Braiding Sweetgrass

indirect currency of reciprocity.
Perhaps we can think of the Honorable Harvest as a mirror by
which we judge our purchases. What do we see in the mirror? A
purchase worthy of the lives consumed? Dollars become a
surrogate, a proxy for the harvester with hands in the earth, and
they can be used in support of the Honorable Harvest—or not.
It’s easy to make this argument, and I believe that the principles
of the Honorable Harvest have great resonance in an era when
overconsumption threatens every dimension of our well-being. But
it can be too easy to shift the burden of responsibility to the coal
company or the land developers. What about me, the one who
buys what they sell, who is complicit in the dishonorable harvest?
I live in the country, where I grow a big garden, get eggs from my
neighbor’s farm, buy apples from the next valley over, pick berries
and greens from my few rewilding acres. A lot of what I own is
secondhand, or third. The desk that I’m writing on was once a fine
dining table that someone set out on the curb. But while I heat with
wood, compost and recycle, and do myriad other responsible
things, if I did an honest inventory of my household, most of it
would probably not make the grade of the Honorable Harvest.
I want to do the experiment, to see if one can subsist in this
market economy and still practice the rules of the Honorable
Harvest. So I take my shopping list and go forth.
Actually, our local grocery store makes it pretty easy to be
mindful of the choices and the mantra of mutual benefit for land
and people. They’ve partnered with farmers for local organic goods
at a price normal people can afford. They’re big on “green” and
recycled products, too, so I can hold my toilet paper purchase up to
the mirror of the Honorable Harvest without flinching. When I walk
the aisles with open eyes, the source of the food is mostly evident,