Taki put the palm of her hand on the trunk of the tree.
“When I was an agnaiyaaq, a little girl, my aaka held this hand and walked with me outside of Point Hope," she said, "and talked with me about the plants around us, the ones animals can and cannot eat, the ones people can and cannot eat, the ones animals and people can use for medicine.
This, Hilcias, is called the Balm of Gilead tree."
Hilcias looked closely at the buds on the lower branches of the tree and breathed deeply the sweet smell of the resin.
He whistled for the wonder of it all.
"Balm of Gilead resin can soothe a cough or keep a small wound or cut or scrape from getting infected.
Maybe it could help a mute boy from El Salvador talk, huh?
Just kidding.
The leaves are shaped like a heart. They remind us that the heart is the place where we learn to share, cooperate, take responsibility, avoid conflict and respect others.
Aaka told me, she said, 'Taki, these are the values of The People. They keep hearts beating and life living in these frozen, Arctic lands.'"
Taki closed her eyes.
She put her ear on the smooth, light brown bark of the tree.
"I hear the tree," she whispered. "It is saying, 'Take only what you need from nature. Use what you have to help others. Always speak your own language.'"
- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020
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