The Three Sisters – Robin Kimmerer Q&Q Response

I,

THE THREE SISTERS

It should be them who tell this story. Corn leaves r~~ with.a sig- nature sound, a papery conversation with each other and1:he breeze.

On a hot day in July-when the corn can grow six inches in a single day-there is a squeak of internodes expanding, stretching the stem

toward the light. Leaves escape their sheaths with a drawn-out creak

and sometimes, when all is still, you can hear the sudden pop of rup- tured pith when water-filled cells become too large and turgid for th~

if confines of the stem. These are the sounds of being, but th,ey __ ~.r_e not \(_ _ilie_ yoic_e.

The beans must make a caressing sound, a tiny hiss as a soft-haired

leader twines around the scabrous stem of corn. Surfaces vibrate deli- cately against each other, tendrils pulse as they cinch around a stem,

1 something only a nearby flea beetle could hear . .!31.1t this is not the ~_Q):!g

( ofbeans. \ I’;e ·· lain among ripening pumpkins and heard creaking as the

parasol leaves rock back and forth, tethered by their tendrils, wind lift- ing their edges and easing them down again. A microphone in the

hollow of a swelling pumpkin would reveal the pop of seeds expanding ~nd the rush of water filling succulent orange flesh. Tq~se are sounds,

but not th,e story. Plants tell their storie~ not by what they say, bt_1t_ by

what they do. — What if you were a teacher but had no voice to speak your knowl-

edge? What if you had no language at all and yet there was something

you needed to say? Wouldn’t you dance it? Wouldn’t you act it out?

I I .

~ rnn•ms,m~ · . . .. u9 /~ -) ~uld_f1.’.~Y?’1.~ eyery mov~_meJ]t !e1Uh~_S!9!YL!~ ~igi_e__y_c>~ -~~ul~Lb~-

; 1 . ~- cC>~e so eloquent that just to gaze upon you would ~~_yea} it all. And so it is with these silent green lives. A sculpture is just a piece of rock

with topography hammered out and chiseled in, but that piece of rock can open your heart in a way that makes you different for having seen

it. It brings its message without a single word. Not everyone will get it, though; the language of stone is difficult. Rock mumbles. But plants

speak in a tongue that every breathing thing can understand. J?,lants teach in a universal language: food.

Years ago, Awiakta, a Cherokee writer, pressed a small packet into

my hand. It was a corn leaf, dry and folded into a pouch, tied with a bit of string. She smiled and warned, “Don’t open ’til spring.” In May I untie the packet.and there is the gift: three seeds. One is a golden triangle, a kernel of corn with a broadly· dimpled top that narrows to a

hard white tip. The glossy bean is speckled brown, curved and sleek,

its inner belly marked with a white eye-the hilum. It slides like a polished stone between my thumb and forefinger, but this is no stone.

And there is a rumpkin seed like an oval china dish, its edge crimped

shut like a piecrust bulging with filling. I-hold in my hand the genius

(

of i!}~i-genous ?griculture, · the T_hree ~js;~;: _ j:’ogeth-er thes~- plants-. . corn, beans, and squash-feed the people, feed the land, and Teed our ii~_i(~ation~, ~~lling us how we might:live. – — – – — — .. —- —

For millennia, from Mexico to Montana, women have mounded up the earth and laid these three seeds in the ground, all in the same square foot of soil. When the colonists on the Massachusetts shore first saw indigenous gardens, they inferred that the savages did not know how to farm. To their minds, a garden meant straight rows of single \ ; species, not a three-dimensional sprawl of abundance. And yet they ate } ,:1;, · their fill and asked for more, and more again. , ·

Once planted in the May-moist earth, the corn seed takes on water quickly, its seed coat thin and its starchy contents, the endosperm,

drawing water to it. The moisture triggers e&zymes under the skin that cleave the starch into sugars, fueling the growth of the corn embryo

that is nestled in the point of the seed. Thus corn is the first to emerge

 

 

‘I h ” I

i’ :,.[

130 Picking Sweetgrnss

from the ground, a slender white spike that greens within hours of finding the light. A single leaf unfurls, and then another. Corn is all

alone at first, while the others are getting ready.

