Scientists have made a dent in understanding how to put
ecosystems back together, but our experiments focus on soil pH
and hydrology—matter, to the exclusion of spirit. We might look to
the Thanksgiving Address for guidance on weaving the two. We are
dreaming of a time when the land might give thanks for the people.
We walked back up to the house, imagining basket classes in years
to come. Maybe Theresa would be the teacher, leading her
granddaughter into the field that she herself has helped to plant.
Kanatsiohareke runs a gift shop to raise funds for the work of the
community. The shop is filled with books and beautiful artwork,
beaded moccasins, antler carvings, and, of course, baskets. Tom
unlocked the door and we stepped inside. The still air smelled of
sweetgrass hanging from the rafters. What words can capture that
smell? The fragrance of your mother’s newly washed hair as she
holds you close, the melancholy smell of summer slipping into fall,
the smell of memory that makes you close your eyes for a moment,
and then a moment longer.
When I was young, I had no one to tell me that, like the
Mohawks, Potawatomi people revere sweetgrass as one of the four
sacred plants. No one to say that it was the first plant to grow on
Mother Earth and so we braid it, as if it were our mother’s hair, to
show our loving care for her. The runners of the story could not find
their way through a fragmented cultural landscape to me. The story
was stolen at Carlisle.
Tom walks over to the bookshelf and chooses a thick red volume
to lay on the counter. The Indian Industrial School, Carlisle
Pennsylvania. 1879–1918. In the back of the book is a list of
names, pages and pages of them: Charlotte Bigtree (Mohawk),