Wise Heart by Candice Lynn Dunn

Nine days before my first Wise Heart Herbal Apprenticeship class, I set out with a plan.

I was going to scout for spring greens at Wickecheoke Creek Preserve—a hopeful search for wild friends just beginning to stir from winter’s rest. My son came with me that day. I’d hired him to be my assistant, and I imagined a few sweet hours together, gently preparing for the season ahead.

But when we arrived, a wave of panic washed over me.

Everything was brown.

The trees were bare, the forest floor colorless. Not a single green face had emerged to greet us. We began walking the trail, me scanning every inch of earth in search of something—anything—alive. I coaxed my son along behind me, his steps slow and heavy with a slight fever. “Come on, Isaiah,” I called back again and again, urgency and anxiety in my voice. “Let’s keep walking. Please keep up.”

Nothing. Even beneath the tattered remains of last year’s mugwort, the ground lay still. Not a sprout in sight.

My heart sank.

Would I have to cancel? Change locations last minute? What kind of herbal class would this be with no spring herbs to speak of? I began mentally rearranging the whole plan. I found a clump of wild onion, a little Star of Bethlehem—beautiful but toxic, useful only as a warning—but still not what I was looking for.

Then I heard Isaiah’s voice.

“Mom. Please stop.”

I turned around.

He was sprawled out in the middle of the trail, face turned toward the sky, his body soaking in the sun. His words weren’t just about walking. They were a deeper call—the kind children carry in their bones. A cry I know well:

Please just look at me. Please stop. Please show me I matter.

So I did.

I went to him, lay down beside him, let the sun kiss my face and arms. Our heads touched. We breathed. And in that stillness, surrounded by soggy grass and deer hoofprints, something opened in me.

It was the best moment of my month.

We let ourselves be quiet. Be present. And when I finally sat up, softened and stilled, I saw them.

The greens.

They had been there all along—small, subtle, quiet. Not green at all, but deep purples and reds, their colors a protective coat against winter’s lingering bite. Garlic mustard, tiny cresses, baby dandelions, still curled low to the earth. They hadn’t disappeared. They were just waiting. Resting. Trusting the timing of the moon and the sun.

And then came the miracle.

Nine days later, the full moon had worked its magic. The forest had woken up. Mugwort reached for the sky. Mullein unfurled its fuzzy leaves. Pennycress lined the trail with vibrant abundance, and chickweed peeked out from under logs.

The field had come alive.

When I brought my students to that same trail for our first class, the plants were waiting, ready to meet them. The message was clear:

Spring greens are shy.
They are like children.
They do not come when rushed or forced.
They emerge when we slow down.
When we listen.
When we lay on the ground and let the sun remind us we are loved.

If you want to find them, you must become still. You must remember that they are not “resources” or “content”—they are kin. Relations. Children of the forest. And they come to us in their own time, not on our schedule.

That day, I was reminded that miracles come in moments of stillness. That what we’re seeking may already be there, waiting for us to notice.

And that the most important thing we can offer—whether to plants or children—is our presence.