Drinking in soil water, the bean seed swells and bursts its speckled coat and sends a rootling down deep in the ground. 0!”lly _after theso_Q.t

is secure does the stem bend to the shape of a hook _and_dbow _its way__ ~bove ground. Beans can take· their time in finding __ th<‘: light_b~~@se

t~ey_are well provisioned: their first leaves were already packaged in the two halves of the bean seed. This pair of fleshy leaves now breaks the soil

surface to join the corn, which is already six inches tall. /

Pumpkins and squash take their time.:_t~ey are ~h_61qvv sis~f~- I~ may be weeks before the first stems poke up, still caught in their seed coat until the leaves split its seams and break free. I’m told that our

ancestors would put the squash seeds in a deerskin bag with a little

water or ‘urine a week before planting to try to hurry them along. But

each plant has .its own pace and the sequence of their germination, their birth order, is important to their relationship and to the success

of the crop. The corn is the firstborn and grows straight and stiff; it is a· stem

with a lofty goal. Laddering upward, leaf by long-ribbed leaf, it must

{ grow tall quickly. Making a strong stem is its highest priority at first. It · needs to be there for its younger sister, the bean. Beans put out a pair of

heart-shaped leaves on just a stub of a stem, then another pair, and an-

other, all low to the ground. The bean focuses on leaf growth while i:he

corn concentrates on height. Just about Ilic 1i111c that the corn is knee high, the bean shoot changes its mind, as middle children are wont to

1 do. Instead of making leaves, it extends itself into a long vine, a slender

green string with a mission. In this teenage phase, hormones set the shoot tip to wandering, i_nscribing a circle in the air, a process known

as cJrcu~11_µ_tation. The tip can travel a meter in a day, pirouetting in a loopy circle dance until it finds what it’s looking for-a corn stem or some other vertical support. Touch receptors along the vine guide it

to wrap itself around the corn in a graceful upward spiral. For now, it holds back on making leaves, giving itself over to embracing the corn,

THE THREE SISTERS 131

keeping pace with its height growth. Had the corn not started early, the bean vine would strangle it, but if the timing is right, the corn can

easily carry the bean.

Meanwhile, the squash, the late bloomer of the family, is steadily extending herself over the ground, moving away from the corn and

beans, setting up broad lobed leaves like a stand of umbrellas waving at

the ends of hollow petioles. The leaves and vines are distinctly bristly,

giving second thoughts to nibbling caterpillars. As the leaves grow wider, they shelter the soil at the base of the corn and beans, keeping

moisture in, and other plants out.

N_ative people speak of this gardening style as the Three Sisters. Ther~ ar~ ~;ny stories ~f h~~-they came t~ b~i-but -they ;;11. ~h;;e the u’nd~r~t~~cii~g ~f these plants as ~omen, si~te;s~ s;~~ st~ii~~ -r~ff~f a long ~inter when the people were dropping from hunger. Three beau- tiful women came to their dwellings on a snowy night. One was a tall

woman dressed all in yellow, with long flowing hair. The second wore green, and the third was robed in orange. The three came inside to

shelter by the fire. Food was scarce but the visiting strangers were fed _ generously, sharing in i:he ·little that the people hacl left. In gratitude for

. their generosity, the three sisters revealed their true identities-corn,

beans, and squash-and gave themselves to the people in a bundle of seeds so that they might never go hungry again.

At the height of th~ summer, when the days· are long and bright,

and the thunderers come to soak the ground, the lessons of recirrocity are written clearly in a Three Sisters garden. T~gether their stems in- s’cribewliadooks to 1ne like .. a nluepriiiffor the world, a map of balance

and harmony. The corn stands ~jghtl~!::!.~ll; rippling green ribbons of leaf curl away from the stem in every direction to catch the sun. No leaf sits directly over the next, so that each can gather light without shad-

ing the others. The bean twines around the corn stalk, weaving itself between the leaves of corn, never interfering ·with their work.:. In the

spaces where corn leaves are not, buds appear bn the vining bean and expand into outstretched leaves and clusters of fragrant flowers. The

bean leaves droop and are held close to the stem of the corn. Spread

 

 

i l

\

132 Picking Sweetgrass

around the feet of the corn and beans is ~ carpet of big broad squash leaves that intercept the light that falls among the pillars of corn. Their

\ layered spacing uses the light, a gift from the sun, efficiently, with no \ / r waste. The organic symmetry of forms belongs together; the placement \ I I ‘–\, ( of every leaf, the harmony of shapes speak their message. Respect one

another, support one another, bring your gift to the world and receive

the gifts of others, and there will be enough for all.

