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Hovering here between two years, between two cold months of winter, is a joyous shout of spring. After a torrential rain last night, today has dawned bright and warm and breezy, the birds are singing farewells to the old year and welcomes to the new, and the scent of moss and green and growing things is in the air. Here at my thoughtful spot the little waterfall's peaceful splashing has been turned into a roaring cascade of white that seems to slice through the dark, leaf strewn rock. Even the determined mass of roots that normally diverts the water's path is wholly swallowed by these thunderous little falls. If winter comes, can spring be far behind? - Percy Bysshe Shelley, "Ode to the West Wind"  Drooping ferns and violas, still chilled from a week of frosts, are lifting up their heads to enjoy the unexpected warmth and sunshine. I feel like doing the same - uncurling and thawing out and rejoicing in this extraordinary day. At my feet a lush clump of chickweed seems to have sprung up overnight. This cooling, fresh springtime potherb will be growing prolifically in the wild in a few months. Its leaves are nutrient dense and make a wonderful, mild flavored addition to salads and pesto, and are so high in vitamin C that it is said sailors prized chickweed vinegar to prevent scurvy. When used topically, this tender but hardy little herb is soothing to burns and poison ivy rashes, and healing to minor cuts and scrapes. ...every day is the best day in the year.- Ralph Waldo Emmerson It is decidedly winter still, and the trees above me are skeleton bare though the skies I see through them are summer's blue. Yet on this brief, beautiful day, here at the close of one year and the opening of a new, my thoughtful spot is alive with the sounds and smells and sights of spring. It seems to me a marvelous gift of a day, filled with hope, joy, and new beginnings. The light shines in the darkness, |
| | The ground is hard, | And yet the world, | |
- John Updike, November
The tall brown stalks of ironweed and brown-eyed susans (Rudbeckia triloba) are all topped with lovely, prickly seed heads this time of year, and while walking this morning I began to gather a few. Then I stumbled upon a cluster of wild hydrangeas (Hydrangea arborescens) still covered in tiny dried, four-petaled flowers. Soon the beautiful colors of November's "certain loveliness" seemed to appear everywhere in the woods, as the evergreen of ceder branches, the red of rose hips, and the bright blushing pink of beautyberries (Callicarpa americana) joined the brown seed and flower heads. The wild privet (Ligustrum vulgare), whose white flowers fill one short stretch of my walking path with fragrance in the Spring, is now covered in waxy blue berries, poisonous to humans, but delectable to winter songbirds, and they, along with the glossy black berries of the edible greenbriar vine (Smilax rotundifolia), complete a picturesque wintry bouquet. A glorious autumn has ended in this thoughtful spot, and a peaceful winter has begun.
November comes
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.
With night coming early
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.
The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.
- Clyde Watson
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.
With night coming early
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.
The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.
- Clyde Watson
Usually I make my way to this thoughtful spot in the afternoon. Late in the day, when the sun is high and warm, it's pleasant to break from the happenings of the day and sit here in the woods for a while. But today it's morning, late morning, it's true, but still well before noon and quite marvelously different from my usual afternoon writing hour. The pasture above me is bright and sunny, but here at my thoughtful spot there is a peaceful sense of morning quietude.
O hushed October morning mild,/Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,/Should waste them all.
- Robert Frost, October
The dew hasn't quite dried in this little valley, it rests still on the rocks in the creek bank, on the drooping ferns that were hardy enough to weather last night's frost, on a few spider's webs that drape between branches, and on the deep, crackling carpet of brown leaves. The sunlight reaches this spot later in the morning than it did earlier in the year, yet with greater ease now that many of the trees are leafless, so at the moment every lingering dew drop, and the splashes from the waterfall, and the ripples in the creek sparkle in the late morning light. Across the creek from me a steady chain of diamonds is dripping from a rock ledge. My thoughtful spot is all a-twinkle, as though it has been dusted in glitter and gemstones and tiny stars.
