Broadening Research Perspectives: What “Mishkos Kenomagwen the Teachings of Grass” can teach us about research.

By: Leo Tching.

A common assumption in modern science is that traditional value systems are outdated and futile to innovative progress. Ranging from traditional Chinese medicine (TCM) to Ayurveda practices, modern institutions have time and time again repudiated the practicality of most traditional knowledge bases. However, such ignorance can often lead to the eradication of quietly beneficial ideas. The very purpose of studying history is not simply to prevent epoch-altering world wars from repeating, but also to detail the minuscule improvements that could make all the difference in the contemporary world. Mishkos Kenomagwen: The Teachings of Grass explores this very concept, showing how traditional knowledge can coexist with modern scientific inquiry.

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Although objectivity has long been a gold-standard in scientific writing, it should occur naturally, and never be taken advantage of or used as an artifice concealing device. In the present day, western research has become increasingly objectified; the economic, political, and societal pressures of this day and age have created overly filtered papers littered with an uncomfortable fact: truth has been quietly hidden with a mask of objectivity. As if haunted by its own history of exploitation and unethical practice, modern research papers speak in a voice so mechanically objective that it conceals the very emotions and moral tensions it seeks to deny. This paper argues that such objectivity, when taken to extremes, transforms research into a performance of detachment rather than a practice of understanding.

The concept of helicopter research, as outlined by Haelewaters et al. (2021) and Lambert et al. (2024), exemplifies this on a global and local scale. Researchers from wealthy institutions fly in, like missionaries from some self-appointed kingdom of progress, to collect data, extract knowledge, and vanish, leaving behind no roots, no relationships, and no reciprocity. As Lambert et al. (2024) write, these endeavors resemble “a military operation that is quickly in and out, with little regard for the long-term impact on the community” (p. 1825). This is an exact parallel to imperial powers colonizing under the facade of helping to “civilize” an ethnic population, then immediately leaving after stirring up uncontrolled chaos. Thus, in this helicopter research — the subjects, whether people or ecosystems — are viewed as commodities, vehicles to prestige and power, rather than co-creators of understanding.

Scholar Fernanda Adame (2021) sharpens this critique: “Without the knowledge of local people and their traditional culture that can span thousands of years, my conclusions could be misinformed or simply wrong” (para. 7). Yet, as Kimmerer (2013) observes, “Getting scientists to consider the validity of Indigenous knowledge is like swimming upstream in cold, cold water” (p. 160). This metaphor captures both the inertia of Western research and its stubborn commitment to conquest over mutual communion.

Not only that, but Kimmerer’s work addresses this dangerous shift. In Mishkos Kenomagwen, she is keenly aware of the risk of objectifying. When asked to help investigate and research the reason why sweetgrass was disappearing, she hesitantly said, “Sweetgrass is not an experimental unit for me; it’s a gift” (Kimmerer, 2013, p. 158). Although she ultimately decides to work with Laurie on the project, she finds herself constantly drowned in Western influence over their work, specifically the Western “theoretical framework.” When Kimmerer and her student Laurie presented the possibility that harvesting sweetgrass could actually invigorate it, a truth long held by Indigenous ancestors and basket makers, the academic committee and dean dismissed it for lacking a “theoretical framework.” This rejection was not simply about methodological rigor; it was a form of epistemic violence brought about by a rigid structure that Western society inherently teaches people about scientific research. It ultimately denies that knowledge might arise from a relationship rather than reduction— or from story rather than pure statistical data.

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In the excerpt's story, sweetgrass (Wiingaashk) is not a passive object awaiting scientific classification. It is an active participant, a teacher, a family member. When the Potawatomi elders posed the question of why sweetgrass was disappearing, they did not seek mere data points on a graph; they sought a rebalancing of a fading ancient relationship. Kimmerer and her student did not rush in with scalpels and measurement grids alone; they entered the meadow with humility, ears constantly open to stories older than any laboratory.

