Sage … Delicious, Healing, Magical, Under-appreciated, and Easy to Grow.

Sage growing in my kitchen garden. Irresistible.

Sage (Salvia officinalis) is one of my favorite plants. Having beautiful velvety leaves of a light hue it grows up to around 18 inches tall and has lovely purple flowers during the summer. If you’re considering planting kitchen herbs this year, sage should be on your list. Aside from being a culinary herb that is beautiful in stews, squash soups and all manner of other dishes, it has healing properties:

  • a styptic: it stops bleeding when lightly worked (chewing it, for instance) and applying to a cut or wound.
  • It calms indigestion and discourages constipation. It’s good for ulcerated stomachs.
  • It can be made into a gargle to treat oral infections. Steep a teaspoon of sage in boiled water for 10 minutes and use it as a wash for gum problems and mouth sores or as a gargle for a sore throat.

Along with that, a cup of sage tea taken daily is reputed to help reduce body odor!

Sacred to the tribes of North America, it is commonly used to cleanse and purify the energy of a place. To do this, burn dried leaves and stems; the smoke and fragrance sweep away undesirable energies and influences from a space.

The old-time herbalists had some great and–to a modern reader– amusing things to say about sage:

Culpeper wrote, “A decoction of the leaves and branches made and drank provokes urine, expels the dead child, brings down womens’ courses, and causes the hair to become black. it stays the bleeding of wounds, and cleanses foul ulcers or sores.”

Gerard said, “Sage is singular good for the head and braine, it quickeneth the senses and strengtheneth the sinews, restoreth health to those that have the palsie upon a moist cause, takes away shaking and trembling of the members, and being put up into the nostrils, it draweth thin flegme out of the head.”

More recently, Paul Beyerl wrote that, “One of its constituents, thujone, is a potent antibacterial, one of the best among herbs, which is contained as a volatile oil.”

Sage is easy to grow. It’s a tough plant that is drought resistant and its beautiful in the garden; planted behind shorter plants it’s a respectful neighbor (not invasive) and it’s fragrance is lovely. It attracts pollinators and gives the space of feeling of grace and vitality.

When I’m cooking I just pop out with some scissors to cut a sprig for my dish, and in the fall I cut it back and hang the branches to dry for cooking or tea. I’ve noticed that the plant flowers more when I haven’t cut it back aggressively the year before so I leave some of the plant to encourage blooms.


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Winter Thyme

Last night we made a stew that called for fresh thyme. We’ve had storms but there’s no giant pile of snow outside our door, so the kitchen thyme continues to thrive. It’s compact, fragrant, woody little self is a persistent and adorable tenant in our landscape.

It would be hard to overstate how satisfying it was to step out into the cool air of our kitchen walkway and snip fresh sprigs of this sweet little plant rather than open a glass jar of dried herbs.

Most of our kitchen herbs grow just down a stone walkway near to the kitchen, and they are looking very dormant right now. But there is a tiny patch of ground just by the door that is big enough to accommodate a little thyme plant; it seems happy in its protected south-facing spot. So last night I grabbed a pair of scissors, pulled my hood on, opened the door, and snipped what I needed, thanking my little friend and thankful that it isn’t buried in a mountain of snow, yet.

In these dark winter days, the cool, moist fragrance of this little thyme plant was reassuring and comforting, nourishing to my mind and senses, and helped me be fully present for a moment of sweet appreciation.

Hooray for the little things.

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Home Office

At the start of the pandemic I worked at Harvard Pilgrim Health Care Institute. When they sent everyone home to work, the parent company Harvard Pilgrim Health Care invited us to send in photos of our home offices.

I found it challenging to assemble and share a photo of my space. First, I was busy working. But also, every attempt at settling myself into a space that felt good and comfortable seemed to result in another round of tweaking. The sun was causing glare if I sat here. The space was too cramped if I sat there. The wifi was better on one side of the room than the other owing to the router being upstairs …

I’d worked from home lots up to that day but I’d always perched at the kitchen counter on a stool. With the kids at school all was quiet and that arrangement worked. But the pandemic brought everyone home at once, the kitchen now had teenagers rummaging around in the fridge and talking loudly on face time with their friends between classes.

