The act of wildcrafting is holy.
It forces you to your knees, bends your thoughts to the Earth. It keeps you bowed as you do the sacred work. Your movements become sacraments, soft fingers amongst the delicate petals, soft prayers dropped from your lips as you turn your attention to the plants before you.
Each plant holds its own source of holy. There is the thrill down your back at the sight of the bounty, the outstretching of arms to welcome you home.
Nettle demands your attention. Be careful where you step, careful where you put your hand, careful of your words and your thoughts and your actions. She teaches us the art of anger, to sting only when rubbed the wrong way. She reaches for the sun and laughs at our fear.
Violet is so soft, you must bend low to hear her words. She sings of protection, not from action, but from the warm embrace of arms. She speaks of the heart and the joy of home and family, hearth and heart.
Dandelion roars into the sun. She sings loudly of creating your own path, digging deep deep deep, stretching up up up, riding the wind of joy and abandon. She dares you to pick her, laughing at our bumbling attempts to draw boundaries.
These are the church, where I bend before my teachers. These are the hours of sacrifice I share amongst those I love.