She lives at the end of a dead-end road, high above the valley on the edge of a redwood grove. She’s an herbalist a naturalist, and devout believer in all she practices. Her eyes are piercing, bright and blue, warm, open, and loving, but cut quickly through nonsense and dishonesty. Her hair spills down over her broad shoulders in long, soft wavey strands the color of dewy moist coastal redwood bark.
The hills behind her house are steep and alive with herbs and roots and mushrooms and moss, all at her fingertips. She forages daily, barefoot in the woods, her toes gripping the soft earth beneath the understory that nourishes her and the hillside. The plants speak to her and she to them, tacitly, tactilely exchanging energy and intentions. Thoughts flow through her as gently and easily as the hilltop breeze sways the trees that canopy her home and absorb the shock of life in the valley below. Mistress of the woods, keeper of what’s real, she’s a modern Epicurean, pursuing pleasure and avoiding pain at will. Entering her world requires you to play by her rules no exceptions, no excuses, no bad behavior for the mistress controls. Her world is peaceful and quiet. She solemnly takes stock, closely observing but not judging those around her, seeking the path to a collective bliss.
The smells of Mother Earth come back to remind me of small farm my father had on the outskirts of Flint . The smell of watercress ,mint and other self starting green herbs were evident. While my father tended to his tomatoes ,squash, peppers and all , I would wash my green loot in a fresh water stream and chew! G G
I can smell it!