Braiding Sweetgrass: A Book Review

Introduction 

As I write this review, an aggressive storm has been raging adamantly through the night and now well into the day. On top of the inclement weather, hurricane force winds have taken powerlines to the ground and with them internet service. Though this is an extreme case, with a potential harsh winter approaching it may be in our best interest to use this storm as a prompt to begin thinking of what we might do, as we will be inevitably house ridden. In that spirit, this week’s blog is a book review of Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass. 

Relatively speaking, in cosmological time, expression through writing is a young practice. Each generation is only lucky enough to be gifted the timely work of a handful of contemporary writers. Such writers eloquently illustrate and address the challenges of the times. Robin Wall Kimmerer is one of these gifted contemporary writers of our time. Kimmerer is unique in the fact that not only is she a member of the nation Potawatomi, but she is also a poet, a mother, and trained biologist. Kimmerer’s apt and brave reflections on her ethnicity, livelihoods and lived experience in relation to the environment gives her an uncontested pen and intellectual foundation to work from. Further, with the threats of environmental degradation, climate change and biodiversity loss, Braiding Sweetgrass’ importance is paramount. 

Review

I am often told that learning environmental concepts can be needlessly arduous. Concepts are made unattainable to the public by writers who immaturely exercise writing imbued with heady words and niche, highly abstract logic. These practices often establish a mental barrier to a readers’ successful uptake of ideas. On a literary basis alone Kimmerer’s work deserves praise. Kimmerer casually implements a poetic approach in her communication of complex environmental ideas. Hints – and at times direct use – of poetry in Braiding Sweetgrass illustrate challenging ideas with ease. As a testament to Kimmerer’s writing throughout the book, complex concepts become effortlessly easy to grasp, recognize, and arguably most importantly, enact in our lives beyond the pages. Take for example how Kimmerer illustrates the Honorable Harvest. (1)

Know the ways of the ones who take care of you, so that you may take care of them.

Introduce yourself. Be accountable as the one who comes asking for life.

Ask permission before taking. Abide by the answer

Never take first. Never take the last,

Take only what you need 

Take only that which is given 

Never take more than half. Leave some for others. 

Harvest in a way that minimizes harm.

Use it respectfully. Never waste what you have taken.

Share.

Give thanks for what you have been given. 

Give a gift, in reciprocity for what you have taken. 

Sustain the ones who sustain you and the earth will last forever. 

By simply reading this even without Kimmerer’s prior expositions, the reader can still grasp how to live in harmony with the environment. Kimmerer’s style is firm, challenging and caring. In this it stands toe to toe with advice I only could have learned through my careful listening of individuals from around the globe and demanding academic reading. Yet Kimmerer effortlessly captures those same lessons with her pen.

Kimmerer effectively uses science and poetry in her arguments, yet her reasoning is equally developed by an incorporation of Indigenous ways of knowing. By combining these three, Kimmerer provides a balanced, levelheaded analysis of why and how institutions of science, and other Western knowledge systems, can fall short of the mark. For example, in an instance where Kimmerer found herself walking with a Navajo woman, Kimmerer conveys that she is not only taught the native names of plants in her valley, but “where each plant lived, when it bloomed, its relationships, what medicine it offered, who ate it, who lined its fibers, its origin myths, how it got its name and what it has to tell us”. Kimmerer says the Navajo woman “spoke of beauty.. her words were like smelling salts walking me to what I had known back when I was picking strawberries”. (2) As a PHD, Kimmerer comments that she was humbled and recognized how narrow her scientific views were. Kimmerer goes on to echo Greg Cajete who says, “Indigenous ways of knowing understand a thing only when we understand it with all four aspects of our being: mind, body, emotion and spirit”. Kimmerer notes that science “privileges one, possibly two of those ways of knowing mind and body”.

