

The story of Skywoman reminds us that we are not separate from nature but part of an intricate web of relationships that includes all beings. Her gift of seeds was not just botanical material but a covenant of care, a reminder that with every gift comes the responsibility to give something back. In learning to see the world through indigenous eyes, we begin to understand that the earth's generosity calls forth our own, and that true sustainability emerges not from dominance but from reciprocity.

In gardens across the Americas, three plants grow together in a partnership so elegant and efficient that it seems choreographed by nature herself. Corn reaches skyward with sturdy stalks, beans spiral gracefully around the corn in ascending spirals, and squash spreads its broad leaves across the ground like living umbrellas. This agricultural trinity, known as the Three Sisters, demonstrates principles of cooperation and mutual aid that challenge our assumptions about competition and scarcity in both nature and human society.

The corn, planted first, establishes itself as the tall sister, creating a living trellis for the bean to climb toward the sun. The bean, in return, fixes nitrogen from the atmosphere through its partnership with soil bacteria, fertilizing both corn and squash with this essential nutrient. The squash contributes by shading the soil with its large leaves, conserving precious moisture and suppressing weeds that might compete with its sisters for resources. Together, they yield more food per acre than any of them could produce alone, creating abundance through collaboration rather than competition.

A scientist observing this garden might focus on the measurable benefits: increased nitrogen availability, improved water retention, enhanced pest resistance through biodiversity. But indigenous knowledge keepers see something more profound at work. They recognize in the Three Sisters a template for human relationships, a living demonstration of how individual gifts can be shared for the benefit of all. The corn's strength supports the bean's flexibility, while the squash's groundedness provides stability for both.

This ancient partnership challenges the fundamental assumptions of industrial agriculture, which seeks to maximize the yield of single crops through inputs of synthetic fertilizers and pesticides. The Three Sisters garden requires no external fertilizers because the plants create their own through biological partnerships. It needs no herbicides because the plants themselves suppress weeds through their complementary growth patterns. It demonstrates that abundance and sustainability are not contradictory goals but natural partners when we learn to work with ecological principles rather than against them.

The teachings of the Three Sisters extend far beyond agriculture into every aspect of human community. They remind us that true prosperity emerges when each member of a community contributes their unique gifts while supporting the flourishing of others. In a world increasingly divided by competition and scarcity thinking, these three plants offer a different vision: one where cooperation creates abundance and where the success of individuals depends upon the health of the whole.

In the meadows where sweetgrass grows, indigenous harvesters approach with ceremony and intention, carrying tobacco as an offering and speaking words of gratitude before taking even a single blade. This ritual might seem quaint or superstitious to those raised in a culture that treats the natural world as a collection of resources, but it reflects a profound understanding of relationship that Western science is only beginning to appreciate through studies of plant communication and forest networks.

The Potawatomi language, like many indigenous languages, makes grammatical distinctions that English cannot capture. Where English divides the world into subjects and objects, animate and inanimate, Potawatomi recognizes a spectrum of being that includes plants, stones, and even stories as animate entities deserving of respect. The word for "to be a bay" acknowledges water as a living presence that chooses to rest between particular shores, while "to be a hill" recognizes the earth's own agency in shaping itself into that form.

This grammar of animacy transforms how we perceive and interact with the world around us. When we speak of a forest as "it," we create distance and justify exploitation. When we recognize trees as "beings" with their own purposes and wisdom, we enter into relationship. The sweetgrass becomes not merely a plant to be harvested but a relative to be honored, a teacher whose lessons are encoded in its very growth patterns and seasonal cycles.

Traditional harvesters know that sweetgrass flourishes when it is gathered respectfully and declines when it is ignored or abused. This knowledge, passed down through generations of careful observation, reveals that the relationship between plants and people is truly reciprocal. The sweetgrass needs human attention and care to thrive, just as humans need the sweetgrass for ceremony and healing. When we take only what we need and give back more than we take, both species flourish in a dance of mutual benefit.

The practice of speaking to plants before harvesting them might seem like mere politeness, but it serves a deeper function. It requires the harvester to pause, to consider their true needs, and to acknowledge the life they are about to take. This moment of recognition transforms the act of taking into an act of relationship, creating bonds of responsibility and gratitude that extend far beyond the moment of harvest. In learning to speak the grammar of animacy, we discover that the world is alive with intelligence and intention, waiting for us to remember how to listen and respond with appropriate reverence.

Among the Potawatomi people, women are known as the Keepers of Water, carrying the sacred element to ceremonies and acting as its guardians and advocates in a world increasingly threatened by pollution and scarcity. This responsibility emerges from the recognition that women and water share the fundamental capacity to create and sustain life. Just as women carry their children in internal ponds and bring them forth on waves of amniotic fluid, water carries all life within its embrace, nurturing and protecting the countless beings who depend upon its presence.

