Submitted by Ursula Kovacs, Folk Herbalist & Owner of Saltblossom Botanicals
Located at "The Wild Soul" on route 114 in Riverside-Albert
Spring arrives slowly along the Fundy coast: not all at once, and certainly not with any regard for our personal patience levels.
I've a strong sense a good many of us probably fall into this category.
This winter seemed especially long. One day there is still snow hiding stubbornly in the ditch, and the next someone is standing outside in sandals insisting, “It’s beautiful out!” while visibly shivering in the driveway. The crows get louder, the mud gets deeper, and suddenly every one of us becomes deeply invested in inspecting tiny green things emerging from the earth like amateur botanists with no formal training whatsoever. And honestly? It feels wonderful... it feeds the soul in ways words can't always convey.
After a long winter of snow drifts, nor' easters, icy winds, lugging firewood, comfort food, and seriously questioning why we continue living where the air hurts our face for half the year, spring begins waking something ancient in us again. We start wandering outdoors. We crouch awkwardly beside patches of emerging greens. We lean in with baited breath for the sound of peepers, at last! We come back into the house carrying spruce tips, muddy boots, and occasionally a mysterious leaf we are now emotionally attached to but still need to identify properly. (It woke up something primal in us, and it is a colour other than white or brown.)
For generations, people lived closely with the plants around them. They knew which herbs emerged first after winter, which roots nourished tired bodies, and which teas soothed coughs, nerves, or weary spirits after long cold months. The landscape was not simply scenery; it was a pantry, medicine cabinet, teacher, and companion. Somewhere along the way, much of that knowledge quieted beneath grocery store aisles and glowing screens. Yet every spring, the earth gently reminds us that the old ways are still here, patiently waiting beneath our feet, calling us out to explore.
Take dandelions, for example — perhaps the most unfairly judged plant in existence. Entire suburban wars have been declared against them, yet these cheerful little golden rebels have been treasured for generations in herbal traditions. Their young leaves are rich and bitter in the best possible way, helping awaken digestion after a winter diet largely supported by bread, meat, potatoes, soups, and “just one more comfort meal because it’s snowing again.” (Pasta - I'm looking at you!) The flowers of these sweet sunshine stars themselves can be infused into oils, teas, and syrups with incredible benefits all round.
Then come fiddleheads curling up along riverbanks like tiny woodland scrolls, arriving just in time to remind us all that spring foraging also includes mud, mosquitoes, wet socks, and the occasional moment of questioning our life choices while balancing on slippery rocks. (We've all been here, right!?)
Nettles emerge too — deeply nourishing and absolutely committed to enforcing personal boundaries. Anyone who has confidently grabbed nettles barehanded exactly once tends to become a very fast learner. Yet beneath their sting is one of spring’s greatest gifts: mineral-rich greens long treasured for replenishing the body after winter, and an FYI- they are viewed as the "new superfood" (word is getting out!).
Then one of my personal favourites, (after nettles) - spruce tips — those bright green little jewels appearing at the ends of evergreen branches just before summer arrives. Their scent alone feels like standing in the woods after rain, immersed deeply within the coniferous community. Steeped into tea, syrup, finishing salts or infused into honey, they carry the flavour of the forest itself: bright, wild, resinous, and impossible to mistake for anything but from the Wilds.
There is something deeply human about learning the names and stories of the plants growing around us. Not in a “live entirely off-grid and churn your own butter” sort of way — although honestly some days that sounds increasingly like a solid plan! — but in the sense that we begin remembering we are part of the natural world, not separate from it.
As we move toward the summer solstice and the season of gardens, herbs, salty air, and long twilight evenings, perhaps this is spring’s real invitation: to step outside with intention and gratitude. To notice what is growing nearby.
To gather a few leaves or flowers with care and curiosity. To ask questions. To open old books. To speak with gardeners, foragers, and elders who still carry pieces of this knowledge. Brew a simple tea. Learn the name of one wild plant you’ve passed a hundred times before. Start small. Wonder does not require expertise. Reconnecting with the earth does not ask us to become perfect herbalists overnight. It simply asks us to pay attention again. Take a breath, and be present. Steward the earth, and teach others. And perhaps, just perhaps - after all this time, we are finally ready to listen.
