“We are now in the Seventh Fire and a path must be chosen. What path will you choose?

The path of compassion will light the Eighth and Final Fire - the Eternal Fire of Peace. The path of desecration will lead to the destruction of all living things”

— Skayomok Iwi Eko Nishiwaaching Niiganaadjimong - “You All Light the Eight Fire” Exhibit piece at the Ziibiwang Cultural Center, Mt. Pleasant, MI

It’s 9:30 AM on the 7th Generation Grounds of The Saginaw Chippewa Indian Tribe in Mt. Pleasant, and Cortney Collia, an enrolled member of the Sault Ste. Marie Tribe of Chippewa Indians, is already dancing. 

It’s the most important meal of the day – breakfast. Today’s breakfast at the annual Rice Camp hosted by the Saginaw Chippewa Indian Tribe was made by Sam Anglin, an Indigenous chef enrolled with the Tribe. The meal is Manoomin (in the western world known as two species of “wild rice”)-flour pancakes with blueberries and locally-made maple syrup. While rice flour pancakes may seem strange – they’re delicious. 

Perhaps my most controversial food opinion – I don’t even like most rice. I’ve always thought it was too neutral, with the hundreds of little grains squishing around in my mouth overwhelming any potential plusses to the savoring experience. Manoomin is different though. It's not like most rice. The grains are bigger, it tastes nuttier and when made into a flour and put with blueberries and home-made syrup – I still salivate just thinking about Anglin’s completely Michigan-made meals throughout the one-day camp. 

I’m not the only one who thinks so. The community center turned cafeteria is mostly quiet as everyone is devouring their servings, the only noise coming from chairs shuffling to get seconds. Everyone but Cortney. 

I look out the window, and Cortney is alone, lifting up her dress and carefully stepping on the ground in a two-step routine. She continues for about fifteen minutes, starts to dig a hole for another 15, only to decide “Not here.” She moves about ten feet from her original location and begins her two-step again – this is the right spot. 

Rice camps, like the one being hosted by the Saginaw Chippewa Tribe, help the Ojibwe, Odawa, and Potawatomi nations to preserve and revitalize their shared Anishinaabe culture. According to their tradition, Manoomin, “the good berry,” was a gift from Gizhe-Manidoo, the Great Mystery (or the Creator), providing life and sustenance. This nutritious grain was essential for flourishing in harsh northern winters, allowing tribes to limit hunting in snow-covered landscapes and rely instead on stored rice, maple sugar and preserved meats.

With food security in place, winters became a time for storytelling, learning, and connecting with Elders and youth. The season was devoted to cultural growth and passing down family histories, creating a vibrant period of learning while nature rested.

In the words of Vincent Salgado, a Chicano writer and friend to Manoomin, Manoomin is the epitome of a good neighbor. Aligned with one telling of the Anishinaabe creation belief, as shared by Edward Benton-Benai in “The Mishomis Book: The Voice of the Ojibway,” Manoomin gives so much - its seed, its stories - and asks for very little in return other than respect and gratitude. On the other hand, humans are the weakest siblings who depend on the gifts of non-human neighbors. Humans are then responsible for at least being grateful, wisely using the gifts from non-human, and reciprocating when possible. Yet, many, but not all, of today's humans ask most of their non-human relatives, and still are never satiated or appreciative. Today, the strain on Manoomin’s ecosystem is immense—industrial runoff, invasive species, and diversions of water increasingly disrupt its delicate habitat. Yet, despite dwindling populations and widespread neglect, Manoomin continues to give its gifts, as it has for centuries.

Today, some Anishinaabe communities are sharing centuries of knowledge around Manoomin harvesting and processing with outsiders. While many of the lessons around Manoomin must stay within the grounds of 7th Generations and the Elders that so generously gifted to me, there are a few I have been permitted to share.