 Dew Drops photographed by W. A. Bentley |
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From where I'm sitting I can see a bramble bush covered in tiny red rose hips (Rosa canina). These bright little herbs are one of the highest plant sources of vitamin C, and they are ready to be harvested on these cold October days and dried for use in teas and syrups throughout the winter. The wild persimmons (Diospyros virginiana) too, are ripe, and even sweeter now after a frost. While walking this morning I came across a bewildered bunch of blooming violets (Viola papilionacea), who must have mistaken these chilly, sunny days for the beginning of spring. A few of their little purple blossoms are pressing in my dictionary at the moment, waiting to be sent off in letters in the middle of winter as a cheery promise of warmer days.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
- John Keats, To Autumn
On the edge of a field this morning I saw a lingering tassel of goldenrod (Solidago gigantea) that survived the frost. It stood out in beautifully bright yellow against the browns of the bare trees around it. Goldenrod is often accused of causing seasonal allergies, but it is actually ragweed, an unassuming little wildflower that blooms around the same time and in similar areas as goldenrod, that is the true culprit. In fact, goldenrod has been traditionally used to help reduce the symptoms of seasonal ragweed allergies. It's golden flowers can be dried and steeped as an herbal infusion, or its sweet, herbaceous, and slightly bitter flowers can infused in honey. This one last bloom however, will not be dried and turned into an herbal remedy. It is now sitting on my desk in a bright blue vase of crackled glass that sparkles when the sun hits it, a reminder of a beautiful summer.
O hushed October morning mild, / Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief. / Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know... / Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst. / Slow! Slow!
- Robert Frost, October
In recent years as herbalism has gained popularity, one remedy in particular has become very familiar, Elderberry Syrup. But this wonderful remedy is far from new. The elder tree has a long and beautiful herbal history, every part of the plant has been used medicinally, and the flowers and berries have wonderful flavors and healthful benefits to match. But the history of this herb is not only medicinal, the tree’s wood was once prized for making harps and flutes, and the juice of the berries was commonly used as ink and as a dye for fabric, or even hair.
Medicinally speaking, elderberries are very high in vitamin C, and also contain high amounts of antioxidants and minerals. The berries are perhaps most famous as a cold and flu remedy, due to their high vitamin C content and support of healthy immune function. They are known to work especially well in preventing or shortening the duration of upper respiratory infections. Modern medical studies continue to support this traditional use and elderberries have definitely earned their fame as an excellent immune boosting herb. Historical uses and some recent research suggests that elderberries can strengthen eyesight, and the berries are also known to have strong anti-inflammatory properties, which is reflected in their common historical use as a remedy to relive arthritic pain and inflammation.
Medicinally speaking, elderberries are very high in vitamin C, and also contain high amounts of antioxidants and minerals. The berries are perhaps most famous as a cold and flu remedy, due to their high vitamin C content and support of healthy immune function. They are known to work especially well in preventing or shortening the duration of upper respiratory infections. Modern medical studies continue to support this traditional use and elderberries have definitely earned their fame as an excellent immune boosting herb. Historical uses and some recent research suggests that elderberries can strengthen eyesight, and the berries are also known to have strong anti-inflammatory properties, which is reflected in their common historical use as a remedy to relive arthritic pain and inflammation.
Elderflowers contain slightly different medicinal properties than the berries, and are chiefly known for two benefits: lowering fevers, and promoting healthy skin. Warm elderflower tea is an excellent remedy for lowering fevers and helping cool the body, especially when combined with similarly cooling herbs such as peppermint and yarrow. Taking elderflower tea regularly while sick has also been reported to shorten the duration of feverish cold or flu, much like elderberries. But the delicate lace flowers also promote beautiful skin. An elderflower tea wash or an elderflower-infused oil or lotion gently detoxifies the skin and soothes any skin inflammation, such as acne or sunburn. Some studies also show that elderflowers can help protect the skin against damage from UV light, making it the perfect herb to add to a summer lotion.
