For me, the study of Gemmotherapy has been more than a career—it has been a lifelong journey, full of discovery, adventure, and purpose. It has taken me across continents, introduced me to extraordinary people, and enabled me to coach hundreds of families and practitioners in both Europe and the United States.
There have been several moments in this wild and wonderful Gemmo adventure that I believed the conclusion had arrived, yet just when I’ve accepted that as a reality, the invitation to a new sequel arrives. The latest is the curating of a Gemmo Forest. What began as an intentional hands-on classroom to teach the Art and Science of Gemmotherapy has grown into something larger—a plant and tree nursery, a haven for educational outreach programs, and a grassroots initiative encouraging neighborhoods to replace their lawns with herb and vegetable gardens.
In support of the forest project, I took a leap of faith and moved my house from Texas to the Northeast. It was quite an uprooting. Geographically, it split the cozy family unit we had grown accustomed to, forcing all of us to become more intentional about remaining close and connected. In trade, however, came a rich, unexpected new way of being with and thriving in the changing seasons that we could share with our loved ones.
I have fallen in love with a life guided by the rhythms of seasonal patterns. I’ve come to appreciate each season and micro season for the gifts and challenges they bring. From spring through fall, my days are shaped by the weather and the priorities in our family project, the Well-Seeded Gardens and the Gemmo Forest. I rise with the sun and retire at sundown. Each full day keeps me connected to what is real and true.
Seeding begins in the first weeks of March, when the garden beds are still buried under the last snowfall and treading through the forest requires sturdy boots. The basement propagation area is humming with potential. Grow lights illuminate the metro shelves, quickly filling them with trays of soil blocks. It's a magical time full of hope and promise, a gentle awakening from our winter slumber.
Come mid-April, I’m out in the forest watching buds for their readiness to make Gemmo extracts. In the Garden, I am preparing the first beds for the cold-hardy young starts of Broccoli, Kale, and Spinach. The vast array of heirloom onions and leeks must be sown, and pea and carrot seeds tucked in. I can already see the lush greenery to come.
May in the Northeast has taught me how to pivot and has humbled me beyond belief. Ninety degrees one day and a deep frost the next night is just what I’ve come to expect. I’ve learned to trust the plants and the wildlife over the weather report and to dance with the unexpected all throughout the growing season. Late summer, when the garden and the forest are bursting with daily gifts, I celebrate the arrival of my adult daughters and granddaughter for family farm camp. It’s an action-packed week of tending to the needs of the garden, berry picking, onion harvests, memorable veggie full meals, lake swims, laughter, and always a craft or two. Having all my children under one roof is such a gift, and I never take for granted their efforts to honor our relationship.
And just when I think it will never slow down, it does. The garlic, the onions, and the potatoes have all been cured and placed in storage, the freezer shelves have become a Tetris game of abundance, dried herbs fill the pantry shelves, and it’s time to make apple butter. Fall Equinox marks the turning point and usually the first frost in our corner of New Hampshire. It’s a bittersweet time of gratitude and goodbyes. I keep vigil for the first sighting of red on the Maples and welcome the crisp, cool mornings. I continue my lake swims as far into the season as I can tolerate, never knowing which will be my last.
By late November, as the long winter looms in heavy grey skies and all but a few year-round beds settle into stillness, my focus turns inward, to the home and hearth and to my own inner work.
An inventory of seeds and a wish list for the January orders are the first priorities, as is deciding what book or short story calls the loudest to be written. And then there is always the reintegration of simmering, veggie-filled soups rich with our own alliums and herbs.
I confess, the need to release the pace and retire to the indoors can be a challenge. I might still be found bundled up and dusting a powder sugar coating of snow off the last of the radicchio to enjoy in a meal. No one is happier with the cold’s arrival, though, than our calico Ruby, who finally has laps available for cuddles. Fires in the wood stove bookend each short stretch of daylight, broken up by writing, daily walks, cooking, and dream tending. Winter’s tranquility provides the optimal incubation period for my next BIG DREAM.