Manoomin-Anishinaabe interaction began more than a millennia ago. According to the prophecy of the Seven Fires, an oral history of the Anishinaabe people as shared by Edward Benton-Benai, the third fire states the tribes would make a “great migration” from the east coast westward to a land where “food grows on water” – Manoomin, “The Good Berry”.

There is no absolute right or wrong harvesting practices – these were the practices taught to me from Anishinaabe Elders.

1. Give Thanks. Before beginning, offer asemaa (tobacco) to the water to show gratitude for its gifts and request permission to harvest.

2. Harvest Together. In pairs, board your canoe with a steering pole and knockers—tools to gently guide and gather the rice while limiting damage to its roots or stalk.

3. Harvest Respectfully. If the rice is ready, it will easily part from its stalks. Take only what you need, and return some grain to the water to reseed the beds.

4. Process as a Community. Back on shore, the rice is air-dried, then parched, danced upon to remove hulls, winnowed, and, finally, manually checked for quality.

Now that the rice is with us on the 7th generation grounds in Mt. Pleasant, it's time to process. Roger Labine, who is an enrolled member of Lac Vieux Desert Band of Lake Superior Chippewa Indians, Cortney and other Elders are hosting these demonstrations to show others how they’re ancestors taught them. 

The first step is drying the Manoomin. Just like any grain, it's hard to cook while it's wet, so this is done by laying it on a tarp and letting the sun dry it out. If not properly dried, the seed will mold. If cooked too soon, the seed will pop and not be storable. After it is dry, it is ready to be parched. 

In the room, a metal bucket of dried Manoomin sits over the fire with an Elder stirring the container to ensure the grain doesn't get too hot. Otherwise, the seed will pop. We gathered around the fire, exchanging introductions through our beading sweat until the Manoomin was finally ready. Once ready, I helped deliver it to Cortney at the next section – dancing. 

Cortney was dancing again, and in the exact same spot I saw her last. There was now deer hide aligning the hole’s innerwalls. Using a wooden frame to hold herself above the hole she created, she put parched Manoomin under her moccasins and began to dance. These moccasins are only used for this dance, never touching the dirt.

It was a dance similar to that of the Twist. Roger would later joke that Chubby Checker made being Native cool, finally putting the nearly 500 year old dance in the mainstream – classic Roger.  While holding herself up to avoid crushing the rice under her weight, she shifted her weight from heel to toe, twisting her hips accordingly. She had done this for decades now, and the grain readily parted from its hull as she twisted. 

As she continued twisting and turning, she talked to us about the process, never losing her breath, “When actually harvesting for the winter, there could be 4-5 dancers. Boys, girls, it doesn’t matter, if you’re good at it, great, if you’re bad at it it will just take more time and that’s okay! It just matters you’re trying and in the moment.” 

I never built up the courage to try dancing, but I spent most of my time at the dancing station. It didn’t matter if I was directly helping or just hanging out, I felt wanted, and I wanted to help, even if I was just company.  I learned contrary to what one might believe,  Roger used to be a great dancer, even better than Cortney. I learned about the Anishinaabe language from Howard Kimewon, a fluent mother-tongue speaker from the Wikwemikong Unceded Reserve. I might not have said much, but more importantly I learned to listen – I was in the moment. 

After the hulls have been separated through dance, the grains are put into a birchbark winnowing basket to remove the hulls. Roger demonstrated this step, taking a birchbark basket and quickly thrusting it down, allowing the grains to fall and the remaining hulls to be whisked away in the wind. 

“Listen to the rhythm” Shkk, Shkk, Shkk, “It's the first instrument of our people, it's the music we have as babies, it's the music of now. It doesn’t go away.” 

After the hulls had been mostly separated, we moved to the next station – hand separating the grains from the remaining hulls. It was slow, methodical and attentive, a task mostly done by Elders. I thought the allure was like building a 1000 piece puzzle – time consuming, but lends itself to great conversation and little physical effort – it wasn’t for me. I didn't have the patience, so I returned to Cortney, still dancing, ready to listen, but this time, I had a question. She took a break from dancing – it was my chance to ask about why she was dancing long before our day of processing even started. 