Spring arrives slowly along the Fundy coast: not all at once, and certainly not with any regard for our personal patience levels.
I've a strong sense a good many of us probably fall into this category.
This winter seemed especially long. One day there is still snow hiding stubbornly in the ditch, and the next someone is standing outside in sandals insisting, “It’s beautiful out!” while visibly shivering in the driveway. The crows get louder, the mud gets deeper, and suddenly every one of us becomes deeply invested in inspecting tiny green things emerging from the earth like amateur botanists with no formal training whatsoever. And honestly? It feels wonderful... it feeds the soul in ways words can't always convey.
After a long winter of snow drifts, nor' easters, icy winds, lugging firewood, comfort food, and seriously questioning why we continue living where the air hurts our face for half the year, spring begins waking something ancient in us again. We start wandering outdoors. We crouch awkwardly beside patches of emerging greens. We lean in with baited breath for the sound of peepers, at last! We come back into the house carrying spruce tips, muddy boots, and occasionally a mysterious leaf we are now emotionally attached to but still need to identify properly. (It woke up something primal in us, and it is a colour other than white or brown.)
For generations, people lived closely with the plants around them. They knew which herbs emerged first after winter, which roots nourished tired bodies, and which teas soothed coughs, nerves, or weary spirits after long cold months. The landscape was not simply scenery; it was a pantry, medicine cabinet, teacher, and companion. Somewhere along the way, much of that knowledge quieted beneath grocery store aisles and glowing screens. Yet every spring, the earth gently reminds us that the old ways are still here, patiently waiting beneath our feet, calling us out to explore.
Take dandelions, for example — perhaps the most unfairly judged plant in existence. Entire suburban wars have been declared against them, yet these cheerful little golden rebels have been treasured for generations in herbal traditions. Their young leaves are rich and bitter in the best possible way, helping awaken digestion after a winter diet largely supported by bread, meat, potatoes, soups, and “just one more comfort meal because it’s snowing again.” (Pasta - I'm looking at you!) The flowers of these sweet sunshine stars themselves can be infused into oils, teas, and syrups with incredible benefits all round.
Then come fiddleheads curling up along riverbanks like tiny woodland scrolls, arriving just in time to remind us all that spring foraging also includes mud, mosquitoes, wet socks, and the occasional moment of questioning our life choices while balancing on slippery rocks. (We've all been here, right!?)
Nettles emerge too — deeply nourishing and absolutely committed to enforcing personal boundaries. Anyone who has confidently grabbed nettles barehanded exactly once tends to become a very fast learner. Yet beneath their sting is one of spring’s greatest gifts: mineral-rich greens long treasured for replenishing the body after winter, and an FYI- they are viewed as the "new superfood" (word is getting out!).
Then one of my personal favourites, (after nettles) - spruce tips — those bright green little jewels appearing at the ends of evergreen branches just before summer arrives. Their scent alone feels like standing in the woods after rain, immersed deeply within the coniferous community. Steeped into tea, syrup, finishing salts or infused into honey, they carry the flavour of the forest itself: bright, wild, resinous, and impossible to mistake for anything but from the Wilds.
There is something deeply human about learning the names and stories of the plants growing around us. Not in a “live entirely off-grid and churn your own butter” sort of way — although honestly some days that sounds increasingly like a solid plan! — but in the sense that we begin remembering we are part of the natural world, not separate from it.
As we move toward the summer solstice and the season of gardens, herbs, salty air, and long twilight evenings, perhaps this is spring’s real invitation: to step outside with intention and gratitude. To notice what is growing nearby.
To gather a few leaves or flowers with care and curiosity. To ask questions. To open old books. To speak with gardeners, foragers, and elders who still carry pieces of this knowledge. Brew a simple tea. Learn the name of one wild plant you’ve passed a hundred times before. Start small. Wonder does not require expertise. Reconnecting with the earth does not ask us to become perfect herbalists overnight. It simply asks us to pay attention again. Take a breath, and be present. Steward the earth, and teach others. And perhaps, just perhaps - after all this time, we are finally ready to listen.
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