Kimmerer also pays recognition to science and its practitioners’ praiseworthy attributes. Most notably, Kimmerer’s multidisciplinary, balanced mindset allows us a chance to observe what ‘Two-Eyed Seeing’ looks like for the individual. A new concept in integrative science and co-learning, Two-Eyed Seeing - introduced by Mi’kmaw Elder, Albert Marshall – “refers to learning to see from one eye with the strengths of Indigenous knowledge and ways of knowing, and from the other eye with the strengths of Western knowledges and ways of knowing.” (3) Concepts such as Two-Eyed Seeing may help humanity realize collective actualization of combatting climate breakdown, and global biodiversity loss. Two-Eyed Seeing progresses through fostering a wholistic vision of the environment built on the strengths of inclusion and a diversity of knowledges. Kimmerer generally expresses and exemplifies values of Two-Eyed Seeing while making a strong commitment to collaboration throughout her work. Kimmerer’s consistent back and forth discussions of general collaboration and Two-Eyed Seeing specifically may inspire even the most established scientists and science enthusiasts to reassess their approach, practice and mindset. 

Breton Lorway, one of LO’s fellows and an aspiring field ecologist, reflected for this blog on how Braiding Sweetgrass shaped one of her defining moments at Mount Holyoke College: 

“During my senior year, I was given an open-ended assignment in my Environmental Studies senior seminar. The project could be about anything and could be presented however we saw fit, so long as we could relate it to our Environmental Studies education. While many of my peers were crafting beautifully organized research, I was at a loss. I felt overwhelmed and uninspired. I even lamented on a phone call with my mother that maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a scientist after all. Luckily, I happened to be reading Braiding Sweetgrass on my own at the time, and right when I was feeling the most hopeless about my project, I reached the chapter titled, ‘Asters and Goldenrod.’

“Why are they beautiful together? It is a phenomenon simultaneously material and spiritual… Might science and traditional knowledge be purple and yellow to one another, might they be goldenrod and asters? (4)

“As I read this chapter, I thought, how could I be so clueless? I wasn’t just an Environmental Studies major. I was also completing a minor in Studio Art. Why, until I read Kimmerer’s words, had I only considered research, and not thought to combine my two worlds? I do not have the experience Kimmerer has as an Indigenous person, so I will not say my experience was the same as hers. Her way of seeing, of marrying her spirituality with her scientific career, simply reminded me to respect ways of seeing beyond science and inspired me to consider marrying my emotional connection to creativity with my love for environmental science. 

Asters and goldenrod, a symbiotic relationship. Photo by LO, 2021.

“The end of that semester, with Kimmerer as my leading inspiration, I turned in a series of prints that explored the union of scientific and spiritual approaches to viewing nature. In Braiding Sweetgrass she discusses her experiences in the contrasting worlds of science and soul, as she juxtaposes experiencing nature from an Indigenous perspective and her career in the hard sciences. Oftentimes, she finds that one combats the other—she does her best to see nature as more than just photosynthesis and food webs, to see its soul… but being a scientist means she must often put aside those sentiments to be taken seriously among her peers. Since reading Kimmerer’s words, I have been trying to bridge the gap between looking at the world as a scientist and as an artist, and to feel like I can be both. Beyond that, Kimmerer teaches that Indigenous knowledge and ways of seeing apart from Western science are essential to our world and hold the answers to many questions we otherwise will never be able to answer. We must make space for them…”

While Braiding Sweetgrass demonstrates the strengths of productive collaboration the book also offers invaluable insights into the human-nature relationship. In her anecdotes of motherhood, poetry, Indigenous storytelling, and scientific inquiry as they are related to land, Kimmerer stresses that everything the individual does - from restoring ponds, to listening to raindrops, to dropping kids off at school - is tied to what we learn from land, what gifts we receive, and how deeply we are embedded in it. Braiding Sweetgrass’ core contention in this sense is to challenge the false dichotomy of human and nature. Rather we need to view ourselves as humans in nature. Similarly, Elder Albert Marshall eloquently labels this relationship as Netukulimk. 