“I was putting good vibrations in the earth to look for ants. They were here first, and I wanted to make sure I wasn’t intruding on their space. The vibrations bring them to the surface – I needed to know if it was the right area, they’d tell me if I listened. I found a spot, started digging, and tons of ants crawled to the surface. It was the Earth telling me it was a bad spot, so I filled it in, and dug a hole in a new spot. There weren't any ants so I knew it was good.”

She went on addressing the group,

“Everything is vibrations, your vibrations impact those around whether you know it or not. It took some digging to know my vibrations were causing issues to our ant friends, so I moved. Always show up with good vibrations, that’s all you can do.” 

I thought of all the vibrations Manoomin sent me. Throughout the process, the intention of each action drew me in. I felt tethered to the moment, the environment and the community around me. Manoomin processing has been done on these grounds for centuries, and will continue long after I am gone. I was beginning to not feel like an outsider, but a welcomed guest in the rich North American historical tapestry. I thought of the vibrations I was giving back to the world around me. I never know who all they may have impacted. I hope my good intentions were clear. 

Despite his youthful protests, Roger says he’s an “about-to-turn-34” grandpa—a title he wears with playful pride. He claims to be a singer, though he only performs tenor solos: that is, “solo” that no one can hear, and only from “tenor” fifteen miles away.

Roger is an active member of the Lac Vieux Desert Band of Lake Superior Chippewa Indians and a widely-recognized “Ricekeeper since 1956,” a title emblazoned on a shirt gifted by his grandkids. He's the beloved and endlessly charismatic leader of numerous Manoomin conservation and restoration efforts across the Great Lakes. He runs many of the “rice camps,”  like the one at Mt. Pleasant,  teaching the cultural and practical significance of harvesting and processing Manoomin.

In addition to being Co-Chairman of the Michigan Wild Rice Coalition, he serves as the tribal delegate for the Michigan Wild Rice Initiative. When State Representative Carrie Rheingan’s bill—declaring Wild Rice the “Native State Grain”—passed, Roger was front and center, smiling alongside Governor Whitmer in the official photo.

Today, like most days, Roger is a teacher. His lesson plan involves making birchbark winnowing baskets, a traditional tool used by the Anishinaabe for centuries. 

He laid out twelve pre-harvested birchbark pieces for us to use but first guided us through the harvesting process.

“Does anyone know how to harvest bark from a tree?”

Someone offered a confident reply: “You take a sharp knife, cut a straight line, and pull the bark away.”

Roger raised a brow. “When do you harvest?”

The person hesitated. “I’m not sure...I’ve just done it before.”

“You’ve got the basics, but you’re missing a key step,” Roger said. “Before you harvest, you must thank your brother wiigwaas—birch—for the gift he’s about to give. Offering asemaa—tobacco—is one of the ways to show your gratitude. And remember, never pull the bark. If the timing is right—late spring or early summer—your brother will part with his bark willingly.”

He smiled, gesturing to the materials. “These came from my home in the Upper Peninsula, about five hundred miles from here.”

Thus began our workshop near Kalamazoo. Roger and Daisy, another Elder, led the demonstration. Like seasoned pros, they quickly transformed flat bark into neatly molded baskets. Thirty minutes in, their pieces looked flawless. We followed their lead, cautiously folding and pinning the bark.

But unlike the Elders, our baskets didn’t cooperate. Cracks formed at the edges, and our projects barely resembled their smooth models.

The next step involved poking holes in the overlapping corners with an awl—essentially creating “shoelace holes” for sinew stitching. This part was simple but risky. If the awl didn’t pierce cleanly, it required brute force to drive the needle through, setting the stage for self-injuries.

 I’m not ashamed to admit I was one of the first victims, as within the first hour of sewing our basket I had put the needle going completely in (and out) of my pointer finger. I quickly pulled the needle back through, and took a medical timeout, slightly embarrassed. 

