Braiding Sweetgrass
Green Being's Book Club
I’ve noticed Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass peeking around the corners of bookstores and local coffee shop shelves for years, the textured pale cover made obvious through the contrast provided by a pale green rope of, well, braided sweetgrass. The book is advertised in the byline as “Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teaching of Plants,” but I don’t think that quite encapsulates all that you’ll find here.
Kimmerer writes with an unmatched lyricism that can only be fostered through the kind of reciprocal nature of living she describes attempting. I would describe the book’s structure as a series of creative nonfiction essays written around anecdotes of Kimmerer’s experience with nature and family, all compiling into a pensive statement about the teachings we could embrace for a more equitable environment within and without human structures.
Kimmerer’s discussion of the gift economy is particularly thought-provoking. In her view, a gift economy is not necessarily giving away things for nothing, but with an expectation of reciprocity rather than an attachment of monetary value for the object itself. She describes this as cultivating a relationship of respect with our environment and a sense of justice amongst people.
It’s harder to imagine the world being full of gifts when we’ve embraced a market economy, yes, but Kimmerer also makes the specific point that the disconnection from the land our food comes from makes it even harder.
“When the food does not come from a flock in the sky, when you don’t feel the warm feathers cool in your hand and know that a life has been given for yours, when there is no gratitude in return—that food may not satisfy. Something is broken when the food comes on a Styrofoam tray wrapped in slippery plastic, a carcass of a being whose only chance at life was a cramped cage. That is not a gift of life; it is a theft” (31).
This passage spoke to me in part because it summarizes the principles by which I decided to become a vegetarian years ago. I can recognize that death is an expected part of life, but it feels less righteous to die without living much, first. I wouldn’t say that most modern livestock manages much living, first.
Most of us aren’t able to go out and forage all of our own food nowadays, of course, but Kimmerer urges us to consider that our current ways of living aren’t the only ones that exist. We can act on the principles of a gift economy through expressing gratitude, as well as refusing to participate in damaging practices whenever possible, like boycotting exploitative companies.
“A great longing is upon us, to live again in a world made of gifts” (32).
Part of the idea of that gift economy is evoking a practice of care for others, even when there is no benefit to yourself. Kimmerer speaks specifically about the old practice of planting twin trees to celebrate a marriage and a home, pointing to the large maples leaning over her New York farmhouse.
“I realize that those first homesteaders were not the beneficiaries of that shade, at least not as a young couple. They must have meant for their people to stay here” (70).
I think following the message of “leave it better than how you found it” is more important now than ever, with the threat of climate change becoming more disastrous by the day. Short-sighted selfishness is precisely what has led to our problems.
“I have no way to pay them back. Their gift to me is far greater than I have ability to reciprocate… Perhaps all I can do is love them [the trees]” (70).
I found her chapter on the Three Sisters to be a great one in demonstrating how vying for your own success can still better the common good.
If you’ve grown up in Arizona like I have, it’s likely that you’ve heard of the life-sustaining crops cultivated by Indigenous peoples for centuries referred to as the Three Sisters: beans, squash, and corn. The method used here is to plant the three seeds close together for maximum benefit: the corn acts as a protective pole for the beans to grow up, the squash leaves crawl low to the ground deter weeds and shade beans from excessive light, while the beans themselves host special bacteria that convert air-born nitrogen into usable minerals that all three plants can access.
This method of agriculture yields more crops in a smaller space without needing insecticides. It also means that these fields are less susceptible to being ravaged by disease or pests because polycultures provide diverse habitats for insects—leaving room for both the crop-eaters and the crop-eater-eaters, if you will. Most commercially grown food is grown as a monoculture, meaning that there are great physical dangers to be had from forgoing Indigenous knowledge.
“The most important thing each of us can know is our unique gift and how to use it in the world. Individuality is cherished and nurtured, because, in order for the whole to flourish, each of us has to be strong in who we are and carry our gifts with conviction, so they can be shared with others … In reciprocity, we fill our spirits as well as our bellies” (134).
I really liked the quote above because I feel that when discussing different ideologies, there is often an assumption that there can either be betterment for the individual or the community, not both simultaneously. The truth of the matter is that we all have different strengths, and our independent selves do not have to be diminished to be part of a community. If we were all the same, we would all fail in the face of the same challenges and perish as a group, like a monoculture crop suffering from the same affliction all at once. There is no rugged individualist in the face of such threats as corn worms or climate change.
Love is an unexpectedly central part of this collection, and I don’t think we consider the impact of holding love for our surroundings enough.
I have been trying to have a better cognizance of my environment by doing things like learning the names of plants in my neighborhood or recognizing bird song. But really, I think that the affections we have for our earth are deep and old within us. The tendency to say “sorry!” to a tree branch I’ve bumped into, the relief I’m filled with at the scent of rain, the joy of seeing prickly pear fruit ripen into deep red-purple over the course of late summer—none of that joy requires a guide book or an ecology degree to take in. Just an attitude of respect, and the permission to wonder.
All in all, Braiding Sweetgrass is a collection of loving, introspective reflections on the relationships we could all be cultivating with the environment we live in.
If you’d like to read Braiding Sweetgrass, you’ll likely find it at your local library.
If you’d like to purchase a copy, here are a few Indigenous-owned bookstores to peruse online:
Grace Kennedy
For clarity, none of the brands featured in this blog were sponsored.