“Listening, standing witness, creates an openness to the world in which the boundaries between us can dissolve in a raindrop. When we stop to listen, nature shares its stories and languages with us through the rhythms of life. Paying attention is a form of reciprocity with the living world, receiving the gifts with open eyes and open heart. One that asks not ‘What more can we take from the Earth’ but ‘What does the Earth ask of us?’” -Robin Wall Kimmerer

In a world that is rooted in extraction and excessive consumption of our natural world, the teachings of the Honorable Harvest offer a profound invitation: to slow down, to ask permission, and to truly listen before taking from the Earth.

Robin Wall Kimmerer, a botanist, writer, professor and member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation, shares the ethic of the Honorable Harvest in her beloved book Braiding Sweetgrass. It is not a doctrine or a list of rules—but a way of being in relationship with the living world, grounded in respect, reciprocity, and reverence. At the heart of this practice is a simple question that too often goes unasked: May I?

When we take something from the Earth—be it a berry or wood to build our house—do we pause to ask permission? Do we wait for a response? Do we honor the answer, even—and especially—if it’s “no”? These are not metaphors. They are real, embodied acts of listening.

The Honorable Harvest, Kimmerer explains, is guided by protocols that many Indigenous cultures have known and practiced for generations. 

“Ask permission of the ones whose lives you seek.
Abide by the answer.
Never take the first.
Never take the last.
Harvest in a way that minimizes harm.
Take only what you need and leave some for others.
Use everything that you take.
Take only that which is given to you.
Share it, as the Earth has shared with you.
Be grateful.
Reciprocate the gift.
Sustain the ones who sustain you, and the Earth will last forever.”

In a capitalist culture that deliberately fosters a sense of inadequacy and insatiability—so that we consume more stuff and more experiences, which requires more productivity—these instructions are radical. They require a quieting of the ego and an attunement to our bodies. To know what is enough, we must first be able to feel it. We must attune and listen.

The instructions of the Honorable Harvest are practical wisdom. When we approach the Earth with humility and curiosity, we begin to notice more. We sense the vitality or the weariness of a plant. We feel the silence of a place that is saying, Not today. We attune to subtle signals, to a felt sense in the body—to the language of life that doesn’t speak in words.

The Honorable Harvest is not just about restraint—it’s about right relationship. It’s a living conversation: we ask, we wait, we receive (or don’t), we express gratitude, and we give something back. Practicing the Honorable Harvest is about remembering something we already know in our bones: that life is a gift, and every gift comes with responsibility.

“To be naturalized,” she writes, “is to know the land as home and to behave as if we live in the circle of creation, not outside of it.”  So how do we begin?

We begin by pausing. By asking permission. By listening—not only with our ears, but with our hearts, our bodies, our attention. We begin by asking: What is enough? What is mine to take? What is mine to give? And we begin by practicing gratitude—not only in words, but in action, in sacred reciprocity.

What if we lived this way—not just when foraging or gardening, but in our everyday lives?

• Before buying: Do I actually need this, or am I feeding a spiritual hunger that can be met in another way?
  
  
• Before speaking: Am I adding to the conversation or simply taking space?
  
  
• Before acting: What are the impacts of this action—on others, on the land, on future generations?

In a time when climate collapse and cultural disconnection can feel overwhelming, the Honorable Harvest offers a grounded, hopeful path forward. Not grandiose, but intimate. It invites us to shift from extraction to regeneration, from domination to dialogue, from absence to deep, embodied presence.

So next time you reach for a berry, a branch, or even a moment of beauty—pause. Ask permission. Listen. Make an offering. Give thanks. Let this be the shape of our belonging. 

Let this be our prayer: May I? And may we honor the answer.