Netukulimk is a Mi'kmaw understanding that, in Albert's words, ‘takes you into a place where you are very conscious of how the human two-leggeds are interdependent and interconnective with the natural world ... this philosophy / ideology is so ingrained in your subconscious that you are constantly aware of not creating an imbalance.’ Key concepts within this understanding are: co-existence, interrelativeness, interconnectiveness, and community spirit.  Albert emphasizes that these four apply to our relationships with each other and with Mother Earth. (5)

These concepts that grow out of the understanding of the human in nature are critical in our fight for a viable future. They go beyond the important questions of societal organization and ask us to re-evaluate and define what the human self implies for the environment. Reflecting on these concepts result in coherent, powerful movements predicated on a changing of the self and societal patterns. Braiding Sweetgrass balances both concerns and invites us along for the journey with a preview of what eloquent, composed and powerful reevaluation of the self and society tied to land might look like. If you have not read it, we recommend that you put  it at the top of your list for the winter’s reading. 

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View Robin W. Kimerrer’s website here.

Hear Kimerrer’s talk for the Arnold Arboretum’s 2021 Director’s Lecture Series, The Council of Pecans, here.

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(1) Kimmerer, Robin. Braiding Sweetgrass. Minneapolis, Milkweed Editions, 2013. p. 183

(2) Kimmerer, Robin. Braiding Sweetgrass. Minneapolis, Milkweed Editions, 2013. p. 44

(3) http://www.integrativescience.ca/Principles/TwoEyedSeeing/

(4) Kimmerer, Robin. Braiding Sweetgrass. Minneapolis, Milkweed Editions, 2013. p. 46.

(5) http://www.integrativescience.ca/Principles/TwoEyedSeeing/

Long Term Learning at Living Observatory: A Conversation with Kate Ballantine

We often talk about restoration as if it happens in a day. Visitors are astonished at the explosion of life that occurs on a restored wetland once the excavators leave. While human intervention may happen quickly, nature’s recovery takes years, if not decades. The role of researchers and practitioners at Living Observatory is to measure, analyze, and share how Massachusetts’ wetland processes evolve over time. Kate Ballantine, the Marjory Fisher Associate Professor of Environmental Studies at Mount Holyoke College, and an early member of Living Observatory, recently walked me through just how important these projects, and Living Observatory, are to the future of restoration.

Kate in the field. Photo: Kate Ballantine

We had planned to chat at Project Stream, a freshwater restoration project facilitated by Kate on Mount Holyoke’s campus, but on that early September day it was, of course, raining. We therefore met in her lab on the third floor of Clapp, one of the college’s science buildings. Upon this shift in plans, I was thrilled, albeit nervous as I held back tears of nostalgia - I hadn’t been in Clapp, my favorite building on campus, for two years due to COVID. But I held it together, and Kate and I had a lovely chat surrounded by waders and lab coats.

Kate is an accomplished researcher. Much of her research involves what the effects of wetland restoration are on the microbiome of wetland soils, what the role of restored wetlands is in climate change mitigation, and how biochar amendments influence wetland soil function. Kate is a board member at Living Observatory, and one of the best professors I had at Mount Holyoke. She encourages us to think about other living beings as equals, and she has a notable ability to provide hope: She refers to all life on Earth as our ‘friends and neighbors,’ thus class discussions are approached with the sentiment that all life is equal in importance, and her animated passion for restoration as a method to protect and improve those lives is a breath of fresh optimistic air.

Project Stream. Photo: Kate Ballantine.

This mindset fit in well with Living Observatory’s objectives when Kate joined about ten years ago. She first learned about the Tidmarsh restoration from colleagues at UMass Amherst and a 5-College conference. As a biogeochemist, the question of how cranberry farms can be returned to functioning wetlands was fascinating. Given that Tidmarsh was the largest freshwater wetland restoration in Massachusetts and not far from South Hadley, she arranged a field trip with students. Soon Living Observatory and the restoration of cranberry farmland became significant parts of her research and teaching.