By late summer, the beans hang in heavy clusters of smooth green

pods, ears of corn angle out from the stalk, fattening in the sunshine,

–~-) and pumpkins swell at your feet. Acre for acre, a Thr;Sisters garden yields more food than if you grew each of the sisters alo e. ,

You can tell they are sisters: one twines easily arou d the other in

relaxed embrace while the sweet baby sister lolls at their feet, close, but

not too close-c_9op_~raJing, nou~omp~~ing. Seems to me I’ve seen this before in huma~ f~milies, in ti{~ interplay ~f sisters. After all, there are three girls in my family. The firstborn girl knows that she is clearly in charge; tall and direct, upright and efficient, she creates the template

for everyone else to follow. That’s the corn sister. There’s not room for more than one corn woman in the same house, so the middle sister

is likely to adapt in different ways. This bean girl learns to be· flex-

ible, adaptable, to find a way around the dominant structure to get the light that she needs. The sweet baby sister is free to choose a different

path, as expectations have already been fulfilled. Well grounded, she has nothing to prove and finds her own way, a way that contributes to

the good of the whole. Without the corn’s support, the beans would be an unruly tangle

on the ground, vulnerable to bean-hungry predators. It might seem

as if she is taking a free ride in this garden, benefiting from the corn’s height.and the squash’s shade, but by the rules of reciprocity none can

take more than she gives. The corn takes care of making light avail-

able; the squash reduces weeds. What about the beans? To see her gift

you have to look underground. The sisters cooperate above ground with the placement of their

leaves, carefully avoiding one another’s space. The same is true below

nm THREE SISTERS 133 •.

\ ground. G,grn.is classified as a monocCJt, b:isically an overgrown gi:a,ss, \ s_o its roots are fine and fibrous. With the soil shaken off, they look like

1 1

a stringy mop head at the end of a cornstalk handle. They don’t go very ,1–) C

deep at all; instead they make a shallow network, calling first dibs on incoming rain. After they’ve had their drink, the water descends out

of reach of the corn roots. As the water goes deeper,the ·deep_!i!P.!’9_CJts ~~(lar)

of the b_~_an _a_r.~_pgjsecJ there: to_ ,1J~~Cl_!”~. it. The squash finds its share by movlng away from the others. Wherever a squash stem touches soil, it

can put out a tuft of adventitious roots, collecting water far from the

corn and bean roots. They share the soil by the same techniques that

they share the light, leaving enough for everyone, ;.J : ~>c’ ‘,;(: …. /’- But there is one thing they all need that is always in short supply: \

nitrogen. T~a_t ~it!”ogen should be the factor _that limits. grow.th is __ an \

~_cological paradox: fully 78 perc<:nt <.lf t~:_at~o~pherejs _ni_t~(!gefl: g:i?_’. The problem is that most plants simply can’t use atmospheric nitrogen. They need mineral nitrogen, nitrate or ammonium. The nitrogen

in the atmosphere might as well be food locked away in full sight of a

starving person. But there are ways to transform that nitrogen, and one of the best ways is named “beans.”

Beans are members· of the ;~g~me familr, .. W.~ich h.a.:~–~~~__f~f!!~!!<~ ~~!~. a~ility tC? take 11itrogen fror_n the atmc;>~ph~e::_?_!!Q_~b.le ~~t:_i~_nts. But they don’t do it alone. My students often run to me with

/

a handful of roots from a bean they’ve unearthed, with little white balls f’.’.>c··c,,,_, , clinging to strands of root. “Is this a disease?”· they ask. “Is something ) , wrong with these roots?” In fact, I reply, there’s something very right.;::_.,.,,,!c,, · ,·,

T~-~-s~ glistening nodules house the Rh£z_ob{u~ _b~<:_te~i~’-· th~ Ditro- ~.,c- gen fixers. Rhizobium can only convert nitrog~11 __ u_gcJe!” _;i seecial set of ~xr~IJmstances. Its catalytic enzymes ~ill;~t work in the p;~~~~~~ ~f oxygen. Since an average handful of soil is more than 50 percent air

space, the Rhizobium needs a refuge in order to do its work. Happily, the bean obliges. When a bean root meets a microscopic rod of

Rhizobium underground, chemical communi~ations are exchanged and a deal is negotiated. The bean will grow an oxygen-free nod-

ule to house ·the bacterium and, in return, the bacterium shares its

 

 

11

)l jl• I’ 1; :••,

/ i

. !