By nightfall, we had a small collection of half-finished baskets. We shared our creations, each claiming victory in at least producing something vaguely basket-like.

My pride was short-lived. Roger sauntered over, grinning. “Look at that! You did it!” he teased, eyeing the red splotches. “And it’s one of a kind—no one else will ever have one exactly like yours.”

I may have been the first to misplace my needle, but I certainly was not the only one, I had to make my case. I turned to Daisy, who with her completed, beautifully made basket and kind demeanor seemed sympathetic to my cause, and I asked “You’ve made tons of these, this has to happen all the time, did this happen to you?”

She looked at me, started laughing, and flipped me off with a bandaged middle finger.

The next day I go back to Roger, Daisy and Cortney with my life-long friend Ali to start on a new project – a manoomin steering rod or “push pole.” We walked up to the tent, eagerly awaiting instructions on how to transform this fourteen foot stick into a tool to navigate the lake without damaging the delicate root systems of Manoomin.

Our lesson was delayed, however. When we arrived at the scheduled time, Roger was in conversation with an older white lady, J. Their conversation dragged on until nearly twenty minutes after our original start time – the group was getting impatient. Roger seemed to be looking for an escape – I tuned in to see what the hold up could be: 

“Roger, there is just so much suffering in this world, yet here I am living as if nothing is happening. With everything happening in Israel and Palestine, people are being killed, I just feel useless while the world crumbles around me.” 

Roger, usually full of wisdom, seemed stuck. “Well, I don’t know if I’m the person to ask. What’s happening over there is terrible and it's easy to feel useless, but we just have to stay to what we believe in. I always have found myself coming to visit my family…”

The answer wasn’t enough for her. “Yeah, but what do our ancestors say? How have they dealt with this immense grief, this trauma, it's generational and it feels like it's at the point of no return.” 

Roger tried to answer this seemingly impossible question. “It’s different for everyone, everyone deals with grief, trauma in different ways. And everyone's trauma is different. I don’t really know what to say.” 

She wasn’t listening. “Yes, but what can I do? I feel so powerless while thousands of Palestinians are dying.” She started to cry. “All I’m doing is mourning, and it’s taking it all out of me. It’s exhausting.” 

The one-sided conversation wasn’t going anywhere. Ali, also sensing Roger’s discomfort, jumped into the conversation to assist, “Well what have you done so far?”

She responded, “I’ve mourned for nights on end, it's just not going away.” 

“Have you been to a protest?”

Silence.

“Have you voted for people trying to end it? Have you donated to aid relief?”

“Well, where I can, it's hard when the other side is so… you know… I’m still in mourning… that's all I can do.” 

Ali, whose grandparents were exiled from Palestine during the Nakba in 1948, was irritated by the older ladies' conversation, “Your mourning isn’t doing anything for my people. It's okay to feel sad, it's okay to mourn, but the only way things are going to change is through direct action. Vote, protest, participate, being a bystander and justifying your feelings saying you’re in mourning isn’t productive. It’s a lot like what happened to Native Americans over the past century. The entire situation is filled with grief, it's inherited – but WE have to make the change. You have to participate. Grieving is important, but won’t solve anything. We need action.”

The tension in the tent was palpable, the atmosphere was uncomfortable. It was supposed to be. After Ali’s call to action, J walked away without saying another word. I don’t think Ali’s response is what she was looking for.

It was the first night of camp, and the sun was setting. Forty or so people gathered around the stage to watch Akoth Ambugo, the keynote speaker for the night. There was much curiosity in the air, and a sense of sympathy as Akoth Ambugo was struggling to get started. The struggle didn’t stem from unpreparedness or inexperience, it came from a place of vulnerability. Her mother was on stage, holding her hand, providing a source of comfort for her to tell her story. 

Ambugo’s speaking style was slow and calculated, filled with emotion and thought. She spoke every word of her story as if it was happening again in real time. Her story followed her life: her struggles with moving away from home to a boarding school and forgetting her mother tongue, finding community through diversity in the Urban Garden scene (in Newark New Jersey, of all places), and her mission to bring these communities and food sovereignty to villages in her homeland of Kenya. 