An old English rhyme says that summer begins with elder flowers, and ends with elder berries. The season of elderberries is upon us, so it’s the perfect time of year to preserve the healthful benefits of this herb for the winter season. And when summer begins again with elderflower, remember that legend claims if one waits patiently under an elder bush on midsummer’s eve, one might see fairies dancing at their midsummer’s feast.
An old English rhyme says that summer begins with elder flowers, and ends with elder berries. The season of elderberries is upon us, so it’s the perfect time of year to preserve the healthful benefits of this herb for the winter season. And when summer begins again with elderflower, remember that legend claims if one waits patiently under an elder bush on midsummer’s eve, one might see fairies dancing at their midsummer’s feast.
Basic Elderberry Syrup Recipe
- 1 cup dried elderberries
- 4 cups water
- 1/2 cup raw honey
The other day my 2-year-old nephew and I went for a walk. Such a walk with a little companion is always bound to be wondrous, and this one was delightfully so. We walked back and forth repeatedly over a patch of grass under the poplar tree, laughing happily as brown and yellow leaves crunched under our bare feet. We were listening to the sound of Fall. My walk here today was full of that sound, and the rustling, crackling, crunching rhythm as I trudge through leaf-covered cow paths is pleasantly companionable and familiar. The trees, too, are rustling, the drying leaves whispering to each other just before they fall. A friend once told me that there is an old word for books in a native American language that translates to "talking trees," a name derived from the sound of turning pages and this autumnal sound of wind in the leaves.
"And all at once, summer collapsed into fall."
- Oscar Wilde
Here at my thoughtful spot, the waterfall drowns out most sounds, certainly the gentle sound of rustling leaves, but not all. A woodpecker is keeping up a happy knocking on a tree across the creek from me, too far away and high up for me to tell what kind, but he's small and I see a little splash of read, so I'm guessing he's a downy. He's hopping in circles back and forth and up and down the trunk, high above me in the yellow leaves where the sunlight hits, he must be quite a happy little fellow.
"Delicious Autumn! ...if I were a bird, I would fly about
the earth seeking successive autumns."
the earth seeking successive autumns."
- George Eliot
A breeze must have blown through those treetops just now, for a marvelous dancing flurry of leaves has just fallen. They look like golden snowflakes falling so slowly, as if trying to defy gravity and enjoy their flight for as long as possible. Though I'm in deep shade here as I write, I have only to look up and the sunlight is all dappled golden above me. That canopy that was such vivid green only a month ago, is now saturated with the warmest light, the tree trunks are creamy white in the sunshine, and the leaves are every imaginable shade of yellow. Isn't it lovely that as the weather cools the colors warm?
"How wonderful yellow is. It stands for the sun."
- Vincent Van Gogh
From the Sketchbook of Beatrix Potter Between the moss and fallen leaves on the forest floor around me, dozens of miniature wonders have sprung up. Patches of delicate, pale pink Lady's Thumb are every where, its new shoots in the spring are edible, and songbirds love the seeds in the autumn. The tiniest toadstools grow in little clusters, they seem very fitting in this setting that is full of the scent of decomposing leaves and rich, damp earth warmed by a companionable and gentle sunshine. Though perhaps they would look more at home in the mists of these early autumn mornings, rather than the warmth of late afternoon. I remember learning once that Beatrix Potter, though best known for her beloved watercolors of rabbits in jackets, was a mycologist, and loved to paint fungi. She would have been very happy in this little thoughtful spot, I think, with such a plethora of interesting subjects to paint. One day I hope to distinguish with confidence between the poisonous and nutritious varieties of of these odd little plants, but for now I believe I shall content myself with attempting to sketch them in their native habitat, rather than bringing them home for dinner!
Late August is purple. I think every season has a color, though a different one in every corner of the globe. When we lived in New England, December was white, here in Tennessee it's something closer to grey. July here is a vibrant, deep, living green, but on an island in Alaska, July was the red of ever lengthening sunsets, the sort that never seem to end until they bleed into daylight. And I'm quite convinced that October will be, no matter where I live, the warmest, earthiest, coziest orange, a color that seems almost indistinguishable from the magical scent of falling leaves and sunshine and homeliness.