The art of basket making reveals these connections between human creativity and natural abundance in tangible form. When a basket maker pounds a black ash log with careful rhythm, she is not simply extracting materials but participating in an ancient conversation between human need and plant generosity. The ash tree, growing for decades in the swamp, has laid down annual rings of wood that separate cleanly when treated with respect and skill. Each splint that peels away represents years of the tree's life, and the basket maker honors this gift by creating something beautiful and useful that will serve the community for generations.

The process of making baskets teaches patience, attention, and humility. The wood itself determines much of what is possible; the maker must learn to work with the grain rather than against it, to accept the tree's own patterns and limitations. When a splint breaks or splits unevenly, it is not discarded as waste but transformed into something else: tinder for fires, material for smaller baskets, or decoration for larger ones. Nothing is wasted because everything carries the life of the tree within it.

This ethic of complete use extends beyond basket making into every aspect of traditional life. When every object is understood as the transformed body of another being, waste becomes a form of disrespect, a failure to honor the gift that has been given. The basket maker who carelessly discards broken splints is forgetting that each piece represents a year of the tree's patient growth, a season of drawing nutrients from the earth and energy from the sun.

In our modern world, where most objects arrive in our lives already transformed beyond recognition, we have lost this sense of intimate connection with the sources of our material culture. The basket maker's reverence for ash splints offers a pathway back to relationship, a reminder that everything we use was once alive and deserving of our gratitude and care. Through her patient work, she teaches us that true wealth lies not in accumulation but in the skillful transformation of gifts into beauty, utility, and meaning.

At the Onondaga Nation School, each week begins not with a pledge of allegiance to a political entity but with the Thanksgiving Address, an ancient oratory that acknowledges and gives thanks to all the beings who make life possible. Students stand together in the atrium, their voices joining in words that have been spoken for countless generations, greeting and thanking the earth, the waters, the plants, the animals, and all the forces that sustain life on this beautiful planet.

This practice might seem simple, even quaint, but it represents a radical departure from the scarcity-based thinking that dominates much of modern culture. Where consumer society thrives on the creation of unmet desires and the constant pursuit of more, the Thanksgiving Address cultivates a profound sense of abundance and contentment. It reminds listeners that everything needed for a good life is already here, freely given by the earth and its inhabitants, waiting only for our recognition and gratitude.

The Address serves multiple functions simultaneously: it is a scientific inventory of ecosystem services, a political statement of sovereignty, a spiritual practice, and an educational curriculum all woven together. As children recite the responsibilities of water to cleanse and purify, of plants to provide food and medicine, of animals to teach and guide, they are learning both ecological relationships and moral obligations. They discover that every being has both gifts to offer and duties to fulfill, including humans.

The practice of gratitude transforms the speakers as much as it honors the recipients. When we regularly acknowledge the gifts that surround us, we begin to see abundance where we once perceived scarcity. The strawberries become not just fruit to consume but gifts from the earth's heart. The maple trees become not just sources of syrup but relatives who share their life force with us each spring. This shift in perception creates the foundation for sustainable relationships based on reciprocity rather than extraction.

Perhaps most importantly, the Thanksgiving Address reminds us that we are not separate from the web of life but intimately connected to every being it names. The same sun that warms our faces also powers the photosynthesis that feeds us. The same water that flows through our bodies also carries nutrients to the plants and animals who sustain us. In recognizing these connections, we begin to understand that caring for the earth is not an act of altruism but an act of self-preservation, not charity but enlightened self-interest rooted in the deepest truths of ecology and love.

Through the interweaving of indigenous wisdom and scientific knowledge, we discover that the path toward healing our relationship with the earth begins with a fundamental shift in perception. When we learn to see plants as teachers rather than resources, when we recognize the intelligence and generosity that flows through every ecosystem, when we understand ourselves as participants in rather than masters of the natural world, we open doorways to ways of living that can sustain both human communities and the more-than-human world for generations to come.

The lessons embedded in sweetgrass braids and Three Sisters gardens, in the grammar of animacy and the practice of gratitude, offer practical guidance for creating regenerative relationships with the earth. They remind us that true abundance emerges not from taking more but from giving back, not from domination but from partnership, not from separation but from recognition of our fundamental interconnectedness with all life. These teachings invite us to become the kind of ancestors our descendants will thank, people who understood that the earth's gifts call forth our own and that the greatest wealth lies not in what we can extract but in what we can contribute to the flourishing of the whole.