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I think I've gotten sick four times in the past month.

There was that first cold, at the beginning of December: standard issue yuckiness that forced me to take a couple of sick days. (Since I've just come back from maternity leave, my sick days are in short supply, so it was a tough decision.) Then, when I was on the mend and just clearing out some chest gunk, I felt the telltale prickle in the back of my nose again. For a few hours I refused to believe it. Surely a just and loving universe wouldn't allow me to come down with a second virus while I was still getting over my first? But that's the sort of thing that happens when you have young children, and by the next morning I felt awful again.

Hi everyone! My name is Wendy and I'm an herbalist, writer, mother of 3 humans and many 4 leggeds. I grew up in the Midwest with a Grandmother who encouraged me to play with plants. Doesn't every little girl pretend to make medicine when they were little? Well, I thought we all did. However, I didn't see my life path as being an herbalist or talking about plants and herbs like an addict. So, yes, my name is Wendy, and I am a plant addict.

I have always walked at the edges of worlds.

Growing up in suburban Massachusetts in the 1980’s, nobody knew what to make of the kid who could give long lectures on American and Irish history but couldn’t tie his shoes or keep track of homework assignments and lacked the social skills to put together a Dungeons & Dragons game.

Nor did I know what to make of the people around me. I was constantly waiting for my people – who at various times included Luke Skywalker, the Daoine Sidhe, King Arthur, and Carl Sagan – to come find me and take me where I really belonged. But, they never did, so I disappeared into fantasy novels and into the swamp behind my house where sometimes strange creatures flashed at the edge of my field of vision.

Two years ago, I bought a couple of calendula plants and tried to grow them in my container garden. They fared all right--I was still learning what conditions calendula likes--and I managed to make a batch of moisturizing balm out of their oil. When they died, though, I figured I wouldn't repeat the experiment. They hadn't seemed to like the hot, dry weather on my roof. I decided that next time I made oil, I would buy calendula blossoms in bulk.

Imagine my surprise when, last winter, a couple of interlopers sprouted in my garden: two new calendula plants, born from the seeds of the first two. In completely different pots, no less! Well, obviously one doesn't reject a healing plant, so I started to tend them. To my delight, they thrived.

It's Earthy Thursday and today's feed features stories of our beautiful living planet, including amazing trees, free herbal education, an organic skyscraper, and Pagan responses to climate change.

Farming, Art, and the Preservation of Heirloom Fruits are just part of the awesomeness of this Tree of 40 Fruits.

Midsummer runs riot all over this land, the winter lakes have long gone, giving rise to verdant fields and hedgerows, swathed with elderflower, cow parsley and meadowsweet like white foam. Comfrey flowers blush purple in the shadows. Glastonbury Tor truly becomes the Glass Castle of British myth at this time, entrance to the land of Faery. On Midsummer Eve, as the dusk gathers, the hill comes alive, pilgrims climb the summit to drum the sun down, somewhere in the woods that sprawl around its base, a fire is lit in vigil, as it has always been at this time. A new generation take over the duty every so often, each person called to the task by something inside them, a compulsion, a call from the hill itself. All who come to sit by its flames bring wood to burn, drink to share, a tale to tell… This night, and all through the season, the veils between the worlds are thin, or thinner still. This land of water and mist is only ever half a human place, the Summer Land – the county of Somerset- rises above the lakes when summer is at its height, to sink beneath the waters again when autumn comes. But for now Jack in the Green, Jack Stag as he is known here, is having his day…   

I make my way along the labyrinthine tracks, climbing along the hill's steep sides singing old songs to the spirits as I gather elderflower (Sambucus Nigra) for cordial and medicine. Blossoms fall like tiny stars as I reach precariously over brambles and nettles, I wind a strand of my hair over the branches in thanks for their gift. The apples nearby are swelling and green, not ripe for a few months yet. The promise of harvest can be seen on the horizon, but for now, for me, it is the time of the elder tree. Sleeping beneath an elder was said to lead someone into Faery never to return, and sitting below the tree at dusk on Midsummer's eve grants a vision of the faerie hosts. Here at this liminal time, as the wheel turns, on this Sacred Isle the realms of the Sidhe, of Faery, are close at hand. All who wander here step on to their Green Road, if only for a while.   

Signatures of Plants – Learning Nature’s Alphabet