Braiding Sweetgrass

splints become a whole basket, sturdy and resilient enough to carry
us into the future.
While we’re working, a gaggle of little kids comes by to watch.
John is pulled in many directions to help us all, but he stops and
gives his full attention to the boys. They’re too little to join in, but
they want to be there, so he takes up a handful of the short strips
from our debris. His hands, now deliberate and slow, bend and twist
the strips until a few minutes later a little toy horse sits in the palm
of his hand. He gives the boys some scraps, the model, and a few
words in Potawatomi, but doesn’t tell them how to make a horse.
They’re used to this kind of teaching and don’t ask questions. They
look and look some more and then set to work to figure it out.
Before long, a herd of horses is galloping over the table and little
boys are watching baskets grow.
Toward the end of the afternoon, in the lengthening shadows, the
work table begins to fill with completed baskets. John helps us add
the decorative curls that are traditional on small baskets. The black
ash ribbons are so flexible that you can embroider the surface of
the basket with loops and twists that show off the glossy sheen of
the ash. We’ve made low round trays, tall thin vases, plump apple
baskets in textures and colors of every kind. “Here’s the last step,”
he says, handing out Sharpie markers. “You’ve got to sign your
basket. Take pride in what you did. That basket didn’t make itself.
Claim it, mistakes and all.” He makes us line up for a photograph,
all holding our baskets. “This is a special occasion,” he says,
beaming like a proud father. “Look what you’ve learned today. I
want you to see what the baskets have shown you. Every one of
them is beautiful. Every one of them is different and yet every one
of them began in the same tree. They are all made of the same
stuff and yet each is itself. That’s the way it is with our people, too,