Braiding Sweetgrass

womb a second life was growing. Tékeni—there were two.
Skywoman gave birth to a daughter, who bore twin sons and so
then there were three— áhsen. Every time the Haudenosaunee
count to three in their own language, they reaffirm their bond to
Creation.
Plants are also integral to reweaving the connection between land
and people. A place becomes a home when it sustains you, when it
feeds you in body as well as spirit. To recreate a home, the plants
must also return. When I heard of the homecoming at
Kanatsiohareke, visions of sweetgrass rose in my mind. I began
looking for a way to bring them back to their old home.
One morning in March I stopped by Tom’s place to talk about
planting sweetgrass in the spring. I was full of plans for an
experimental restoration, but I’d forgotten myself. No work could be
done before guests were fed, and we sat down to a big breakfast of
pancakes and thick maple syrup. Tom stood at the stove in a red
flannel shirt, a powerfully built man, his pitch hair streaked with
gray, but his face is scarcely wrinkled despite his more than
seventy years. Words flow from him as water flows from the spring
at the foot of the bluff—stories, dreams, and jokes that warm the
kitchen like the scent of maple syrup. He refilled my plate with a
smile and a story, ancient teachings braided into his conversation
as naturally as comments on the weather. Strands of spirit and
matter are woven together like black ash and sweetgrass.
“What’s a Potawatomi doing way out here?” he asks. “Aren’t you
a long way from home?”
I need only one word: Carlisle.
We lingered over coffee and our talk turned to his dreams for
Kanatsiohareke. On this land he sees a working farm where people
learn again how to grow traditional foods, a place for the traditional