Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote:

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“The tradesmen, the attorney comes off the din and craft of the street and in the eternal calm of shy woods and fields finds himself and become a man again.”

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I find this therapy to be true. Many years ago, my grandmother taught me the art of gathering herbs, plants, and flowers, when she and I would go out into the fields and woods. No day can be so distraught that a trip through the back 40 can’t remedy.

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When we were growing up, to have a doctor come was a rare occasion. Our childhood illnesses were cured from the supply of dried herbs, hung from the rafters in the attic.

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Nothing was more delightful, on a late day in summer or early autumn, to see “Granny” as she was fondly called, tie on her bonnet, with basket over her arm and we children tagging along: head into the fields and by-ways to gather our winter’s medicine. It was almost automatic that we learned peppermint was good for the stomach; elderberry berries and blossoms for fever; and yarrow to stop a cut from bleeding.