In the tension between ecology and economics lies an uncomfortable truth: while both words share a root in “eco” (from the Greek oikos, meaning home), our modern economies often seem to overlook the home we all share – the natural world.
In her new book The Serviceberry: An Economy of Gifts and Abundance (published by Allen Lane), Indigenous scientist and author Robin Wall Kimmerer, renowned for her previous bestseller Braiding Sweetgrass (2013), invites readers to rethink this link by looking to an unlikely teacher – the serviceberry tree.
So, what exactly is a serviceberry? More than just a flowering tree native to North America, the serviceberry is deeply rooted in Indigenous calendars and knowledge systems. Its blossoming signals the arrival of spring, and its berries have sustained human and non-human (or as Kimmerer more aptly refers to them, “more-than-human”) communities alike for generations. For Kimmerer, a member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation and a scientist, the serviceberry becomes a lens for understanding what it means to live abundantly on this planet.
Her book is as slender as a serviceberry twig, only 105 pages in a small, beautifully bound format. But it bears a weight of wisdom, unfolding like a series of ripple-effects that spread from the berry itself to the entire web of life.
John Burgoyne’s black-and-white illustrations bring a rustic, timeless quality to the text, evoking homely woodcuts. This aesthetic choice mirrors Kimmerer’s approach: while modern economics treats nature as a resource to be exploited, The Serviceberry offers a different vision – one where nature is a gift to be shared. Through a blend of storytelling and careful scientific observation, Kimmerer makes a powerful case for gift economies as an alternative to our market-driven society.
Kimmerer argues that Indigenous knowledge systems, including the Potawatomi’s, have long promoted a culture of reciprocity – giving back to the land that sustains us. This notion is rooted in a simple but profound question: what can we give back to nature, especially when we have already taken so much?
The book addresses this question through Kimmerer’s perspective as both an ecologist and an Indigenous scholar, grounded in traditions that emphasise balance and gratitude.
Central to her argument is the idea that abundance is not linked to the mindset that resources are limited, as capitalist economies would have us believe. Instead, Indigenous knowledges show that abundance can come from cooperative relationships with nature, where humans are just one part of a larger system.
Kimmerer writes that “all that we need to live flows through the land”. This is a reminder that seems both honest and humbling in a world that prioritises economic growth over ecological balance. To embrace a “culture of gratitude”, as she suggests, is not merely to say thanks but to actively reciprocate, ensuring that the gift continues.
This approach challenges two central assumptions in economic theory: that humans are “rational economic actors”, and that scarcity is the only driver of value. By exploring alternative systems like gift economies, Kimmerer invites us to rethink what wealth means and what we are truly taking when we consume.
Gift economies exist outside of traditional market structures, grounded in practical examples such as potlatch feasts and public libraries. These are cultural systems where resources are shared, and value is measured in relationships rather than transactions.
This way of thinking aligns with the so-called “cuddly capitalism” seen in some Nordic countries, where policies prioritise wellbeing and foster high levels of happiness.
From tragedy to hope
Kimmerer’s discussion challenges the famously cynical “tragedy of the commons” theory, proposed by ecologist Garrett Hardin, which suggests that common resources inevitably lead to depletion because of self-interest. Kimmerer argues that humans are not inherently driven by selfishness, as biologist Richard Dawkins’s selfish gene theory suggests.
Recent studies indicate that mutualism and cooperation are foundational in evolution, hinting at the idea that ecosystems, and perhaps economies, thrive on cooperation, not just competition.
In Kimmerer’s hands, these concepts feel intuitive, almost obvious: why wouldn’t we look to natural systems that have survived for millions of years to guide our future? Her answer lies in having the humility to accept that we are just a part of this vast web of life.
Ultimately, The Serviceberry is a hopeful book. It offers a way out of what Kimmerer calls a “cannibal economy”, where endless consumption depletes the world around us. Instead, she imagines a system where resources circulate through communities, creating webs of independence that nourish both humans and nature.
This vision – one that replaces the tragedy of the commons with an abundance of community – invites us to rediscover the serviceberry tree’s simple wisdom: when we take, we must also give back. Through Kimmerer’s words, the serviceberry is not just a fruit but a guide, helping us reimagine our relationship with the Earth, grounded in reciprocity, gratitude, and the possibility of abundance.
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Sam Illingworth does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.