The Seed Keeper

by Diane Wilson

Maybe we all carry that instinct to return home, to the horizon line that formed us, to the place where we first knew the world.

He said forgetting was easy. It’s the remembering that wears you down.

My father once explained that trees talk to one another through this web, sharing stories and food, sending what they don’t need along to their neighbors.

“We live that same way,” he said. “We learn from the trees by watching and listening. When you hit that tree with your big stick, Rosie, you leave a mark, and the whole forest hears it. Then they ignore you, they stop talking when you’re around. But if you come on quiet feet”—and he raised his eyebrows at me—“if you can learn to come on quiet feet, and to listen, then you will never be without friends.”

Where these old trees once stood was another reminder that what was valuable would be taken; what was not protected would be stolen.

‘The nation that destroys its soil destroys itself.’ Franklin D. Roosevelt.”

“We all depend on each other to survive. The plants we gather give their lives; the deer gives its life. Someday we will give ours, too. You have to be respectful, knowing that a plant’s or animal’s life is a gift that allows us to live. You never take more than what you need.”

Without family, I had drifted like a dried leaf in autumn, blowing in a new direction with each gust of wind. Family gave me a place, history, connection, identity. Even in the midst of terrible pain and heartbreak, family held the possibility of love.

“People don’t understand how hard it is to be Indian,” Carlos said. “I’m not talking about all the sad history. I’m talking about a way of life that demands your best every single day. Being Dakhóta means every step you take is a prayer.”

You have to heal yourself first before you can go out and change the world.