Recovering wetlands in Massachusetts have a rich history, thus a wealth of unique learning potential. These sites share attributes such as their ancient glacial origin, and they underwent decades of agricultural manipulation to maximize the monoculture of cranberry plants. Many sites are also influenced by nearby human residences. I knew that this was important, but I wondered, does what we do here, if it is so specific, impact the broader reaches of restoration? Kate’s answer was unequivocal: “Yes!” Yes, restored wetlands in Massachusetts provide homes for all the creatures once displaced. These projects provide a plethora of ecosystem services, such as drainage for large-scale precipitation events or hurricanes, natural water filtration, and overall biodiversity. And there are global implications that expand beyond the Commonwealth. One important feature of a coastal wetland is the presence of peat, which while comprising only 3% of the planet’s surface area, can sequester up to twice as much carbon as forests [1.] Our east coast wetlands are serving our creatures and people, and are an indispensable component of the work to fight climate change.

A cranberry bog turned restored wetland is also a unique learning opportunity because while the transformation seems quick to the naked eye, the interaction of processes makes it far more complex. In a few months, machinery following a design specification can turn flat cranberry growing surface into a ‘wetland.’ But is it a functioning wetland? To explain why wetland restoration can appear more immediately successful than it is, Kate crafted an insightful comparison: If on the west coast, a stand of mature sequoias was cut then replanted, in a few years there would be small sequoias working their way through the underbrush. However, no one would look at those young trees and say, ‘The forest is back to what it was before!’ Visible changes occur every year as the trees mature, and we know that as they get bigger every year, they provide new services to their ecosystem. So, one could monitor that site for years as new habitats develop and the ecosystem dynamics continuously change. For wetland restoration, it is the same principle, except it progresses invisibly, underwater and in the soil. Looking at the water-rich landscape only a year or so after the cranberry mat is broken up, one might say, ‘it worked!’ But just like in a maturing stand of sequoias, there are significant post-restoration changes happening for years and years – we just can’t see these developments as clearly as a maturing tree.

This is why it is so important that wetland restoration practitioners working on these sites are provided the means to return year after year, to learn how these sites are maturing and what they can do better. There are a lot of restoration projects happening throughout the world, but as Kate mentioned it is often hard to know whether the restoration has been done well or not. To increase our understanding of ecosystem development and how to improve future projects, a researcher needs to return to a site to monitor “how it’s going.” With pride, Kate emphasized that Living Observatory fills this need by offering such means: funding, helping hands, and the space to hyper focus. LO comprises many people from different spaces - academia, art, technology, and more - so there is no pressure for anyone to wear more than one hat. LO invites focused, long-term projects that provide a deep dive into the evolving nature of change. Members are asked to share knowledge from the perspective of their specialty, even as they learn from and brainstorm with others to articulate how these different ways of observing connect. This community and retired cranberry farms come together to create a long-term learning space.

Tidmarsh Wildlife Sanctuary, ever evolving. Photo: Living Observatory.

LO’s intention to support a well-rounded organization means it is not only a place for researchers. For the past few months in addition to working at LO, I had been helping my county’s conservation district, working with local farmers in Massachusetts. I would enter a conversation with a farmer from a research point of view, promoting sustainability and land conservation. But for a farmer, growing food is not a science project, it’s a livelihood, and there would often be a disconnect between my methods and theirs. I was curious about Kate’s experience with farmers since LO is mostly focused on retired agricultural land. She declared that oftentimes people share the “most important goals.” Farmers are caretakers of the land just as restoration practitioners are, despite differences in stewardship. At the end of the day, we all want healthy, functioning land. Farmers who have been in the same area for generations and restoration practitioners who conduct research on a site both form kinship with the land. The more interaction there is between farmer and research practitioner, the more knowledge is shared about being the best steward for a site. Living Observatory is a space to facilitate this social connection and mutual understanding, a space where alliances can be fostered, and where storied conversations invite learning.