But, in this quiet hamlet of rural pastureland, late August is purple.
But, in this quiet hamlet of rural pastureland, late August is purple.
Time is purple, just before night, / When most people turn on the light -
But if you don't it's a beautiful sight. / Asters are purple, and there's purple ink.
Purple's more popular than you think, / It's a sort of great-grandmother to pink...
- Mary O'Neill, What is Purple?
But if you don't it's a beautiful sight. / Asters are purple, and there's purple ink.
Purple's more popular than you think, / It's a sort of great-grandmother to pink...
- Mary O'Neill, What is Purple?
Blackberries My thoughtful spot in August is resplendent with the vivid magenta of ironweed (Vernonia fasciculata) towers, and the violet-indigo of Venus' looking glass (Triodanis perfoliata), tiny star-shaped wildflowers that appear everywhere once you begin to look for them. I'm surrounded by deceptively soft explosions of lilac atop massive, prickly thistles (Cirsium vulgare), which are the gathering places of swallowtails in dancing clouds, and the occasional wandering monarch. As I walked here I harvested, to my great delight, a basket full of dainty purple and white self-heal blossoms (Prunella vulgaris), which, after several years of love and close supervision, are at last growing aplenty along the edges of the pasture. A few late-season red clover (Trifolium pratense) brighten the grass here and there with their plum-colored pom-pom blooms, and even in the last of the summer's blackberries, drooping from sturdy bramble vines over my path, there lurks in the depths of their color a royal, luxurious shade of purple.
For nearly ten years I have been wandering these same acres, each corner and valley and creek are familiar and dear, yet whenever I think I know them by heart, just then, some new discovery appears. It struck me today as I was looking for elderberry (which, now that I think of it, is rather purple too!) not far from this spot, that the sun was hitting a small level plot on the hillside I had never noticed before. Just about the size of a kitchen table, only a tiny plateau between two slopes, it is shaded by a lacy walnut tree and looks made expressly for picnicking. And here in this pleasant place I found the final addition to my purple bouquet, the downy blue mistflower (Conoclinium coelestinum). What an aptly named plant! It does indeed look as though the stems are encased in a soft lavender cloud of mist.
There's more wandering to be done this afternoon, for I'm off to try to find a vine of wild passionflowers (Passiflora incarnata). Just recently I discovered that they are the state wildflower, and their exotic firework blossoms will be the perfect complement to my basket overflowing with purple.
Perhaps I've been delighting in this magic color for a bit too long today... for as I read over this page in my notebook I begin to fear my prose themselves are turning rather purple!
Perhaps I've been delighting in this magic color for a bit too long today... for as I read over this page in my notebook I begin to fear my prose themselves are turning rather purple!
In my herb garden a beautiful garden sage (Salvia officinalis) is spreading prolifically and is just about ready to bloom. This herb is familiar to most of us as a culinary herb, and its pungent scent is always reminiscent of the Thanksgiving dinner table, but a host of healthful benefits and traditional medicinal uses make sage an herb that deserves to be enjoyed throughout the year, not just in November.
The name “sage” is an Old French derivation of the plant’s latin name, salvia, which literally means healing plant, a name that aptly reflects both the modern medicinal uses of sage and the historical belief that sage could heal just about anything. Traditionally it was used as a natural bandage and considered an essential herb for wound healing, it was believed to enhance memory and knowledge, and even to lengthen life, a theory which inspired the old English rhyme, “He that would live for aye, must eat sage in May.” Sage has been found to be very high in nutrients such as vitamin K, iron, calcium, and antioxidants, and to aid in lowering blood sugar and cholesterol. It has long been used to support healthy digestion and is the perfect herb to include in cooking rich and heavy meals, which is most likely where the association with Thanksgiving dinner began. Drinking sage in teas can also soothe a sore throat, relieve stress, and settle an upset stomach, and when consumed regularly in either tea or tincture form, sage has been shown to improve memory and enhance focus and concentration.
