In the light of a spring evening, I gaze upon the front yard — alive with birch trees, fluttering their newborn leaves, softly like butterflies. The long and gentle spring awakening brought by chilly winds, is still lingering. Here it is, a turning point – the wait for summer is nearly over.
During winter, the roots of my chair and the soles of my feet grew deeper into the layered time of my homeplace, down into its mycelial depths. These whispering and entangled webs, their hidden wanderings and whimsical meanderings, could not be seen directly, or written down with words — their living field could only be dreamed, resting and listening quietly, in the dark. Now, the sun knocks at my door, calling towards light, to emerge into visibility. The composted cartography begins to stir, awakening from its disintegration. From the secret alphabets of the underworld, from the murmur of the seeds, a renewed map of the world flows forth, fresh and vibrant. Breaking through in wild remembrance, the memory of earth is reborn.
Let the farewell song of the winter nest be sung at last — long teetering on the threshold — and ring, bright and clear, admitting the change. The translucent dome of the sky is becoming more luminous, day by day. Only the moon’s next turning remains — and then, Summer Solstice is here.
In spring, the forager’s touch awakens in my fingers. From far back, I feel the delicate herbal touch of my great-grandmother’s hands within mine — together we reach tenderly for the green sisters, the strong brothers of the plant world — to heal, to nourish, to bless. On my tongue, the clean wild flavours linger: the honeyed sap of birch leaves, the tangy citrus of wood sorrel, the rich bitter almond of rowan buds. In these early-green tastings, there are dazzling subtleties for which I have no words. My tongue is cleansed to sense more delicately, more slowly, more reverently. My taste buds celebrate the wild spectrum — richer, more nourishing than anything tame. Perhaps my blood has already turned green?
Oh mosses, oh lichens, oh trailing usnea — you were my first joy, as the forest paths revealed themselves beneath the snow. And now — all that is capable of greening has joined the great choir of growth! Buds crack open their leather coats with a pop! The heart explodes into unbridled joy.
Years ripple through me. I feel deep time in these beings gathered on my plate. I eat the nourishing whisper of ages, rooting me ever deeper into this landscape, into the sense and feel of the ancestral land my family is honoured to keeper of. Each plant of my foraging dreams in me, becomes my very cells, animates my bones, refreshes the waters of my being. I am nourished, fed by deeper and deeper source. I journey into the song of the first mothers. A living line is born, breath by breath, seed by seed as the song of the first mothers settles in me, now humming in my bones. I give thanks to unbroken cycles, the continuum of green fire, always returning.
Above me, the night sky shimmers – still radiant with sunlight. Through the hush of birch leaves, something bittersweet sings.
I wish I could hold on, to this tenderness of spring — but already, it rushes into summer. The delicate greens grow bolder and stronger, longing to dance with the highest sun, as it climbs to the tallest branches of the world tree. The gossamer hem of spring thickens and becomes lush and full. I, too, must surrender to summer. I let it wrap me in a vast, flowering blanket as it begins to feast fragrantly and with irresistible exuberance across the waiting lands, enchanting and healing with the power of all its living beings.
One last drop remains on my tongue —
it sparkles with light and joy.
In the birch bud, just unfurled,
I taste my whole life.