.· 1.-:

134 ‘!1 :’.,· J •r, ,. ,

/. _,-.,-. i? Picking Sweetgrass

nitrogen with the plant. Together, they create nitrogen fertilizer that enters the soil and fuels the growth of the corn and the squash, too.

f / There are layers upon layers of reciprocity in this garden: between ! ( the bean and the bacterium, the bean and the corn, the corn and the / . squash, and, ultimately, with the people.

\ \ ./ It’s tempting to imagine that these three are deliberate in working \ \’·–{ together, and perhaps they are. But the beauty of the partnership is that

. ·· ~ / ;~;;:;,~;ttl\~~~:~:.~:~:u:~,:,’;~~:t§Ui’h’~u~a, · · The way of the Three Sisters remmds me of one of the basic teach-

ings of our peopk. The most important thing each of us can know !s our unique gift and how to use it in the world. Individuality is cher-

ished and nurtured, because, in order for the whole to flourish, each of us has to be strong in who we are and carry our gifts with conviction,

so they can be shared with others. Being among the sisters provides a

visible manifestation of what a community can become when its mem- bers understand and share their gifts. In reciprocity, we fill our spirits as well as our bellies.

For years, I taught General Botany in a lecture hall with slides and dia-

grams and stories of plants that could not fail to inflame the enthusi- asm of eighteen-year-olds for the marvels of photosynthesis. How could

they be anything but elated to learn how roots find their way through the soil, sitting on the edge of their seats waiting to hear more about pollen? The sea of blank looks suggested that most of them found this as interesting as, literally, watching grass grow. When I would wax

eloquent about the grace with which a bean seedling pushes its way

up in the spring, the first row would eagerly nod their heads and raise their hands while the rest of the class slept.

In a fit of frustration, I asked for a show of hands: “How many of you have ever grown anything?” Every hand in the front row went up,

and there were a few halfhearted waves from the back from someone

whose mother had an African violet that had died a withering death.

THE THREE SISTERS 135

Suddenly I understood their boredom. I was teaching from memory, drawing on images of plant lives that I had witnessed over the years.

The green images I thought we shared as human beings were not

th_e1i:s;_ than·f;·to .. the supplanting of ga~1~~s: by -~llp_e~~-~~-k~t~. The front-row students had seen these things as well and wanted to know how such everyday miracles were possible. But most of the class had

no experience of seeds and soil, had never watched a flower transform . itself into an apple. They needed a new teacher. · • :.··: ·.

And so now each fall I begin my class in a garden, where they have the best teachers I know, three beautiful sisters. For a whole September : ,,- .

afternoon they sit-with the Three Sisters. They measure yield and growth and get to know the anatomy of the plants who feed them. I ask them first to just look. They observe and draw the way the three live

in relationship. One of my students is an artist, and the more she looks

the more excited she becomes. “Look at the composition,” she says. “It’s just like our art teacher described the elements of design in studio today.

There is unity, balance, color. It’s perfect.” I look at the sketch _in her

notebook, and she’s seeing it like a painting. Long leaves, round leaves, lobed and smooth, yellow, orange, tan on a matrix of green. “See the

way it works? Corn is the vertical element, squash horizontal, and it’s

all tied together. with these curvilinear vines, the beans. Ravishing,” she

claims with a flourish. One of the girls is dressed for allure that might work in a dance

club, but not on a botany field trip. She has avoided any contact with the dirt so far. To ease her into the work, I suggest that she take the ‘

relatively clean task of simply following a squash vine from one end to another and diagramming the flowers. Way out at the young tip of the

vine are orange squash blossoms as ruffled and splashy as her skirt. I point out the swollen ovary of the flower after it has been pollinated.

1 • .- I ~~ch is the outcome of successful seduction. -~incing carefully _in her heels, she follows the vine back toward its source; the older flowers have wilted and a tiny ·littl~ squ’ash his ~pp~are<!l wh~~e the flower’s pis-

til had been. Closer and closer to the plant, the squashes become larger,

from a penny-size nub with flower still attached, to the full ripeness of

 

 

1\.’ I.,

ii.: ,·

:,·

i I’, i_’

136 . Picking Sweetgrass

a ten-inch squash. It’s like watching a pregnancy unfold. Together we pick a ripe butternut squash and slice it open so she can see the seeds

in the cavity within. . “You mean a squash comes from a flower?” she says incredulously,

seeing the progression along the vine. “I love this kind of squash at

Thanksgiving.” “Yes,” I teil her, “this is the ripened ovary of that first flower.”