Sage is also beneficial externally, it has strong anti-inflammatory and antibacterial properties, and is a gentle astringent, making it a wonderful herb to infuse in salves or oils and use topically for skin irritations such as acne, sunburn, and insect bites. The traditional use of sage leaves as a natural bandage is also beneficial, and a simple sage poultice can help prevent infection, reduce swelling, and promote healing of cuts and scrapes.
Sage is also beneficial externally, it has strong anti-inflammatory and antibacterial properties, and is a gentle astringent, making it a wonderful herb to infuse in salves or oils and use topically for skin irritations such as acne, sunburn, and insect bites. The traditional use of sage leaves as a natural bandage is also beneficial, and a simple sage poultice can help prevent infection, reduce swelling, and promote healing of cuts and scrapes.
This silver-green summer herb can be enjoyed throughout the year in a variety of ways, both as a culinary staple and in medicinal remedies. For an unusual, summery sage treat, steep 1 TBS lapsang souchong and 3 fresh sage leaves in 8 oz of boiling water for 5 minutes. Strain, stir in 2 TBS sweetened condensed milk, and chill. Enjoy the unique flavor and healthful benefits of this sage tea over ice!
First published in The Tea Lifestyle, July - August 2020
Some days are purely magical, the sun is warm and friendly, the breeze fresh and cool. But then there are days that seem, well, less than lovely, days a bit like today. That once-friendly sun is blazing down on earth with a vengeance, that refreshing breeze seems to have up and blown away, and my companions, as I sit here on the mossy rock of my thoughtful spot, are rather less fairytale-like than the flowers and damselflies that met me here only a month ago. Invisible biting flies are swarming around me and I have that irritating sensation that some tiny thing is crawling around my ankles or on my arms or behind my neck and I just can’t shake it even though I know there’s nothing there… and it’s quite maddeningly distracting.
Sometimes my thoughtful spot isn’t very conducive to thinking.
Sometimes my thoughtful spot isn’t very conducive to thinking.
Far from a wholly unpleasant moment, however, I marvel as I sit here at how much can change in the course of a month. The leaves are still green above me, the moss still vibrant below, the waterfall still tumbles down its lopsided ledge, yet there are myriad little changes that mark the past month’s events and the progress of the season. A flood swept through this creek not three weeks ago, the bank on which my seat resides has been carved out by the rushing water and the ledge has crept quite close to my feet. Further downstream the sandy gravel of the creek bed has been washed away to reveal three short, deep ledges of smooth, black bedrock. They lead upstream like steps, one could imagine they are leading to the great front gates of some formidable and ancient castle.
I walked here by a different route today. Up and over the hill of the upper pasture, through knee-deep yarrow (Achillea millefolium) and Queen Anne’s Lace (Daucus carota) and blackberry brambles (Rubus moluccanus) and Iron Weed (Vernonia fasciculata) sentinels towering straight and valiant over my head. But growing hidden in the tall grass was another familiar face - Self-heal. Prunella vulgaris, this many-blossomed member of the mint family, has been known by many names - heal-all, woundwort, heart-of-the-earth - and it truly does live up to them. It’s been revered for centuries for its powerful wound healing properties, support of the immune system, and ability to soothe sore throats and allergy symptoms. The cheery purple flowers are said to grow everywhere mankind can live. It has always seemed a quite a heroic little herb to me.
When little Elves have cut themselves, or Mouse has hurt her tail,
Or Froggie's arm has come to harm, this herb will never fail.
The fairy's skill can cure each ill and soothe the sorest pain;
She'll bathe and bind, and soon they'll find
That they are well again.
Or Froggie's arm has come to harm, this herb will never fail.
The fairy's skill can cure each ill and soothe the sorest pain;
She'll bathe and bind, and soon they'll find
That they are well again.
