Dear Ones of St. Columba's,

I wonder how the past year has affected your relationship with nature? For me, the answer to that question is complex. On the one hand, nature is part of the reason we are in a pandemic. Viruses are part of nature, and watching how this pandemic has changed our lives and the life of our planet is a fascinating study in the power that one small organism can have over all the others. We have been reminded over and over this year that nature is not something we can control - whether that nature comes in the form of pandemic, hurricane, or an unseasonable bought of very cold weather. 

On the other hand, our natural, outdoor spaces have become the safest places for humans to go and be, whether alone or together. It is a lot harder to catch Covid out of doors.

I have also found my own relationship with the land I live on changing, this past year. Being stuck here day after day has helped me to notice the gifts of my home and yard. Over this past year I have watched my garden grow and die and am now planning to plant for spring. Our chickens have grown up and started laying eggs, we have gained and lost sunlight, and now are gaining it back again. I have never felt closer to the dirt beneath my hands when I dig and plant, or the Olympic mountains that greet me through our large west facing windows each morning, or even the rain that often pelts my head when I step outside to feed the chickens. 

And I am aware, now more than ever, that this land belonged first to other peoples. 

People of St. Columba's, I hope you will join me in these coming months in learning more about the Indigenous people of Turtle Island, which is the name for the American continents shared by the first peoples to live here. It is my hope that we can learn together, beginning with reading the book Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer. I began reading it last fall, in preparation for a backpacking trip, and found myself entranced by Kimmerer's wisdom, and healed by much of what she offers in this text to all readers, whether indigenous or immigrant. This is not a book about feeling bad about or for the first peoples who lived here. Rather it is an opportunity to learn from their wisdom, a wisdom that has been threatened and imperiled but still survives and invites relationship. 

A group of us will be discussing Braiding Sweetgrass on Sunday afternoons and all are welcome to join us. I'll close with Robin Wall Kimmerer's own words, from the preface:

"I could hang you a braid of sweetgrass, as thick and shining as the plait that hung down my grandmother's back. But it is not mine to give, nor yours to take....So I offer, in its place, a braid of stories meant to heal our relationship with the world. This braid is woven from three strands: indigenous ways of knowing, scientific knowledge, and the story of an Anishinabekwe scientist trying to bring them together in service to what matters most. It is an intertwining of science, spirit, and story - old stories and new ones that can be medicine for our broken relationship with earth, a pharmacopoeia of healing stories that allow us to imagine a different relationship, in which people and land are good medicine for each other."

Lent is a time to learn, and to heal. I hope you'll join me in listening, learning, and healing through Braiding Sweetgrass. I hope that you, like me, long for a world in which we - people, land, earth, can be good medicine for each other.

with care and gratitude,

Alissa

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