Humility — Becoming See

We have a guest instructor, Claire, for plant week.

Tuesday we go on a plant walk at Camp Trackers. It's beautiful out, green and blue and yellow. We carry large, open baskets.

As we kneel down to talk about plants--Dandelion, Cow Parsnip, Bracken fern, Stinging Nettle--Claire teaches us about how to harvest sustainably. We take one leaf or bunch in ten, one root from a plant that grows in bunches. She explains how to look at the entire ecology of an area and decide whether it's possible to harvest. Are there heavy metals or contaminants in the air or soil? How many plants are in a given area? What else depends on the plant to survive? Will harvesting make it impossible for the plant to replicate? Is this plant native or an invasive species? What else do we want to grow in this space? How much of this plant do we need right now?

Later in the week, as we prep some plants for medicine, Claire reads to us from Braiding Sweetgrass. Robin knows the plants in a way that none of us can. They tell her what they need. They tell her what they are willing to provide her.

More importantly, she listens. She sees herself as participating in the ecology of a place, as a part of the web of life. She can feel the vibrations around her, because she's not talking.

In the book Claire reads, Robin explains how the world slows down, with plants. To go on a plant walk with the intention of harvesting for sustenance or medicine is to enter the world of slow-time. She talks about using a hand spade to dig up roots instead of a shovel. Digging slowly protects the plants--each individual plant as well as the system as a whole. Digging up an entire bed can destroy next year's harvest and make it impossible for other people to find what they need.

We use our hands to harvest almost everything during the three days we study with Claire, except for the roots we dig up to make root beer.

It's hard to move quickly, kneeling on the damp ground, plucking out one leaf in ten with our fingers, sorting one green leaf from another that looks similar but might be deadly.

On Tuesday, I harvest a plethora of Stinging Nettle from the garden with two of the men. We are eating the leaves in a light pesto. I spoon gobs of it into my mouth, once we're done. For this harvest, we used gloves. We're removing everything here, because we want the plants others have deliberately sown or will sow to have enough light, nutrients, and water to thrive.

On Wednesday, we spend the entire day digging out a 12 ft x 18 ft garden bed and planting different varieties of willow. We sweat in the hot, unrelenting sun. I use a shovel for more continuous time than I have ever used a shovel in my life. We haul buckets of water and wheelbarrows full of mulch. At the end, I have dirt under my fingernails and all over my face. Splinters from the mulch pile fill my shoes. I'm sweaty, a little dehydrated, and happy. Next year's class will get to make baskets from what we've planted today. We won't see any direct benefit from our labor.

I'm happy my labor will serve future students in such an honest, direct way.

On Thursday, we pick nettle again, this time for a salve designed to treat minor scrapes and bruises. When we walk out into the woods, I ask if we want gloves. Claire says she wants to get stung. The other members of the group agree. I acquiesce, not grudgingly. I understand this desire.

I use my left hand. The nettles burn on my fingers, wrist. I feel the blood flow, the puffy swelling. There is importance here, in feeling the plants reach back during our interactions with them. We hurt them when we pick them, even if we're careful, even if we don't kill them. Few of them can hurt us the way nettle can. It's hard to feel like the plant world revolves around me while my hand is burning.

Before we get in the van on Thursday, I walk out into the field and kneel. I put my hands on the ground. I feel gratitude. I express gratitude with my being, my mind. I don't know if it matters to anyone--are the plants listening? If they are, do they care? Is what I'm doing for me, or for the plants? One person trying to listen in a sea of destruction and wanton consumption means so little.

I kneel. It must be for me--I can't hear the plants, not the way Robin can. But I believe they have something to say, all the same. Rocks teach me patience. Plants teach me humility.