Even November has room for surprises.

A few days ago on my way down to check for the mail, I happened to glance down at the miniature rose we planted near the mailbox at the beginning of the summer. To my surprise, I saw not one, but two unmistakable little green buds, with the bright red of a flower beginning to show through at the top. I had to crouch down and examine it to see if it was real or if my eyes were playing tricks on me.

It’s early November, and our backyard is blanketed with leaves from the two maples which have shed all of their glorious autumn finery. Except for the faded purple of the chrysanthemums in the front yard flowerbed, all of the colorful flowers have disappeared, and frosty nights have already begun. No self-respecting plant would be crazy enough to start blooming now.

And yet. Here it is, a bright red rosebud, growing bigger and stronger instead of withering away.

I choose to think of it as a little surprise gift from God. Not meant just for me, but for all the people who will see it as they pass by on their morning walks. And for any brave bees or other pollinators who may still be venturing out despite the cold.

This is a perfect example of what author Robin Wall Kimmerer describes as the “gift economy” of the natural world, in her book Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants (2013).

The book itself was itself a gift, albeit one that I purchased for myself. A friend emailed me an invitation to a book group discussion, and although I’d never heard of Braiding Sweetgrass, after reading the description I knew immediately that this was a read I didn’t want to miss. I’m only about sixty pages in, but already it’s clear that waiting until the end and trying to fit all my reactions into a single blog post is not going to work.

For now, I’ll share just one thing, a point Kimmerer makes in the chapter entitled “The Gift of Strawberries.” A gift implies relationship, she says, and inspires a desire to do good in return. It is very different from the impersonal transaction of buying and selling.

She uses the example of a pair of nice woolen socks—an image that resonates with me in particular this time of year. If I were to buy those socks at a department store, I wouldn’t write a thank-you note to the clerk who sold them to me, or think fondly of him or her when I put them on. But if the socks were a gift from my grandmother, that’s a different story. I might even treat them with extra care, and wear them the next time I visit her, as a way to show gratitude and love.

Kimmerer asks: How might it change things if, even though we live in a market economy, we chose to treat the natural world “as if” it were a gift? An undeserved blessing to be received with gratitude and used with respect, perhaps even in some way reciprocated?

I had not earned that lovely little late-fall rose by being such an excellent and devoted gardener (which I’m certainly not). As with any relationship, the one between a human and the plants that inhabit her garden cannot be controlled. The caretaking tasks we do, weeding and watering, enriching the soil around the plant and choosing its location thoughtfully for sunlight and drainage, are no guarantee that it will bloom, or even survive.

Our relationship with nature is not like pressing buttons in a vending machine. There is room for waiting, for humility, for ups and downs. Room for surprise and for joy.

“I know that transformation is slow,” Kimmerer writes. “The commodity economy has been here on Turtle Island [what her Potawatomi ancestors named the earth] for four hundred years, eating up the white strawberries and everything else. But people have grown tired of the sour taste in their mouths. A great longing is upon us, to live again in a world made of gifts. I can scent it coming, like the fragrance of ripening strawberries rising on the breeze.”

As I continue to make my way through this fascinating and beautiful book, I hope that my children’s generation and those of the future will prove her right.