This weekend, I spent my mornings in the gardens, both cultivated and wild, vegetable and herb and flower. Around 9:30am, once the heavy work of the day was done, dew dried from flowers, I collected wild roses, calendula, catmint, chamomile, self-heal, red clover, lady's mantle, looked for St. John's Wort (or St. Joan's Wort, as Susun Weed says; either way, too early for it), then gathered thyme, sage, basil, and rosemary. I tinctured last season's hawthorn berries, this season's plantain leaf, and used the last of the Ashwagandha. I put up plantain/self-heal infused jojoba oil to add to last year's calendula oil, later into salves, when the heat of summer has passed.
I was taught to offer something to these plants as I harvest them. Sometimes it's a stray piece of hair, leftover milk from breakfast, a bit of compost, seaweed, pretty stones or shells. Most often it's a song (easier to carry, though perhaps not in tune), most often, inexplicably, it's James Taylor's Sweet Baby James (maybe because it's the only song I know all the way through?).
When we do this life thing, this living thing, right, it's all of use. Nothing is wasted; if anything is left that I didn't touch, make, harvest, or find, it's given away.
This is how we find ourselves space. This is how we find ourselves breath. This is how we find ourselves.