Braiding Sweetgrass

intent, finishing up her last bundle of transplants. Daniela is making
her final notes.
The light is growing golden at the end of the day over our newly
planted field of spindly sweetgrass. If I look at it just right, I can
almost see the women walking a few years ahead. Bend and pull,
bend and pull, their bundles growing thicker. Feeling blessed for this
day by the river, I murmur to myself the words of thanksgiving.
The many paths from Carlisle—Tom’s, Theresa’s, and mine—
converge here. In putting roots in the ground, we can join the
mighty shout that turned the peach pit from black to white. I can
take the buried stone from my heart and plant it here, restoring
land, restoring culture, restoring myself.
My trowel digs deep into the soil and strikes against a rock. I
scrape away the earth and pry it up to make room for the roots. I
almost cast it aside, but it is strangely light in my hand. I pause for
a closer look. It is nearly the size of an egg. With muddy thumb I
rub away the dirt and a glassy surface is revealed, then another
and another. Even beneath the dirt it gleams as clear as water.
One face is rough and cloudy, abraded by time and history, but the
rest is brilliant. There is light shining through. It is a prism and the
fading light refracts, throwing rainbows from within the buried stone.
I dip it in the river to wash it clean and call Daniela and Theresa
to come see. We are all struck with wonder as I cradle it in my
hand. I wonder if it’s right to keep it, but I’m torn by thoughts of
laying it back in its home. Having found it, I find I cannot let it go.
We pack up our tools and head up to the house to say our good-
byes for the day. I open my hand to show the stone to Tom, to ask
the question. “This is the way the world works,” he says, “in
reciprocity.” We gave sweetgrass and the land gave a diamond. A
smile lights his face and he closes my fingers over the stone. “This