As our conversation ended, I realized I had kept Kate overtime. Her delightful passion for the subject had kept us talking for longer than intended. Passion might be an understatement. Kate’s sentiments are better described as pure love for what she does, and for the Earth. One of the last stories Kate recounted took place at a field that a farmer had let meadow over: this once agricultural landscape was flourishing with wild native plants and bursting with the fluttering brilliance of more monarch butterflies than she had ever seen at one time before. I got chills as she painted the scene. The return of these “friends and neighbors” to places they had known for millennia, once interrupted by anthropogenic land use, but then restored, is a magical and motivating reality. I left incredibly energized. Kate has that effect on people. While many conversations about our environment can result in climate anxiety, conversations with Kate Ballantine always end with hope. I left proud to have been Kate’s student, and proud to have grown up in Massachusetts where there are so many successful restoration projects occurring. Even more than that, I was bursting with pride to be a part of Living Observatory.

[1] Hance, J. (2017, July 28). Undiscovered peatlands might be the most important thing you learn about today. Here's why. Ensia. Retrieved October 14, 2021, from https://ensia.com/features/peatlands/.

Reciprocity and Wetland Restoration

“We are all bound by a covenant of reciprocity: plant breath for animal breath, winter and summer, predator and prey, grass and fire, night and day, living and dying. Water knows this, cloud knows this.  Soil and rocks know they are dancing in a continuous giveaway of making, unmaking, and making again the earth.” – Robin Wall Kimmerer[1]

               Reflecting on Robin Wall Kimmerer’s moving observations I can’t help but consider what her insights may imply for the life of my peers, and those of future generations. We belong to an environment equally molded by the scathing pain of ecological crisis[2] and the promise of restoration[3]. At only 22, myself and those in my circles have experienced unmaking in the form of forest fires, tropical cyclones, flooding , uncharacteristic drought, and dying reefs. I have also observed the beginning of remaking in the form of the re-emergence of keystone terrestrial and marine species, the growth of coral heads, and restoration of wetlands. After walking Tidmarsh, reading Robin Wall Kimmerer’s work, and reflecting on principles of restoration I found myself nagged by an unrelenting question. These experiences have influenced my life overwhelmingly, but how does this cycle of unmaking, and making influence the land as well as all of its other residents. Be they living, and non-living, how do they experience these changes?

               Though it may vary from practitioner to practitioner, there are general principles of restoration which apply to cranberry farms. The first involves removing barriers to the free movement of fish, wildlife, sediment, and water. Infrastructure used in cranberry agriculture such as berms, dams, interior water control structures, and cell-spanning dikes must be removed. The extent of the remediation is dependent on a host of factors such as a site’s specific hydrology, the amount of cranberry farming infrastructure present, and the ideas of partners including the landowner. Ultimately, removing these barriers should promote the free movement for water, sediment, and organic matter as well as aquatic and terrestrial organisms.

               Beyond addressing barriers of movement, wetland restoration of cranberry bogs must also look below the growing surface to address the anthropogenic sand layers which were added during farming to aid cranberry production. Over time, these layers raise the growing surface separating the surface from the water table and creating a Kit Kat Bar effect (see figure 1). This layering disrupts vertical percolation of water and impacts plant life on site. If left as is after a farm is retired, these sandy layers dramatically reduce the likelihood of wetlands emerging. More likely, the sandy dry soil surface will become a habitat for upland and even non-native plant species. However, if the layered soil can be broken up and the legacy seed bank released, and if the water table can be raised, the growing surface can become wet and wetland plants will be able to establish themselves. I wonder, as native seeds begin germinating and reconnecting with the land they belong to, what information will be passed on? Does this reconnection between seed and soil share a semblance of the sweet, joyful feeling we might all share when we develop lost ties to kin, kith, and place from which we became separated?

Figure 1.) Layered soil, or the “kit kat” bar effect.

