Fruiting frontiers: what I learned from ‘The Serviceberry’

In both my work as an engineer and community partner in Minneapolis, I often think about how systems fail, and how they flourish. Especially lately.

The seeds: how I found out about The Serviceberry

Over these past few months, as the agonizing chaos has quieted somewhat into care and conversation, mentions of a book resolved out of the storm for me: Robin Wall Kimmerer’s The Serviceberry—a guidebook, of sorts, written by an indigenous doctorate in ecology, which teaches readers about what socioeconomic interactions might look like if they were rooted in mutualism and reciprocity rather than transactions and made-up scarcity. It was when a good friend recommended it, followed by another, plus a page-through at the bookstore that I finally picked it up. Expecting poetry and biology, what I found was much more: clear and poignant wisdom for living life well, a mirror for the values my Minnesotan upbringing and Bangladeshi family instilled in me, and perspectives on how we can treat each other better.

The sprouts: my top takeaways

Rooted in the analogy of the serviceberry, Kimmerer’s teachings are simple and salient. An essential ecological hub, this hardy and bountiful tree nourishes spring’s pollinators as an early bloom, producing energy-rich fruit that feeds over 40 species, including humans. Plains Nations Native Americans used mixtures of the berry to make early energy bars. Kimmerer illuminates how individuals and their surrounding ecology rely on each other, and what we might learn from nature:

The gift vs. the commodity: a berry paid for off the shelf is a transaction; a berry picked for a neighbor is a relationship—a conversation. One ends when the money changes hands; the other creates a cycle of reciprocity.
Biological mutualism: a bee doesn’t “steal” nectar; it carries life to the next flower. For plants and trees, in their immobility, the bee enables a form of movement. In nature, mutualistic interactions like these aren’t accidents of altruism, but rather a kind of circuitry—efficient exchanges that serve the broader system, sustaining an entire forest, for example.
Circulating surplus: in nature, “surplus” is circulated, not a hoarded profit; it’s a gift that must be shared before it rots. In a commodity economy, we may “buffer” (hoard) resources to mitigate risk and create a sense of security based on a sense of scarcity. But in a gift economy, the “throughput” (the circulation of berries or skills) is the security. Abundance isn’t the amount of fruit on the tree; it’s the efficiency with which that fruit moves through the community. If the berries stay on the branch or are hoarded by a few, they rot—the system falters. If they move, the community is fed, seeds are spread, and the system grows.
From tragedy to triumph: We are often taught the Tragedy of the Commons—the idea that shared resources will inevitably be depleted by individual greed. Kimmerer flips this: when we shift from a “consumer” to “community member” mindset, the places around us become niches for reciprocation. Look at public libraries: they are prime examples of communal accountability and shared abundance. They don’t go empty because people “take” books; they cycle and stay full because people jointly value the resource. What other forms might a system like this take?

Seashells and snowballs: bridging Bangladeshi and Minnesotan culture

Cycles of reciprocity show up in countless ways, but especially in two from my life that feel especially relevant right now:

The Bengali table: While growing up, and to this day, the concept of barkat (collective prosperity) has been in the underlying code of our family’s operating system, and of the families’ around us. My parents never cooked for just four people; they cooked for six or more, regularly thinking about the family members, friends, and neighbors around us—the village.
Minneapolis winters: Here in Minnesota, the serviceberry is one of the first signs of life after a long winter. Like the Bengali diaspora, it is hardy, deep-rooted, and generous. As the snow thaws, I see the “gift economy” practices persist in my community as it has through George Floyd protests, the COVID pandemic, and ICE raids: neighbors provide food and supplies through mutual aid networks, help pay each others’ rent, donate to funds, shovel each other out, and share garden harvests. We have each others’ backs realizing that, especially in harsh conditions—whether social, environmental, or economic—we survive through collective care, not selfish silos.

Tactical teachings for local gift economy advocates

How do we apply “serviceberry logic” to our daily lives?

The “plus-one” protocol: try to give or prepare a little more than you need to—whether it’s food, time, or resources—keeping an eye out for those who can benefit from our surpluses.
Return the Tupperware full: In Bengali culture, you try not to return an empty container. This turns a one-time gift into a perpetual cycle of homemade happiness.
Recognize “enoughness”: We live in an economy that constantly urges us to consume more than we need, where every choice matters. The choice to notice “enoughness” can be freeing.
The open-source life and a teaching mindset: knowledge can be thought of as the most valuable fruit we can offer. Dedicating time to teaching others a craft or skill without a paywall isn’t giving away your edge; it’s a way to upgrade the entire community’s operating system.
Build “public scaffolding”: In engineering, subsystems coordinate with each other via nodes or junctions. In life, this can take the form of niches for sharing like a “Little Free Library,” a neighborhood tool-share, food bank, or a recurring “open studio” where people can gather to learn. By building spaces for community interaction, we plant “trees” that others can harvest from. As an example, in Bangladesh, indigenous communities like the Chakma have practiced these ideas over centuries in Village Common Forests.

Conclusions: The Honorable Harvest

We often hear it’s a dog-eat-dog world, a narrative that drives us to compete, extract, and hoard. But The Serviceberry and my own heritage tell a different story. Kimmerer speaks of the “Honorable Harvest”—a set of principles for giving and taking in a way that sustains the giver as much as the taker. It reminds us that the world has enough for everyone, and that all flourishing is mutual.

This book helped me recognize the possibility for a world where, by applying “serviceberry ethics” in daily life though acts however large or small, we might shift our collective operations from transaction and consumption-based to more conversation and circulation-based. While the world will never rely entirely on “gifting,” I think cultivating it in the places we can is a step in the right direction. Our resources shouldn’t remain as stagnant pools, fenced in, but rather flowing rivers that nurture the life around them as much as they can—and as much as we let them. I’m with Kimmerer in that we should avoid trying to “own” the harvest and learn to better honor the cycles that feed us all.

Thanks for reading.

Click through for more of my notes on books, the Stand with Minnesota Donation Directory, and a little bonus for making it to this point.