‘ 1 ~71-, Her eyes widen in shock. “You mean all thesepfs I’ve been eat-

‘ , I;’ ing ovaries? Blech-I’ll never eat a squash again~” ‘ ( . ‘ There is an ~~rt~y~~~_i:ality to a garden, and most of the students

get drawn in to the r~yelation of fruit. r hnvr them cnrefully open an ear of corn without disturbing the corn silk that plumes from ‘the end.

First the coarse outer husks are pulled away, then layer after layer of inner leaves, each thinner than the next until the last layer is exposed,

so thin and tightly pressed to the corn that the shape of the kernels show through it. As we draw aside the last layer, the sweet milky scent

of corn rises from the exposed ear, rows upon rows of round yellow kernels. We look closely and follow an individual strand of corn silk.

Outside the husk it is brown and curly, but inside it is colorless and

crisply succulent, as if filled with water. Each little strand of silk con-

nects a different kernel inside the husk to the world outside.

J\ corncob is_ an irigc;niqus s9rt of flower in whic~ ~_h(:’. __ s_iJkj§_:i_g!:~:idy_ elongated flower pistil. One end of the silk waves in the breeze to col-

, lect poii~n, while the other end attaches to the ovary. The silk is the

water-filled conduit for sperm released from the pollen.grains caught there. The corn sperm swim down the silken tube to the milky-white .

kernel-the ovary. Only when the corn kernels are so fertilized will they grow plump and yellow. A corncob is the mother of hundreds, as

many children as there are kernels, each with potentially a different

father. Is it any wonder she is called the Corn Mother? Beans too grow like babies in the womb. The students are con-

tentedly munching fresh pole beans. I ask them to first open a slender pod, to see what they’re eating. Jed slits a pod with his thumbnail and

opens it. There they are, bean babies, ten in a row. Each little beanlet is

• -‘,; • ‘ • ·;.. ‘ ‘ 1 “‘ • ~ • •

THE THREE SISTERS 137

attached to the pod by a fragile green cord, the funiculus. Just a few mil- li!ll~te~s long,_it is the analog to ~he ~umai:!1:-1!.I!~!lical_cord. Through this cord, the mother plant nourishes her growing offspring. The students

crowd around to look. Jed asks, “Does that mean a bean has a belly but-

ton?” Everybody laughs, but the answer is right there. Every bean has a little scar from the funiculus, a colored spot on its seed -~;at; t~e~h,iluin-.

Every bean does have a beliy b~tton. These plant mother; f;~d us a~d

leave their children behind-as seeds, to feed us again and again.

In August, I like to have a Three Sisters potluck. I spread tnblccloths on _the tables beneath the maples and stuff bouquets of wildflowers in canning jars on every table. Then my friends start to arrive, each

with a dish or a basket. The tables fill up with trays of golden corn-

bread, three-bean salad, round brown bean cakes, black bean chili,

and summer squash casserole. My friend Lee brings a platter of small pumpkins stuffed with cheesy polenta. There’s a steaming pot of

Three Sisters soup, all green and yellow, with slices of summer squash . floating in the broth.

As if there wasn’t enough to eat already, our ritual is to go to the

garden together, once everyone arrives, and pick some more. The corn

ears fill a bushel basket. The kids are delegated to shuck the corn while parents fill· a bowl with new green beans and the littlest kids peek under prickly leaves looking for squash blossoms. We carefully spoon

a batter of cheese and cornmeal into the orange throat ~( each flower, close it up, and fry it until it’s crisp. They disappear from the plate as fast as we can make them.

The genius of the Three Sisters lies not only in the process by which they g~-ow:biit -~l~~ ‘in the ·compi~~~~t~fty-~(i:he–thiee-~p~~i~s-~~-th~ ~it~hen tabi~. They taste good together, -~md th~ Three Sisters-ai~~f~~-~ a nutritional triad that can sustain a people. Corn, in all its guises,

is a superb form of starch. All summer, the corn turns sunshine into carbohydrate, so that all winter, people can have food energy. But a

human cannot subsist on corn alone; it is not nutritionally complete.