So, I retreated to a spare bedroom that faces the north west of our old farmhouse.

A view to the west from my home office desk. African violet and succulents for company.

I finally settled on a spot that works, popped a couple of plants onto my desk and brought a comfy dining room chair in to sit on. Together with being able to work in pajamas or yoga pants if I want to, this arrangement has proven very agreeable.

peppermint, oxalis, and a small rose next to my desk looking south

Likewise, everyone in our house has settled in. My son Tristan, taking engineering classes from his bedroom at the University of Massachusetts, has created a desk space that features a keyboard and speakers to accommodate his passion is making/producing hiphop beats between classes.

Tristan’s space: electrical engineering, physics, calculus, and hiphop beats done here.

My daughter Inga, a sophomore in high school, has created a desk on her vanity. If you knew her, you’d know that’s absolutely perfect. 🙂 Importantly, along with being a highly motivated makeup artist, evaluator of personal care products and skin care expert, she’s an athlete, social justice activist, and a serious student, too (lest I misrepresent my beautiful daughter as shallow, which she is not).

My husband Jon, an entrepreneur and emergency physician, had an office that was not well organized (it was a mess), had a pile of framed diplomas collecting dust behind a door, and boasted the ugliest area rug ever created. Inga and I, sick of looking at it, went out shopping when he was at the hospital one night and got him a new carpet, replacing it and organizing his desk and surrounding space before he returned from his shift.

leading content creation for CredibleMind and writing patient charts happens here
the 5 most prized

We had a lot of fun rummaging through the box and picking 5 frames to hang that we know are the most important to him.

Aloe and a big jade sit in the foyer window next door to Jon’s desk

It’s certain that if we had never descended into months of working from home during a pandemic these personal work spaces would not have come to be. I would never have appreciated how cool my son is–sad to say, but I think it’s probably true. Or that my daughter would want to be able to monitor her appearance throughout the school day.

Actually, I might have been able to guess that. 🙂

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In the Dark, During the Long, Long Pandemic… New Growth

We heard from the hospital this week that they are hoping to administer vaccinations for clinical care workers starting in mid-December. Huzzah. At 62 with heart disease Jon is a risk, and we worry all the time.

Still, the rest of us will wait and this winter will not be a festive one. Getting outside is always welcome, but there’s not much that’s green or blooming to see. The sun’s day is shorter and shorter … it’s definitely time to look for reasons to be cheerful, to find some surrogates for sun and company.

So, here’s one: little green babies. I love them.

In this case, jade babies. I bought a $3.00 tiny jade last year at Weston Nurseries. They had a table of tiny succulents that were no doubt intended for people wanting to create a little garden of succulents in a container. But this little plant caught my eye and I popped it into my cart. No other succulents, no container.

It became tall and leggy, gained no width, and was bending way over toward the window, top heavy and gimpy. So I snipped it, and snipped it again, nestling the cut stems into potting soil, and popped them into a window. I wasn’t sure what would happen but the plant definitely needed a haircut so why not give it a try? I watered them weekly (more or less) and this is the result.

Whenever I pass by them my eye catches the light, fresh new green of these little leaves, it’s a little having low maintenance kittens. So cute!

You can do this with leaves, too. If a jade sheds leaves you can lay them in the soil and water them. It takes a while but they root, and make sweet little plants.

They remind me that a little bit of care can go a long way, and a small thing can bring some happiness and pleasure. Even during the darkest days of a pandemic.

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Why Blog About Plants?

Photo by Daniel Öberg on Unsplash

Pausing to contemplate what this blog will be about this year as winter descends I realized that for so many of us what matters is connection. A real, lasting sense of feeling tied to the things that matter, the things that sustain, nurture, and give us a feeling of place and belonging.

This blog, back in its earliest days, was intended to be an expression of that and increasingly I realize that plugging into planet is just as valuable and important to people (and me) as plugging into the internet is.

