There’s a moment each year when you can feel the world hold its breath: the fields go gold, the air smells of woodsmoke, and the warmth of summer fades into the cool promise of winter. On the farm, that shift slows everything down. The pace softens, the body listens, and even the skin asks for deeper care. Fall reminds us that slowing down isn’t stopping, it’s a different kind of growth.

Herbalism, to me, isn’t just about remedies. It’s about relationship. It’s about walking barefoot down the dirt road near our home, or wandering through my parents’ timber, or pausing in a meadow—and staying open. My eyes are always scanning the ground, not just for plants, but for the lessons they carry. It’s a quiet kind of learning, guided by curiosity, reverence, and faith.