Kimmerer (2013) writes: “Experiments are not about discovery but about listening” (p. 158). This phrase is radical in a world that equates discovery with conquest for knowledge. Here, discovery emerges through conversation, through the slow trust of reciprocity. The act of harvesting sweetgrass did not diminish it; instead, it encouraged new growth, affirming Kimmerer's Indigenous ancestors' teaching: “If we use a plant respectfully, it will stay with us and flourish. If we ignore it, it will go away” (Kimmerer, 2013, p. 163). Listening, then, becomes a practice of attention that lets the world speak back.

This is more than ecological rationale; it is an animistic worldview: one that recognizes spirit, agency, and personhood in all things. To adopt such a lens in research means seeing your cell culture in the lab not merely as a mass of proliferating lines but as living companions, a participant in a shared dance of growth and inquiry that is your friend. Imagine, as you prepare your pipettes and culture flasks, offering a silent word of gratitude, acknowledging that your success rests upon the quiet cooperation of these cells.

A reciprocity-oriented research approach courageously asks: What can I give back? How does my presence alter this community, this forest, this 3 ml flask? It transforms the pure, sterile scientist from colonial conqueror into gardener, from extractor into caretaking basket makers.

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It would be unfair to repudiate Western science altogether. Its template done right has very often saved lives and uncovered marvelous wonders from subatomic mysteries to far-out galaxies. Yet, Mishkos Kenomagwen shows us that science without relationship becomes a lonely monarch: powerful, but blind to the spirituality that sustains life. When we braid Indigenous relational ethics into scientific rigor, we gain what Mi’kmaq elder Albert Marshall calls Two-Eyed Seeing: the ability to hold two ways of knowing together (Marshall, 2004). Through this weaving of knowledge, science remembers its place within the living world and begins to act with the humility such belonging requires.

Although Two-Eyed Seeing may come off as theoretical, it transforms functional practice. In California and Australia, Indigenous-led cultural burns, once scorned, now restore forests and prevent fires (Lake et al., 2017). In health research, true community partnerships have shifted from extraction to shared healing (Lambert et al., 2024). Kimmerer’s sweetgrass study embodies this: when researchers listened rather than imposed, the grass flourished, affirming the old truth: “all of our flourishing is mutual” (Kimmerer, 2013, p. 166). These practices offer the empirical confirmation that an ethic of reciprocity is, in fact, the most effective methodology for shared survival.

By embracing reciprocity, we do not weaken science. We expand it, allowing new, unexpected insights to emerge. These insights are often only visible when we learn to ask not “What can I take?” but “What can I give back?” Through rejecting extractive helicopter research and promoting a Two-Eyed Seeing perspective, scientific research becomes a shared act of flourishing.

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References

Adame, F. (2021). Meaningful collaborations can end ‘helicopter research’. Nature. https://doi.org/10.1038/d41586-021-01795-1

Haelewaters, D., Hofmann, T. A., & Romero-Olivares, A. L. (2021). Ten simple rules for Global North researchers to stop perpetuating helicopter research in the Global South. PLOS Computational Biology, 17(8), e1009277. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pcbi.1009277

Kimmerer, R. W. (2013). Braiding sweetgrass: Indigenous wisdom, scientific knowledge, and the teachings of plants. Milkweed Editions.

Lake, F. K., Long, J. W., & Skinner, C. N. (2017). Returning fire to the land: Celebrating traditional knowledge and fire. Journal of Forestry, 115(5), 343–353. https://doi.org/10.5849/jof.2016-043R2 

Lambert, W. M., Camacho-Rivera, M., Boutin-Foster, C., Salifu, M., & Riley, W. J. (2024). Ending domestic helicopter research. Cell, 187(8), 1823–1827. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.cell.2024.02.027 

Marshall, A. (2004). Two-Eyed Seeing. Institute for Integrative Science & Health. https://www.integrativescience.ca/Principles/Two-Eyed-Seeing/