- The Song of the Self-Heal Fairy
Cicely Mary Barker
Across my page a procession of carpenter ants has formed an orderly line. Up my tote bag on one side, across my open journal, down to the rock on the other side, neat and precise and determined they march. And now a giant robber fly is buzzing far too close for comfort. This intimidating insect must be at least an inch long, with alarmingly large eyes, and a thin body curled forward, reminiscent of a scorpion waiting to strike… quite a terrifying creature, despite a reputation of being mostly harmless. It seems as though it’s planning to settle down here for a while, so perhaps the time has come for me to say goodbye to my thoughtful spot for today, and leave the rather interesting menagerie of other visitors to enjoy it in peace.
One of the oldest recorded medicinal herbs with a fascinating history, Aloe vera has been long prized for its topical healing benefits. Legend claims that Alexander the Great once attacked an island kingdom to acquire the wound-healing aloe plants, Cleopatra was reported to use aloe daily to preserve her fabled beauty, and now this powerful little succulent grows on many a kitchen windowsill. It is best known for the cooling gel inside the leaves that quickly soothes minor burns. But aloe’s healing abilities extend well beyond just burns.
The fresh gel is cooling and reduces swelling and inflammation, eases pain, soothes itching, speeds the healing of wounds, and helps prevent scarring. As it dries, the gel forms a natural bandage that protects broken skin while its antibacterial properties prevent infection. Aloe is also an astringent and demulcent herb that nourishes, moisturizes, and strengthens the skin, making it the perfect herb to add to lotions, shampoos, face masks, or any homemade skin care products.
While aloe is considered a tropical plant, and is not winter hardy in zones 7 and colder, it does survive very happily indoors through the winter months, and thrives in partial sun outside in the summer. Try to find an aloe plant that is a shoot from a plant already acclimated to your climate, these shoots will be much hardier and grow more quickly than plants that have been transplanted from a different zone. Aloe likes to be planted in pots of slightly sandy soil and needs moderate watering. When temperatures begin to regularly drop below 50oF in the Autumn, bring your plan indoors and place it by a sunny window through the winter. It is best to set the plant outside in the sun for only a few hours at a time on early spring days to gradually re-acclimate it to the sun, otherwise the leaves have a tendency to sunburn. An aloe plant can be safely returned to its outdoor home when temperatures are consistently above 50oF in the Spring.
So next time you run into poison ivy in the woods, or end up with a few cuts and scrapes after hunting for blackberries, or sunburn on a warm summer day, reach for the aloe plant that is growing on your window sill, and enjoy its healing properties.
While aloe is considered a tropical plant, and is not winter hardy in zones 7 and colder, it does survive very happily indoors through the winter months, and thrives in partial sun outside in the summer. Try to find an aloe plant that is a shoot from a plant already acclimated to your climate, these shoots will be much hardier and grow more quickly than plants that have been transplanted from a different zone. Aloe likes to be planted in pots of slightly sandy soil and needs moderate watering. When temperatures begin to regularly drop below 50oF in the Autumn, bring your plan indoors and place it by a sunny window through the winter. It is best to set the plant outside in the sun for only a few hours at a time on early spring days to gradually re-acclimate it to the sun, otherwise the leaves have a tendency to sunburn. An aloe plant can be safely returned to its outdoor home when temperatures are consistently above 50oF in the Spring.
So next time you run into poison ivy in the woods, or end up with a few cuts and scrapes after hunting for blackberries, or sunburn on a warm summer day, reach for the aloe plant that is growing on your window sill, and enjoy its healing properties.
My thoughtful spot is a moss covered rock in a little glade on a high creek bank that brings me almost to the same level as a small waterfall, rushing now after a week of summer rain. A half-moon of jagged rock creates the ledge for this waterfall, and curves, room-like, around the shallow creek and bedrock below, but the water doesn’t fall at the center of this ledge, it is diverted to one side by what seemed to be many years' worth of collected leaves and debris. But just now, as I attempted to clear this unsightly tumble out of the water’s way, I discovered it was not made up of dead leaves and branches, but something far more fascinating. It is a great, intertwining jungle of roots from the surrounding trees, clinging fiercely to the rocks for the entire height of the ledge and reveling in a tumbling, ever present water source. So this little waterfall must remain a bit off kilter for now, and its lopsidedness will make me smile. Raindrops are still falling as I write, but a heavy canopy of deepest green keeps me, and my pages, mostly dry. The rain that does make it through the leaves makes the ferns and grasses dance every so often, and then they sparkle as though scattered with jewels in the occasional dapple of sunlight.
