Where the Seed Was First Planted

I have only a handful of memories of my grandmother, Mary.

She passed away when I was four years old, so I never had the opportunity to know her the way many people know their grandparents. What I carry are only small impressions, yet somehow they have stayed with me more vividly than many things that happened years later.

One of my earliest memories is of lying in my cradle while Granny gently rocked it with her big toe. I don't remember conversations or words. I remember the feeling of a dimly lit room, soft daylight filtering through a window, the gentle rhythm of the cradle, and, above all, the comfort of her presence.

I also remember a special place beside her herb and vegetable garden. It wasn't the family kitchen where meals were prepared. It was the room where Granny kept and worked with many of the herbs she used. Even during the day it seemed softly shaded. I remember cool stone beneath my feet, a rustic wooden counter that felt more like part of a tree than a piece of furniture, glass bottles, bundles of drying herbs, and orange and mandarin peels hanging patiently on wire.

At four years old, I had no idea what any of it meant.

To me, it was simply Granny's special place.

As I grew older, my father shared stories about Granny's remarkable knowledge of plants and their healing properties. Some people misunderstood what they couldn't explain and even whispered that she was a witch. To our family, she was simply Granny—a woman who understood the gifts that nature could offer.

Looking back now, I sometimes wonder if those early memories quietly planted the first seeds of a lifelong search to understand healing.

At the time, I was simply a little girl who loved her Granny.

— Patricia