Wiingaashk waves in strands, long and shining like a woman’s freshly washed hair. Kindness and something more flow between the braider and the braided, the two connected by the cord of the plait. There is such tenderness in braiding the hair of someone you love. Both medicine and a relative, its value is both material and spiritual. It is also used to make beautiful baskets. Our elders say that ceremonies are the way we “remember to remember,” and so sweetgrass is a powerful ceremonial plant cherished by many indigenous nations.
Breathe in its scent and you start to remember things you didn’t know you’d forgotten. Accordingly, it is honored as one of the four sacred plants of my people. Our stories say that of all the plants, wiingaashk, or sweetgrass, was the very first to grow on the earth, its fragrance a sweet memory of Skywoman’s hand. And now that the animals, too, had plenty to eat, many came to live with her on Turtle Island. Wild grasses, flowers, trees, and medicines spread everywhere. Sunlight streamed through the hole from the Skyworld, allowing the seeds to flourish. These she scattered onto the new ground and carefully tended each one until the world turned from brown to green. In her grasp were branches-fruits and seeds of all kinds of plants. When she toppled from the hole in the Skyworld she had reached out to grab onto the Tree of Life that grew there. The bundle was still clutched in her hand. Like any good guest, Skywoman had not come empty-handed. Together they formed what we know today as Turtle Island, our home. Not by Skywoman alone, but from the alchemy of all the animals’ gifts coupled with her deep gratitude. The land grew and grew as she danced her thanks, from the dab of mud on Turtle’s back until the whole earth was made. Moved by the extraordinary gifts of the animals, she sang in thanksgiving and then began to dance, her feet caressing the earth. Skywoman bent and spread the mud with her hands across the shell of the turtle. Turtle said, “Here, put it on my back and I will hold it.” But then the others noticed that his paw was tightly clenched and, when they opened it, there was a small handful of mud. He had given his life to aid this helpless human. They waited and waited for him to return, fearing the worst for their relative, and, before long, a stream of bubbles rose with the small, limp body of the muskrat. His small legs flailed as he worked his way downward and he was gone a very long time. He volunteered to go while the others looked on doubtfully. Soon only little Muskrat was left, the weakest diver of all. They returned gasping for air with their heads ringing. One by one, the other animals offered to help-Otter, Beaver, Sturgeon-but the depth, the darkness, and the pressures were too great for even the strongest of swimmers. Loon dove first, but the distance was too far and after a long while he surfaced with nothing to show for his efforts.
The deep divers among them had heard of mud at the bottom of the water and agreed to go find some. The others understood that she needed land for her home and discussed how they might serve her need. Gratefully, she stepped from the goose wings onto the dome of his shell. A great turtle floated in their midst and offered his back for her to rest upon. Resting on their wings, she saw them all gather: loons, otters, swans, beavers, fish of all kinds. The geese could not hold the woman above the water for much longer, so they called a council to decide what to do. Far from the only home she’d ever known, she caught her breath at the warm embrace of soft feathers as they gently carried her downward. She felt the beat of their wings as they flew beneath to break her fall. The geese nodded at one another and rose together from the water in a wave of goose music. As it grew closer, they could see that it was a woman, arms outstretched, long black hair billowing behind as she spiraled toward them. They saw there a small object, a mere dust mote in the beam. But in that emptiness there were many eyes gazing up at the sudden shaft of light. Hurtling downward, she saw only dark water below. * Adapted from oral tradition and Shenandoah and George, 1988. In fear, or maybe hope, she clutched a bundle tightly in her hand. She fell like a maple seed, pirouetting on an autumn breeze.* A column of light streamed from a hole in the Skyworld, marking her path where only darkness had been before. The storytellers begin by calling upon those who came before who passed the stories down to us, for we are only messengers. In winter, when the green earth lies resting beneath a blanket of snow, this is the time for storytelling.
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