The first jewelweed blooms (Impatiens capensis) are just below me on the creek bank, their brilliant orange trumpet flowers nodding lazily into the water, and a trio of poison-green damselflies have been darting through and among them. If ever an artist wished to capture proof of the complementary beauty of opposites on a color wheel, this would be the scene to paint. I used to think that damselflies were female dragonflies, an association that made sense in my child’s mind, but ever since I have learned that they are in fact a distinct species, I’ve been eagerly waiting to hear about the discovery of a knight-errant fly. Granted, the name doesn’t have quite the same flow to it, but I do find this absence of so essential a protagonist in the fairy tales of the insect world rather disturbing. I suppose the dragonflies must be pleased about it, but the damselflies most assuredly agree with me. They circle close to the surface of the water, I remember reading once that they used to be called "water sniffers" for this reason, their tiny black wings beating so quickly they seem only a grey blur around their impossibly bright, iridescent bodies. The sunlight makes a tiny dancing pattern of amber gold and green as it catches the running water one moment, a damselfly the next.
"Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew / A living flash of light he flew."
-Alfred, Lord Tennyson
The Two Voices, "Today I saw a Dragonfly"
The Two Voices, "Today I saw a Dragonfly"
A large multiflora rose bush (Rosa multiflora) is just up the slope from where I sit, passed its blooming, but the crowding white flowers have left pale green hips in their place. It’s quite easy to get to, for a bramble bush, so I’ll have to keep it in mind when the hips ripen to bright red in the autumn, and are ready to be harvested.
On my walk here I passed a flourishing elder tree (Sambucus nigra), another herb to harvest when October comes. But now this delicate tree is fully abloom, the ethereal lightness and scent of its lace-cluster petals make the legends about it easy to believe. The elder tree has a long herbal history, every part of the plant has been used medicinally, and the flowers and berries are among my favorite herbs, for they have wonderful flavors and healthful benefits to match. But the history of this herb is not only medicinal, its wood was once prized for making harps and flutes of peerless tone. An old English rhyme says that summer begins with elder flowers, and ends with elder berries, and if one waits patiently under an elder bush on midsummer’s eve, legend claims one might see fairies dancing at their midsummer’s feast.
On my walk here I passed a flourishing elder tree (Sambucus nigra), another herb to harvest when October comes. But now this delicate tree is fully abloom, the ethereal lightness and scent of its lace-cluster petals make the legends about it easy to believe. The elder tree has a long herbal history, every part of the plant has been used medicinally, and the flowers and berries are among my favorite herbs, for they have wonderful flavors and healthful benefits to match. But the history of this herb is not only medicinal, its wood was once prized for making harps and flutes of peerless tone. An old English rhyme says that summer begins with elder flowers, and ends with elder berries, and if one waits patiently under an elder bush on midsummer’s eve, legend claims one might see fairies dancing at their midsummer’s feast.
There is something very magical about a summer rain, for the air feels golden more than grey, and somehow in this gentle light every shade of green looks greener still, as though moss and grass and fern and leaves are all somehow more alive. And this afternoon, in these moss softened trees, with the cheerful call of a little waterfall and the faint, peach and honeysuckle scent of the false mimosa trees in the air, a very joyous summer has met me in this peaceful place.
Summer met me in the glade,
With a host of fair princesses,
Golden iris, foxgloves staid,
Sunbeams flecked their gorgeous dresses.
Roses followed in her train,
Creamy elder-flowers beset me,
Singing, down the scented lane,
Summer met me.
- Fay Inchfawn
Summer Met Me
Summer Met Me
