Braiding Sweetgrass

John calls us back to the circle for the next step: assembling the
bottom of the basket. We’re doing a traditional round bottom, so
the first two strips are laid out at right angles in a symmetrical
cross. Easy. “Now take a look at what you’ve done,” John says.
“You’ve started with the four directions in front of you. It’s the heart
of your basket. Everything else is built around that.” Our people
honor the four sacred directions and the powers resident there.
Where the two basket strips meet, at the intersection of those four
directions, is right where we stand as humans, trying to find
balance among them. “See there,” John says, “everything we do in
life is sacred. The four directions are what we build on. That’s why
we start like that.”
Once the eight spokes of the framework are twined into place
with the thinnest possible strips, each basket begins to grow. We
look to John for the next set of instructions, but there are none. He
says, “You’re on your own now. The design of the basket is up to
you. No one can tell you what to create.” We have thick and thin
splints to work with, and John shakes out a bag full of brightly dyed
splints in every color. The tangled pile looks like the singing ribbons
on the men’s ribbon shirts in the evening powwows. “Just think of
the tree and all its hard work before you start,” he says. “It gave its
life for this basket, so you know your responsibility. Make
something beautiful in return.”
Responsibility to the tree makes everyone pause before
beginning. Sometimes I have that same sense when I face a blank
sheet of paper. For me, writing is an act of reciprocity with the
world; it is what I can give back in return for everything that has
been given to me. And now there’s another layer of responsibility,
writing on a thin sheet of tree and hoping the words are worth it.
Such a thought could make a person set down her pen.