               Another related principle of restoration is physical simplification. This entails a host of activities such as rebuilding degraded channels and introducing large pieces of wood, rock, and riffles which partially set in motion the ecological foundations for a self-sustaining wetland. By adding length and sinuosity so that a restored stream channels approximate their pre-farm state, the overall time water spends on the land increases, accepts flood waters from major storm events, and allows water percolate downwards into the aquifer. The large rocks and debris added in stream and across the restored growing surface provides shade for marine and terrestrial life. I imagine that as wildlife returns and grapples with the task of navigating restored channels the shade of the logs and rocks are nothing less than welcome. Similarly, as wildlife settles in and herons patiently perch for fish, they are probably grateful for the inundated embankment. When looking at those embankments we may exercise similar gratitude as we remember how storm surges are able to overwhelm concrete-urban spaces, while those of us situated near wetlands remain unscathed due to the ecosystem service of flood protection which wetlands provide.

Using a mix of time-lapse, real-time video and selected audio recordings, this film documents the transformation of a landscape as it transitions from cranberry farm to a restored wetland.

               While restoration can overcome, and manage some challenges immediately, restoration also leaves certain challenges to mother nature and father time. The diversification of self-sustaining biota and proliferation of threatened, rare, or endangered species, for example, can only be partially addressed in the present. More likely, we must wait and listen to what time invites. Nonetheless, in the present how might our understanding of wetland restoration inform our connections to land? I have personally realized how I have become more sensitive to the covenant of reciprocity in its short term expression. As we visit sites which are in the process of restoration, we might observe the fragility, and beauty in the reciprocity of mushrooms growing from leaf litter for example. This observation paints a clear picture for a process leading to long term soil health in a reciprocal system. There are equally important, long term reciprocal processes which are harder to observe. The sequestration of carbon, succession of species, and nutrient stability of aquifers hold their own unique, relatively slow moving roles in this covenant. Is there a kindred way we can act once we recognize our roles and selves in a similar covenant among these systems? In the past it was the work of environmentalists such as Rachel Carson that led us to end the use of pesticides such as DDT. Carson’s work was rooted in a recognition and illustration of pesticide’s impact on the covenant of reciprocity. Now labelled legacy pesticides, traces of them still remain in the soil. We can similarly express gratitude by acting as stewards to the land by taking it out of production and restoring its historic hydrology. Not for the sake of altruism, but from the same recognition of our role in this covenant which all living, and non-living things share with land.   

A recent photograph of Crown Coral mushroom growing in the rich humus of leaf litter.

               One of the steps we can take which acts on that recognition is, at the least, to continue our quest for understanding and listening to land as it goes through the processes of making and unmaking. That said, I do not expect you, or myself to be overly romantic with our pursuit of understanding. As Yassin Bey says, “to make something … true, it ain’t got to be special, it aint got to be new, maybe its best if it bears repeating like breathing, eating, bathing or sleeping”. Maybe it is enough that you continue visiting sites such as the Tidmarsh Wildlife Sanctuary, or the Foothills Preserve throughout the seasons (even when it’s cold and inclement outside.) Tend to the places which have been restored or are in the process of restoration with careful observation and consistent stewardship. In sum I merely ask that both you and I together make sure to care for the intellectual fire and passionate attachments which ignite the interest, curiosity, empathy and gratitude for land as we experience the onslaught of the change, which is set to come.

[1] Kimmerer, R. W. (2016). Braiding sweetgrass. Tantor Media, Inc.

[2] IPCC, 2021: Climate Change 2021: The Physical Science Basis. Contribution of Working Group I to the Sixth Assessment Report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change [Masson-Delmotte, V., P. Zhai, A. Pirani, S.L. Connors, C. Péan, S. Berger, N. Caud, Y. Chen, L. Goldfarb, M.I. Gomis, M. Huang, K. Leitzell, E. Lonnoy, J.B.R. Matthews, T.K. Maycock, T. Waterfield, O. Yelekçi, R. Yu, and B. Zhou (eds.)]. Cambridge University Press. In Press.

[3] United Nations. (2021, June 4). UN launches decade on ecosystem restoration to Counter 'TRIPLE environmental emergency' | | UN NEWS. United Nations. Retrieved September 2021, from https://news.un.org/en/story/2021/06/1093362.