Since I had organized a discussion earlier in the summer about the book Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer, I thought I would look for some Sweetgrass while I was up in Maine in August. Kimmerer is a botanist and Native American writer who offers stories “that allow us to imagine a different relationship in which people and land are good medicine for each other”.
In her tradition, Sweetgrass is viewed as the “sweet-smelling hair of Mother Earth”. Native Americans have traditionally burned dried braids of Sweetgrass for smudging or purifying ceremonies, to attract positive spirit energy. The grass can also be used to make medicinal teas, and for basket weaving.
The scientific name for Sweetgrass is Hierochloe odorata – meaning fragrant, holy grass. It is widespread in the northern US states, especially near wetlands and across the prairies.
I figured I should be able to find some near my family’s house in mid-coast Maine, but I didn’t know where to look.
There are lots of kinds of grasses around, and I had never thought to learn anything about them before.
I examined some grass samples on our family property, and it was interesting to learn the names of some of the different types I had seen so often over the years, even though they weren’t what I was looking for.
I read that Sweetgrass likes moist soil and went to check out a patch I remembered down by the marsh through a trail in the woods. That turned out to be scratchy on my fingers and not sweet, so I left it alone.
My cousin who has a nursery business further down the coast knew of something called Sweet Flag and kindly delivered a bunch of that for me to consider.
These stalks had fat ridges in the center that made them difficult to braid, and smelled more swampy than sweet. Still, I appreciated the gift and didn’t want to discard them.
I ended up cutting thin ribbons from the sides of the stems and these were flexible enough to be easily bent and braided. I shaped the rough braids into a circle, sewing them in place like the beginning of a braided rug, similar to the ones my grandmother had made out of felt. I read that colonial women in this area may have begun to braid rugs after observing the traditional grass mats made by Native American women.
A few days later I visited a friend a bit further north who has amazing garden and a broad knowledge about plants. Finally, someone who knew about Sweetgrass. She even had some growing in a pot on her porch. It smelled wonderful, a bit like vanilla. She had ordered it from a catalogue, though, and did not know where it might grow locally.
She was generous enough to allow me to pick enough Sweetgrass stalks to make a braid. I read that traditionally there are seven stalks in each of the sections of the braid. These represent the gifts of wisdom, love, respect, bravery, honesty, humility and truth, which help people learn to live in harmony with the earth.
Kimmerer writes that “the sweetest way to braid the grass is to have someone else hold the end so that you pull gently against each other, all the while leaning in, chatting and laughing…”
I engaged my husband to hold the end of the bunch of Sweetgrass while I was braiding, and we did in fact laugh and chat while we were doing it.
I hung the braid by the stairs in Maine and enjoyed the surprise of the scent in the house each time I passed by.
I was still wondering where it might grow wild in the area, but got busy with other activities.
When we went hiking on a wild offshore conservation island, I examined a bright, swampy area. Beautiful grass but not sweet.
Then, a couple of days before returning to New York, I stopped to see another friend nearby. I mentioned my Sweetgrass quest, and he said he actually knew where to find some – there was a place along the bank of a tidal inlet where Native American people he knew sometimes came to harvest it.
My husband went with me to help locate the unmarked path, which led through scrub and brambles onto a sunny area filled with what people sometimes call ‘salt hay’.
I started examining and sniffing the different plants growing there, following what looked like tracks from someone tamping down the grasses by walking around sometime earlier.
Eventually, back near the tree line, I spotted a patch of low grass in among a taller group, partially shaded, that looked similar to what I had gotten from my friend’s pot. And when I picked a strand, it had that now-familiar sweet smell. Success!
I was careful to give thanks to the plants for allowing me to harvest a few of their stalks.
I am also grateful to Robin Kimmerer for inspiring me to learn more about the land my ancestors settled on, the names of the plants growing there, and the history of the people who inhabited that land for centuries before my European ancestors arrived.
Indigenous stories and practices are rich in wisdom, but the history of native people since Europeans came has been one of violence and terrible losses. However, although the current condition of the earth may lead to feelings of despair, Kimmerer offers the possibility of working towards restoration as an antidote to despair – with the goal of restoring a life-sustaining form of economy and civilization.
In order to heal the earth, and our relationship with it, Kimmerer challenges us to set aside the ways of the colonists and become indigenous to the places we live. That would involve acting with respect in our relationships with each other, as well as towards plants and other species that provide us with gifts of food, medicines and materials.
It also means viewing the land not as a commodity but as our teacher, healer and benefactor, which is now in need of our help.