I •’/jl •”‘,•”- ‘ -I’ < •””<I ,f ~ I• “‘ • •• < •,,•- •- ;:_’ ,•~::•l”-.•~f’.j:.

 

 

I, ,, ., ,I’ ,/ !

/

I

( ,/

138

.’.,,): (· Picking Sweetgrass .

Just as the bean complements the corn in the garden, it collaborates in

the diet as well. By _virtue of their nitrogen-fixing capacity, beans are

high in protein and fill in the nutritional gaps left by .corn. A person

cah live well on a diet of beans and corn; neither alone would suffice.

But iieither beans nor corn have the vitamins that squash provide in their

carotene-rich flesh. Together, they are once again greater than ·alone.

After dinner we are too full for dessert. There is a dish of Indian

pudding and maple corncakes waiting for us, but weE· st sit and look

out over the valley while the kids run around. The l nd below us is _

mostly planted to corn, the long rectangular fields -utting right up_

against the woodlots. In the afternoon light, the rows of corn throw

shadows on one another, outlining the contours of the hill. From a dis~

(

tance they look like lines of text on a page, long lines of green writing

across the hillside. The_~_rutp._ of_o11r r(!!ati_onship ‘:Vi!h the so_Q is writ~I_:

… _: ~)~o~e clearly on the land than in any book. I read across that hill a story

~’.”‘\, . a_b..9_ur p_eopi~ who- value uniformity~a~d the efficie~q~–it-y.ields,.a_s_t~!T

ir,i_ which t~e land is shaped for the convenience of m;ichim;s_~~~- t~e

demands of a market.

In indigenous agriculture, the practice is to modify the plants to fit

the land. As a result, there are many varieties of corn domesticated by

ou~ ancestors, all adapted to grow in many different places. Modern

agriculture, with its big engines and fossil fuels, took the opposite ap-

;proach: modify t_h(!lc11.1~ tc;>_fit_the plants, which are frighteningly simi- / _Jar clones-: : .. – — ——— ·· ·· – ——– – ——

·once you know corn as a sister, it’s hard to unknow it. But the

long ranks of corn in the conventional fields seem like a different

being altogether. The relationships disappear and individuals are lost

in anonymity. You can hardly recognize a bclovcc.l face lost in a uni-

formed crowd. These acres are beautiful in their own way, but after the

companionship of a Three Sisters garden, I wonder if they’re lonely.

There must be millions of corn plnnlM 0111 there, standing shoul-

der to shoulder, with no beans, no squash, and scarcely a weed in si~ht.

These are my neighbor’s fields, and I’ve seen the many passes with the

tractor that produce such a “clean” field .. Tank sprayers on the. t~actor

‘-..\

THE THREE SISTERS

{J[>r· , .. ,. : (_

I

(_ ‘\ (

139

have delivered applications of fertilizer; you can smell it in the spring ‘.:-‘ ,;,, }

as it drifts off the fields. A dose of ammonium nitrate substitutes for

the partnership of a bean. And the tractors return with herbicides to suppress weeds in lieu of squash leaves.

Ther~ we_r~ certainly-bugsand w.eeds.back.when.thest_yaJJc.:y~w~re

Three Sisters gardens, and yet they flourished_without, insecticides. P~ly~ultures_::__fields ~{ti-i ma.ny sp~-ci~-of plants-a~~-1~~-;-;;:;;~~ptible to pest outbreaks than monocultures. The diversity of plant forms pro-

vides habitats for a wide array of insects. Some, like corn worms and

bean beetles and squash borers, are there with the intent of feeding on

the crop. But the diversity of plants also creates habitat for insects who

eat the crop eaters. Predatory beetles and parasitic wasps coexist with

the garden a~d keep the crop ea_ters under control. More than _peop~ \ C~)C, ~ are fed by th1~ gardeJ.J, but there 1s enough to_go arou11d. .,,, –

– -The Three Sisters offer us a ~~w- metaphor for an emerging rela- . 1/

tionship between indigenous knowledge and Western science, bot_h of

which are rooteq in the earth. l__!:_hink oft~~ coi:_i:i_l!_s __ ~~~_gitiQQ~l__e<c=glpgic:al ·

k~°.~l_e.d~e, !~~- p~y_si~c1L_anc:I ~pi~{tualframewodUhiH.~.:rn guidt .the <:_!!rigll~ be~n of ?cief)q:, which twines_ l_ike _a .doubl~ .. h1::Jix. The squash ( /

creates the ,~!h_ic~l habitat for coexistence and ~utt1c1L fl_91Ji:i~hipg. I ,

envision a time wh~n th~ intellectual- m~~o~~lture of sc:ience will be J —··· —– — . .. – – ····—· —— – – . ··–·- I

r~place~ ‘Y.i.tb. .R poly.c_ulture.of complementa.r.y knowledges._And so.all /

~.?.:Y. 6-e _fed: Fran brings out a bowl of whipped cream for the Indian pudding ..

