In her breathtaking book of essays, Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer introduces the idea of the “Honorable Harvest,” a set of sustainability actions that embrace the complexity of lived life. To eat anything is to take from the earth and it often involves the killing of plant or animal beings (I know no one who eats, clothes, and shelters themselves on fruit alone). To live compassionately and mindfully upon this earth requires this acknowledgement. We kill to eat. We kill to clothe ourselves. Consumption itself is the act of killing, or at the very least involves some kind of destruction, some kind of taking. How do we reckon with this? Not easily. Kimmerer herself notes that the laws of the Honorable Harvest “are not written down or consistently spoken of as a whole—they are reinforced in small acts of daily life.” I moved to Hawai’i in large part because I wanted to participate in the Honorable Harvest and participate in daily sustainability actions. I wanted to be closer to the ocean and I wanted to live more sustainably on the planet. Living in Hawai’i doesn’t make sustainable action easier—and in many ways, living in Hawai’i makes it far more difficult. When most of your food is shipped in from the continent, expelling carbon in the process, living lightly upon the earth isn’t easy. Yet, difficult or easy, each of us who cares about the planet eventually comes to terms with the idea of the Honorable Harvest in our daily lives—especially those of us who want to live greener lives. The Honorable Harvest is more than just buying organic food. It is a way of living more lightly and responsibly on the earth, and not outsourcing that responsibility.
First, what is the Honorable Harvest exactly? What are sustainable actions we can take? Kimmerer doesn’t offer strict rules, but she writes that the laws of the Honorable Harvest “might look something like this:”
- “Know the ways of the ones who take care of you, so that you may take care of them.”
- “Introduce yourself. Be accountable as the one who comes asking for life.”
- “Ask permission before taking. Abide by the answer.”
- “Never take the first. Never take the last.”
- “Take only what you need.”
- “Never take more than half. Leave some for others.”
- “Harvest in a way that minimizes harm.”
- “Use it respectfully. Never waste what you have taken.”
- “Share.”
- “Give thanks for what you have been given.”
- “Give a gift, in reciprocity for what you have taken.”
- “Sustain the ones who sustain you and the earth will last forever.”
I’ve had to think long and hard about how these principles work in my current life. How is one to live in accordance with the Honorable Harvest in a world where so much of the food we eat is harvested out of sight by other hands? How are we to use and consume responsibly, when so few things are made by hand, when so much is made by machines? Everything from our clothes to our shelter involves some kind of mechanized process, involving invisible hands to whom we cannot always give thanks—or apologize to.
Kimmerer wrestles with these questions in Braiding Sweetgrass, a book I have taken my time reading (I have to admit I started in months ago, and find myself working slowly through each essay, treasuring it like a jewel). It is a book I return to time and time again. Kimmerer struggles with the reality that the instruments she uses for writing (her pens, her paper) come from mechanized processes, origins unknown. The very tools of her trade may cause unknown damage on the planet. She acknowledges that it is impossible to harvest honorably or sustainably in all aspects of her life.
Regarding the question of how to live lightly upon this earth, Kimmerer writes, “I think my elders would counsel that there is no one path, that each of us must find our own way. In my wandering with this question, I’ve found dead ends and clear openings.”
And so I realize I can only speak about my own path and hope it is of some use. I can only speak of my own struggles, and hope there will be recognition there.
If I had to create my own list of sustainability actions for my own “Honorable Harvest” my working draft would involve these points:
- Eat what would otherwise be wasted and don’t waste.
- Learn about where your food comes from, and when possible, partake of the honorable harvest with your own two hands.
- Consume less. Buy clothes and household goods from the thrift store when possible. Before COVID-19, my partner and I went to the Goodwill Surplus Store once a week.
- Learn about conservation projects in your community and lend them your talents, your time, your work, your donations, and your other gifts.
- Never underestimate the power of gratitude, community, and ceremony.
Coming to know the ways of those who take care of me has involved spending more time out at sea, with the fish of O’ahu, understanding their habitats and habits. Over the years, I have watched the coral go from rainbow to bleached white. I have wanted to learn spearfishing, but I realize that I won’t be able to fish in a sea I don’t understand, so I am taking the time to understand the ocean near my home, free-diving when I can. I am getting to know the turtles, stingrays, and fish. I am letting the ocean teach me its lessons. When I am ready, I will learn to spearfish, so that I can become accountable as “the one who comes asking for life.” For now, I come with an open heart, willing to learn.
