Elderberry (Sambucus canadensis) is an herb of many faces. In spring, its white, lacy blossoms brighten woodlands and hedgerows, attracting bees and butterflies with their sweet fragrance. By autumn, those delicate blooms transform into heavy clusters of deep purple berries — a feast for birds, wildlife, and humans alike. Every part of the elder — flowers, berries, leaves, and even wood — has long been treasured for food, craft, and healing.
A Storied Past
The story of elderberry stretches back to the Ice Age, between 12,000 and 9,000 BCE, when glaciers carried its seeds across North America, Europe, and Asia. By 2000 BCE, early peoples were already cultivating the plant for its medicinal and culinary gifts.
“The scent of rosemary, the smoke of sage, the whisper of bay — the old language of the earth still speaks if we pause long enough to listen.”
— Beth Schreibman Gehring, from Forage & Gather
Before Halloween, there was Samhain, the ancient Celtic turning of the year when the harvest ended and winter began to breathe at the edges of the fields. It was the time when fires were lit high on the hills to call the sun back, when families gathered to share what they’d grown, and to honor what they’d lost. They believed that on this night, the veil between worlds grew thin so that those who came before might wander close for just a moment, drawn by the scent of wood smoke and the warmth of the hearth.
The herbs of this season are the same ones that have long carried us through the threshold times, the in-between spaces when the light fades and the earth exhales. I think of them as old friends who know how to steady us when the days grow short.
Throughout the year, including on warmer days in the deepest winter months, you will find me out on the land: scattering seeds; planting and harvesting; communing with the plants, trees, and mushrooms; and working nature magic. With baskets overflowing with abundant herbs, nuts, seeds, and mushrooms, I take only what I need, leaning into the abundant plants, and harvest with permission and gratitude. I leave offerings, scatter seeds, and weave magic and flute songs. I often have other people with me–friends, herbal apprentices, visitors, cats, geese. We honor the land while we harvest the plants that heal, soothe, and help us connect with the sacred.
The autumnal equinox, which falls on September the 22nd, is a spoke in the wheel of the year — the brief pause when day and night are perfectly balanced, before the tipping into the darker half of the seasons. In the old calendars, it was a time of harvest and gratitude, a season of preparing pantries and hearts for the coming winter.
Across cultures, this threshold was marked with festivals. The Celts observed Mabon, a harvest rite of thanksgiving where fruits, nuts, squashes, and grains were gathered in and shared with kin and community. Herbs such as sage and thyme flavored the loaves and stews, while rosemary was woven into wreaths to bless the home. It was a season of pausing, giving thanks, and carrying the abundance of the fields inward. Continue Reading …
A growing number of people are taking an interest in herbal medicine. Why learn herbalism now? For many, it is a way to deeply learn and lean into the nature right outside their door. Further, learning how to identify, prepare, preserve, and use medicinal plants helps you take health into your own hands. A lot of people who live in the US (especially in rural areas) recognize that healthcare is more costly and more difficult to access: it is harder than ever to keep a family doctor or get specialist care, and it is so costly that a lot of people can’t afford visits, tests, or medicines.
Nature is a perfect system. A tree falls during a thunderstorm. Within several weeks, the wood is colonized by fungi, bugs, and others who begin the years-long process of breaking down the wood and returning all of the nutrients into the web of life. Soon, oyster mushrooms are erupting from the log, bugs burrow in deep, and mice make their home under the old roots. In 10 or 15 years, moss grows thick, and an acorn takes root and begins to grow in the soil that was a stump. The tree’s trunk becomes a nursery tree for many other plants to get a foothold, off of the forest floor. Suddenly where there was death, there is life. This circle continues and continues, connecting us all in a great web of life. There is no waste in this system–every single part of nature can be recycled and reused infinitely.
Serviceberry is part of this beautiful ecosystem!
One of the challenges humans have in this age is that they have built systems that have disregarded the cycle of life, which includes both creating things that do not easily return to nature and removing ourselves entirely from this system. Rather than think in a circle or cycle, we think in a line. This embedded linear thinking currently pervades modern Western human society. The Story of Stuff short film series does a great job of visually describing these problems: many human systems are based on the foundation of greed, quick profit, and short-term linear thinking. What often happens when someone takes up nature spirituality is that their patterns of shifting slowly change from lines to circles. This happens with people connecting to many different nature-connected communities: including nature spirituality, gardening, rewilding, bushcraft, natural building, or permaculture practice. As soon as you start being part of nature, living with nature, and connecting to nature, you are aware of the cycle. The longer you take up these practices, the more profound this cyclical thinking becomes.
I first heard this statement many years ago. Occasionally, I still hear some version of this claim: Black walnut engages in warfare by releasing a chemical into the soil. This chemical kills or inhibits the growth of plants.
But is this entirely true? Does black walnut actually kill plants?
Some people say yes. Other people say no.
In a brand-new video, I share several key findings from scientific studies and personal observations that shed some light on this controversial topic.
Long before calendars and clocks, before schedules and spreadsheets, there were the sun and the stars and those of us who watched them closely—gardeners, healers, farmers, mothers. The summer solstice, the longest day of the year, was a sacred moment. A time of warmth and waiting, of ripening berries and blooming roses, of hands deep in the soil and hearts lifted to the sun.
For me, this day has always held a special kind of magic.
Paths I Walk 
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