We spoon up the soft custard, rich with molasses and cornmeal, and

watch the light fade on the fields. There’s a squash pie, too. By this feast\\ I want the Three Sisters to know that we’ve heard their story. Use your·)\

gift to take care of each other, work together, and all will be; fed, they say. · /

They’ve all brought their gifts to this table, but they’ve not done it

alone. They remind us that there is another partner in the symbiosis.

She is sitting here at the table and across the valley in the farmhouse,

too. She’s the one who noticed the ways of each species and imagined

how they might live together. Perhaps we should consider this a Four

Sisters garden, for the planter is also an essential partner. It is she who

.,· !’• .,

 

 

1’·-

,i

Picking Sweetgrass

turns up the soil, she who scares away the crows, and she who pushes

seeds into the soil. We are th~ p.lanters, the ones who clear the land, P-ull I -..__~··—— . — – ··———- – —–

, · t~<:_-~e~d_~•- ~rid pi_ck the bugs; we save the s~eds ~~e_~_~int~r.~11.d..pl@~ t~en.1_3:g~in nex.t spring. We are_midwives to their gif~~ _We cannot live without them, but ies also true that they cannot live without us. Corn,

\ b_eans, ~nd ~quash are fully domesticated; they_ rely_?r.1_~~~? .. c,:-~~t_~· :~-~ _ ·

\ c~~ditio.ns u_ nder which they can grow. We to~oare p r~_of th_: _ _i:~c~p_~?c- \ ity,_ Th~Y ca.r;i’t meet their responsibilities unless w __ ~t ours.

Of all the wise teachers who have come in o my life, none are more eloquent than these, who wordlessly in leaf and vine embody the knowl-

edge of relationship. Alone, a bean is just a vine, squash an oversize leaf. ,

Q11ly w.hen standing together with corn does a who,1-~-~me.rg~-~-}:l,ich t_ranscends the individual. The gifts of each are IllQ_t:_(_:_fuUy <:~pn;ssed when they are nurtured_ together than alone. In ripe ears and. ~~<::JHpg fr~i~, th~y counsel us that all gifts ar~ multiplied in r~l~ti-;;~;hip. This is ho~- the.world keeps going. · — · · · .. ,

,/ i

:,-‘I,. -:’; c ,, .:>_ …. (

WrscAAK GoKPENAGEN: A BLACK AsH BASKET

Doonk, doonk, doonk. Silence. Doonk, doonk, doonk. The back of the ax meets the log to make a hollow music. It drops

three times on one spot and then John’s eyes shift a fraction down the log, where he strikes again. Doonk, doonk, doonk, As he raises the ax above his head, his hands slide apart on the upstroke, then together on –

· the down, shoulders pulling tight under his chambray shirt, his thin

braid jumping with every impact. All the way down the log he pounds

triplets of crushing blows. Straddling the end of the log, he works his fingers under a split

ih the cut end and gives it a tug. Slow.and steady, he peels off a strip

of wood the width of the ax head in a thick ribbon. He takes up

the ax and pounds another few feet. Doonk, doonk, doonk. Again he _ grasps the base of the strip and peels it back along the pounded line, taking the log apart strip by strip. By the time he pounds the last few

feet, he has worked off an eight-foot splint of gleaming white wood.) He holds it to his nose to breathe in the goodness of new wood and .

passes it around for us all to see. John coils it into a neat hoop, ties it fast, and hangs it on a nearby tree branch. “Your turn,” he says and

hands off the ax. My teacher this warm summer day is John Pigeon, a member of

the large, renowned Pigeon family of Potawatomi basket makers. Since

that first initiation to pounding a log, I’m grateftll to have sat in on

black ash basket classes with several generations of the extended fam- ily of Pigeons-Steve, Kitt, Ed, Stephanie, Pearl, Angie, and more, .

,, : .~ li