always have a fire. The power of that simple act—with a single
match you could make people feel safe and happy, convert a bunch
of sodden individuals into a convivial group thinking of stew and
songs. It was an amazing gift to carry in your pocket and a serious
responsibility to be used well.
Fire building was a vital connection to those who came before.
Potawatomi, or more accurately Bodwewadmi in our own language,
means People of the Fire. It seemed only right that this was a skill
we should master, a gift to share. I began to think that to really
understand fire, I needed a bow drill in my hand. Now, I try to make
a no-match fire, to conjure a coal in the old way, with bow and drill,
a friction fire, rubbing two sticks together.
Wewene, I say to myself: in a good time, in a good way. There
are no shortcuts. It must unfold in the right way, when all the
elements are present, mind and body harnessed in unison. When
all the tools have been properly made and all the parts united in
purpose, it is so easy. But if they’re not, it will be futile. Until there is
balance and perfect reciprocity between the forces, you can try and
fail and try and fail again. I know. And yet, despite the need, you
must swallow your sense of urgency, calm your breathing so that
the energy goes not to frustration, but to fire.
After we were all grown up and fully fire-competent, my father
made sure his grandchildren could also light a one-match fire. At
eighty-three, he teaches fire building at our Native youth science
camp, sharing the same lessons he gave us. They have a race to
have their little blazes burn through a string stretched across the
fire circle. One day, after the contest has been won, he sits on a
stump poking at the fire. “Did you know,” he asks them, “that there