Coming to know the ways of those who take care of me has put me on a journey where I go foraging in the forest, learning more about the natural ecosystems of Hawai’i, and about the way food grows wild. I am fascinated by the ways these mountains and hills grow food on their own, without human intervention. Caring for the “ones who take care” of me, on some days, is as simple as cleaning plastic out of the ocean when I see it there. It means picking up trash on the trails. On other days, it means walking in the woods, searching for avocados and breadfruit and foraging for other wild food in season. I am slowly learning the ways of wild plants, and learning to look more closely when I hike. And on some days, it means reading about ecology, about farming, and about the ways we can better protect the natural world. It has led me on a path that has put me in the way of restoration projects in my own community, in the path of work that sustains me soul, body, and mind. It has changed the trajectory of my career.
Someday, I’d like to join the local community gardens here in Honolulu, and get my hands dirty, but the waiting lists are long, so for now, I spend my days learning, and contemplating the possibility of planting a few rogue breadfruit trees. In the meantime, my boyfriend, Sergio and I buy food from the Chinatown markets that would otherwise get thrown away and end up in a landfill. He is a master at letting nothing go to waste. I am still learning.
Taking only what I need takes on many forms. When foraging, it means Sergio and I leave some fruit on the trees for the animals and for others who pass. When it comes to buying household items and clothes, we try to shop at the thrift store, finding items that would otherwise end up in a landfill. It means that we often have to be more patient when we want something, waiting for it to make its way to us, but we save money and save the planet from needless waste and manufacturing. I find that with patience, what we need comes.
Asking permission is something I have found myself having trouble with. Growing up where I grew up, if you asked permission, the answer was likely to be “no.” But I have learned that when you ask permission in nature with an open heart, the answer is often “yes,” and if it is “no,” it’s more a “try again later, no,” or a “no, try harder” or a “no, but learn more and come back.”
Giving thanks, and giving in reciprocity for what has been given is also a challenge. Robin Wall Kimmerer writes that ceremony can go a long way to creating a habit and ritual of giving thanks and giving back. She writes, “ceremonies should be reciprocal cocreations, organic in nature, in which the community creates ceremony and the ceremony creates community. They should not be cultural appropriations from Native peoples. But generating new ceremony in today’s world is hard to do.”
Giving thanks as a community can be far more powerful than giving thanks alone. Giving back to those who have sustained you with others can be more powerful than trying to go alone. Kimmerer explains: “Ceremony focuses attention so that attention becomes intention. If you stand together and profess a thing before your community, it holds you accountable.” I have struggled with this loneliness. In a world where everyone is connected to their phones, it’s hard to build real-life connection, difficult to build real-life community.
But I still think there are ways.
In the face of planetary degradation, it is easy to feel overwhelmed and hopeless, or to not even know where to start. I’ve read several books that embody this lost sense we all have (Anne Lamott’s Dusk Night Dawn is a recent book that comes to mind). Kimmerer writes: “Despair is paralysis. It robs us of agency. It blinds us to our own power and the power of the earth.” What is the solution? Kimmerer writes: “Restoration is a powerful antidote to despair. Restoration offers concrete means by which humans can once again enter into a positive, creative relationship with the more-than-human world, meeting responsibilities that are simultaneously material and spiritual.”
Kimmerer and others who have a relationship with the land say that it doesn’t have to be difficult. They say it can start small. Just do something. Pick up the trash on the hike. Find the empty lot and start a rogue garden to feed your hungry neighbors. Don’t waste food. Buy things from the thrift store. Find restoration projects in your area, and find ways you can help. Know your gifts and put them to use.
Gratitude for one’s gifts creates a kind of accountability. I think of all I have been given: this beautiful island of O’ahu, the fresh fish I eat thanks to those who harvest, the vegetables grown in the ground, farmers, the ocean, the waves, my friends, and family and loved ones. My writing. My calling.
And so, I’ve come to see this writing as a kind of ceremony. Every day, like a ritual, at the start or end of my day, I come to the blank page and ask what I can give back or add to what has been given to me. And if I listen closely, I hear the answer, and I write. This is my offering.
About the Writer
Janice Greenwood is a writer, surfer, and poet. She holds an M.F.A. in poetry and creative writing from Columbia University.