My chunky little baby legs would dangle as Dad carried me through dappled sunlight. I'd usually emerge with a crumpled oak leaf or two plastered to my diaper, like nature's stickers of approval.

By three, I was trudging through snow that swallowed my legs up to the thighs, following my Dad on rabbit hunts through the hushed white woods. (Truth!) My breath puffed out in little clouds. The cold bit at my cheeks and turned them red, but I don't remember shivering - only feeling wildly, impossibly alive. Then came the bone-deep exhaustion that only hits a toddler who's been awake since dawn. (Because, well…I was three!)

As a kid, the trees were my babysitters. Their bark was rough under my small palms, but I could identify each one, because my Dad made sure my brother and I knew. “What bark is that one right there?”, he would say. And we would answer in turn…oak…maple…shaggy bark hickory…sycamore…and the list went on. The creek was my first mirror, showing me my wide-eyed reflection between the water skaters breaking the clear, smooth surface of the water..

My Dad speaks fluently in the language of plants. He became a master gardener through experience; he used to sell trees, shrubs, plants…and along with it, he would pass on knowledge of how to grow things. He could tell you what to crush and rub on your skin after you stumbled through a patch of poison ivy, and he didn't call it herbal medicine or holistic healing. He just called it living close to the land.

An older female relative of ours named Ms. Grace Butters was a healer; she knew allll the things plant medicine, and that knowledge had been handed down to her probably from generations. She knew what to chew for a toothache and what to boil when your lungs felt tight and wheezy. Mullein was a favorite - a tall, soft plant that grows wild along fences and wood lines, its leaves covered in fine silver hairs that catch the light like they've been dusted with a little bit of velvet. When you touch it, it feels impossibly soft, almost unreal. Fun fact - mullein is also called nature’s toilet paper because it’s so soft! (true!) And, mullein only blooms every two years! (biannual)

I soaked knowledge of plants in like rain into thirsty soil. When my Dad bent down to show me wild mint growing along the creek bank, the scent would burst bright and cool between our fingers. When he pointed out wild blackberries hiding in the shade, it felt like he was handing me a secret treasure from Mother Earth herself as the tart, purple juice ran down my chin.

Years later, I intentionally learned even more about plants and their medicinal uses. Mullein opens the lungs, eases congestion, and soothes that scratchy, stubborn cough that clings to your chest. You can steep the dried leaves in hot water—the tea turns golden and tastes mildly sweet, earthy. Some people even dry and burn them lightly; the smoke, thin and aromatic, clears the airways. (There is a bit ot irony in "smoking" a lung healer.) Even now, if you crush a fresh leaf between your fingers, it releases a scent faintly reminiscent of summer rain and clean earth.

I think that's why I'm wired the way I am - still talking to plants, still learning from them, still finding my peace among green things. My home looks like a jungle met a crystal shop and decided to stay forever! Vines trail down from macramé hangers and succulents cluster on sunny windowsills. My monstera is about to take over my bedroom, but it makes me so happy to watch her birth leaves that I’m not about to move her anytime soon. I have names for most of my plants. They get misted until droplets cling to their leaves like tiny jewels. I sing and talk to them, and yes, they get Reiki. When I place my hands on their leaves, I can feel their energy hum beneath my palms, subtle but steady, like a heartbeat. It's as if they remember where I came from and whisper back: We've got you. We know you.

Plant medicine isn't just about tinctures or teas, it's about relationship and respect for Mother Earth. It's about remembering that healing doesn't have to come from a sterile white bottle with a child-proof cap. It can come from plant picking with dirt under your fingernails, breath moving slowly through your body, and love warming your hands.

Every time I sit with my plants in the quiet morning or evening light, I feel the Kentucky woods rise up in me—the ones with the snow crunching underfoot, the wild mint releasing its coolness, the velvet-soft mullein, and my dad's quiet lessons spoken in a voice that rarely rose above the wind.

It's joy. It's medicine. And, it's me.

Your First Green Memory

Close your eyes and travel back to your earliest memory with a plant—maybe it was dandelions you picked as a child, the tomato plants your grandmother grew, or the tree you climbed in your backyard.

Now, create something with your hands:

Don't overthink it. Let your hands remember the joy your mind might have forgotten. And, if you can’t remember plants in your life, I invite you to go hug a tree. I’m serious! Or touch a leaf and feel the quiet hum underneath. Or sit under your favorite tree.

✨ The Daily Joy! 100 ways to create joy in 5 minutes or less

If this story made your heart hum, you’ll love The Daily Joy.
It’s my guide to a joyful softening that will quickly become a daily non-negotiable, and remembering who you are through everyday joyful magic!

Sister, may your roots run deep and your joy run wild.
May you never stop growing toward the light that already lives in you.
And may your hands always smell like dirt, love, and a little bit of magic!

I love you!
Debby 🌿

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