Her talk featured themes of embracing heritage, each other, and ourselves. It was a powerful and heartfelt ending in an embrace between Ambugo and her mother, but not before interruption.

She concluded her speech talking about the knowledge she had gained in the US and her realization her true impact was in her homeland, where she co-founded a homestead, resource center and natural farming demonstration. Around the time of her concluding thoughts. In the heavy silence of the late July air — J wanted to help. 

From seemingly out of nowhere, J, red in the face as if she had been crying, bound to the stage embracing the now teary-eyed Ambugo. 

“I want to help. How can I help? You are so strong.”

Ambugo, who had stated before this talk was not centered around fundraising, but instead about lessons in relationships, heritage and humanity, politely declined.  She was not accepting donations at this time. J, once again, wasn’t listening. 

“Your story is so inspiring, there must be some way we as people can be involved. A Venmo? Cashapp?”

The cash now more visible to me in her hand, J held Ambugo in her embrace for longer than expected, while all the audience and Ambugo’s mother could do was watch the display. 

“Seriously, it's okay. This is not a time for donation, but thank you it does mean a lot to see you moved by my story.” 

After seeing there was no clear resolution, she took J’s hand with the money and accepted her donation subtly, and after a final hug, sent J back to the audience, gave thanks to everyone for listening to her story hoping we gained something, and returned to her mother’s arms. 

I couldn’t tell exactly how much money J not-so-slyly handed Ambugo after the emotional outburst. I don’t think it mattered to anyone, except maybe J. I couldn’t help but wonder what the price of a publicly cleared conscience is.

In the words of an Elder shared with Jen Read, the lead for the Wild Rice stewardship plan: the only way to keep Manoomin alive is to create a braid. Two pieces of string may be strong on their own, but under enough stress, they will break. When braided together, however, they become much stronger than they could ever be alone.

For too long, tribal and nontribal groups have worked separately to protect Wild Rice with limited overlap. Despite their efforts, Manoomin populations have reached historic lows. The divide—different metrics of success, contrasting outlooks and methods—has delayed the formation of a true braid. Without solidarity, we remain two separate strings. Now more than ever, Manoomin needs braided support to resurge and thrive. This approach goes beyond conservation or stewardship, yet many are still reluctant to embrace it.

I think J was one of the many.. She believed her string was strong enough on its own, and by supporting others in strengthening theirs, she had done her part. But even the strongest strings can break. True resilience, true impact, comes from the strength of the braid.

As an outsider, beginning your braid can feel daunting. Building relationships takes time and effort, but it is essential. I’ve had to make sacrifices to learn this lesson. I (unfortunately) put a needle through my finger. I swallowed my pride and acknowledged my ignorance, frequently—whether it was my first time using a chisel to craft a push pole or engaging in difficult conversations about ancestry while making a birchbark basket. I learned our most valuable tool for change isn’t our mouth, but instead our ears.

Anytime you work with Manoomin, you are never truly alone. I learned through people’s stories—Roger’s, Cortney’s, Vincent’s and other neighbors to Manoomin. I met a women named Hristina, a Macedonian living in Kalamazoo who shared her stories from her homeland. I heard about Ali's family struggles in Palestine, I heard Cortney’s stories of her diverse, “ancestral mutt” histories, all stories I would have never heard if I didn’t open my ears to them.

Now we are in the time of the eighth fire, we have to choose: Compassion or Desecration. The path of compassion consists of weaving the braid, nurturing relationships, and taking care of each other and our non-human relatives - but this takes time. In a world focused on tangible outcomes, it’s easy to value products over processes. We’re conditioned to seek measurable progress. But real change isn’t a product—it’s a process. If Manoomin is to survive, we must commit to this process of compassion, strengthening the braid one link, one relationship, at a time.

