Natural Health Blog

Deep in the shaded forests of the Appalachian Mountains, where hardwood trees cast dappled light on the earth, a humble plant has thrived for centuries: American ginseng (Panax quinquefolius). For the Cherokee people, ginseng is more than a root—it’s a sacred...

Looking back, I can still feel the dirt under my feet and the sun on my face as I followed my grandmother through the fields and woods of her farm. I was just a kid, wide-eyed and trailing her like a shadow, soaking up her quiet lessons about willow bark, plantain,...

I’ll never forget the winter I trailed my grandmother through the snow-dusted woods behind her farm, my breath puffing in the cold. I was fourteen, wheezing from a chest cold that wouldn’t budge, and she led me to a stand of pines, their needles sharp against the gray...

I can still see the goldenrod swaying in the late summer breeze on my grandmother’s farm, its bright yellow tops lighting up the fields like little suns. I was thirteen, tagging along as she wandered out to gather it, her basket swinging. She’d caught me wincing after...

I’ll never forget the first time I saw my grandmother burn sage. It was a crisp fall evening on her farm, and I was twelve, sniffling through a cold that wouldn’t quit. She bundled some dried leaves from her garden, lit them until they smoldered, and waved the smoke...

One of my favorite memories from my grandmother’s farm is the late summer day we went picking sumac berries. I was eleven, trailing her through the woods, my hands stained red from the fuzzy clusters she’d pluck with a grin. “These’ll wake you up,” she’d say, dropping...

I can still hear the rasp in my throat that winter I caught a cold at my grandmother’s farm. I was ten, bundled up but miserable, coughing until my chest ached. She didn’t fuss—just headed to her pantry, pulled out a jar of dried bark, and started mixing it with...

I can still picture the day I came limping back to my grandmother’s farmhouse, blood trickling from a gash on my knee after tumbling down a rocky hill. I was nine, dramatic as ever, convinced I’d need a doctor. She just chuckled, led me to a sunny patch by the barn,...

There’s a memory that sticks with me from my days on my grandmother’s farm: the time I ate too many green apples from her yard. I was maybe eight, sprawled out on the porch, clutching my stomach and groaning like the world was ending. She didn’t miss a beat—just...

I’ll never forget the summer I stepped on a yellow jacket's nest behind my grandmother’s barn. I was maybe seven, barefoot and fearless, until that sharp sting sent me howling back to her. She didn’t panic—just scooped me up, carried me to a patchy corner of the yard,...