In the Anishinaabe creation story according to the Mishomis book, an oral history of the Anishinaabe people, while living harmoniously at first, the original men and women would eventually stop giving respect to relationships. People stopped listening, instead putting themselves over others. Soon brothers turned on brothers, families on families and wives on husbands. This lack of respect for others saddened the creator Gizhe-Manidoo, and after it seemed all hope was lost - he decided to purify the earth, sending a great flood over the newly created people, eliminating most living beings instantly.

While the exact description of Waynaboozhoo differs between storytellers, in the Mishomis book it is described as a spirit of the Original Man. During the Great flood, Waynaboozhoo was able to save himself by floating on a huge log. As many four-legged creatures and birds alternated resting on the log it left the question – how will Earth be restored? 

Eventually, Waynaboozhoo had had enough, he decided to make the plunge to try and gather Earth from the bottom to begin life anew, but the water was simply too deep. He came back up, defeated but not ready to give up. A loon tried to recover the sacred Earth, but to no avail. Many more animals continued to try – all unsuccessful. After the many attempts, a muskrat wanted to try. Many of the animals that came before doubted their brother’s capabilities, saying if they couldn’t retrieve the Earth, a tiny muskrat would never be able to reach the bottom. 

The muskrat held his breath, and took the dive. He made it to the bottom, grabbed the piece of land needed to restart life on Earth and returned to the surface - dead.  Waynaboozhoo had to make the most of the muskrat’s ultimate sacrifice. He placed the piece of Earth on the turtle's back, and the winds began to blow. As they danced on the island, the island grew, eventually a large island occupied the great water – “Turtle Island.”

At the end of the summer, I connected with David Michener, the curator of the Matthaei Botanical gardens responsible for the garden’s returning Manoomin populations in Willow Pond - an attempt to reunite Manoomin with the waters where it formerly grew. Throughout the summer, Willow Pond became a place of solace for me, an area for me to get away from the business of the world. It was a good neighbor - it always listened, grounded and reconnected me with the natural world around me - an outlet needed much-needed when living in a city. 

It had been a while since I visited Willow Pond. Once school got into full swing, I realized how long it had been since I visited my neighbor. I asked David how the Manoomin was doing.

“Muskrats got it”

“All of it?” 

“Yep. I guess they dug under our fences, ate all of it.  I’m not sure exactly what happened. I was out of town and came back to it all being gone. Hopefully we’ll try again next year.”

It was devastating news. Willow Pond is one of the only ponds with Manoomin left in SouthEast Michigan, in conditions in which everything was monitored: Water quality, flow rates, salinity, pH. In order for the Manoomin to be grown, before planting the University was guided by tribal perspectives at every step of the way.  It was under constant watch, had fences placed around and meticulously placed to avoid (unsuccessfully) attacks from ground, air and sea, or in our case pond. How could this have happened? Its braid was strong, but not strong enough.

It had an entire community rallying behind it, immense funding toward the project and yet to many, it failed. I’m not one for the typical divine intervention or a strong believer in the “there is a plan for everything” mentality but, put simply, it wasn’t meant to be this year.

It was quite fitting, I think. While it might not have been a 'success' in the conventional sense—where a project is measured by its completion or outcomes. The efforts weren’t in vain.

To me, it was a success. Despite never reproducing seed, the Manoomin had fulfilled its purpose. It had nourished, it had provided, and at the end, it was part of something greater - something that would use all of its gift to power life. Throughout its short life in the Matthaei Botanical Garden our relationship taught me more than most classes, people or books ever could. I watched it for a majority of its life span grow into something that has fed and powered societies and ecosystems alike for centuries.

Its death was not an end but a reminder that true change—whether on our planet or in our communities—requires sacrifice, perseverance, and a willingness to do good with our gifts. We all have to do our part to intertwine ourselves in the braids of others because in the end, each link is strength. It only made sense for a muskrat to be the agent.  After all the muskrat had done and taught us – Manoomin was just doing what any good neighbor would.