So to that end, this blog will pivot slightly (but not that much) in that direction, focusing on easy, hard, hopefully inspiring and accessible ways of tying into the planet in ways that support a feeling of connection to the food, smells, tastes and happiness that knowing your food, your plants, your flowers, and all of the blessings that plant life can bestow, bring.

There will be blogs about growing herbs, hemp, vegetables, pot (yes, cannabis), flowers (perennial, mostly), and even a nod to our chickens and bunnies, to come. Aside from eggs and love, the bunnies are a great source of fertilizer. You can grow in a small planter or you can plant a garden in the ground or you can create raised bed(s). Or anything in between.

Whatever you choose, may you find and create a source of joy, pleasure, investment, occasional annoyance, and most importantly, connection to the energy that gives you a sense of belonging and ownership on this spaceship we call Earth.

Peace, love, and wellbeing.

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As we all carry on wrestling with keeping a safe distance and trying to find some “normal” in our lives, the notion of our interconnected ness is front and center. After all, sharing airspace has become a matter of public debate, personal anxiety, and for some, a death sentence.

In the yoga classes I attend and teach, we end our practice with the sound of Om, as a reminder that we are all interconnected. Never has that seemed more relevant.

If you stop to consider the effect of your choices, it’s humbling. For example, rushing to arrive somewhere you cut another driver off. It’s frustrating to that person, and they become agitated and pass that agitation on in their own driving. Or you stop to hold the door for someone else and they thank you in a way that makes it clear they appreciated the gesture. They go on to have a better day, thinking better of the world.

The real impact of the effect we have in our moment to moment way of being is felt by those closest to us, though. The person closest to you is your self. Starting there, showing yourself gentleness and kindness, is the key. If you speak to yourself the way you would speak to a person you care tenderly for, that kindness will empower you to offer kindness to those around you.

I notice when I am hard on myself I extend that same kind of expectation and judgement to the people around me. Not surprisingly that does not encourage harmony. So I’ve spent time over recent months trying to change that habit of mind; I’ve tried monitoring my thoughts and words, practicing gratitude, and meditating. All of those things are helpful and encourage calm. But the thing that really works is speaking to myself with kindness and then harnessing that same kindness when I speak to others.

I don’t know if that sounds hard to you but I found that it IS hard. We are so good at being our own critics that we usually don’t speak to ourselves with kindness. When I first tried it I didn’t know what to say to myself. Really, I had nothing nice to say? Nope. I couldn’t think of anything. So I wound up beginning with a loving-kindness meditation. That started the ball rolling for me.

As part of that meditation you have to extend wishes for well-being to yourself, those you care about, others that are not close to you and finally, you have to wish a “challenging” person well. Not surprisingly this was hard and I nearly lost interest in the practice because frankly it’s not fun to wish the challenging person I was thinking of well. HOWEVER, one of my yoga teachers, Jeff Convery at the Yoga Exchange Holliston, once suggested that we spend time on the first part – wishing ourselves well – for as long as that felt right, before moving on.

I embraced that advice with fervor, wishing good things for myself during meditation like a champ. May I be healthy. May I experience peace. May I be happy. May I feel safe. May I feel nurtured. May I feel supported. May I be healthy, peaceful, happy, safe, nurtured, supported … over and over. The outcome was that I felt healthier, more peaceful, happier, safer, more nurtured and supported (Go figure). And I had a lot more kindness to offer to other people, thanks to generating some for myself. True Story.

I’m still working this whole new way of talking to myself. I am no less ready to speak my mind if I feel someone has been thoughtless or impolite. But I think being kind to myself takes practice and is like a muscle — it performs better with practice.

Consider how your own mood, your words, your actions affect you and everyone around you and then tell yourself: may I be happy. May I be safe. May I experience peace, may I come into a giant inheritance. You can skip that last one if it’s too much.

A rose accidentally left out in the snow, brought in to thaw. Resilient, beautiful.

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Houseplants Make Good Company

There’s something about the word houseplants that makes me think of macrame hangers from the 70s (now enjoying a return) and my mother’s gigantic spider plants hanging in the window. But really, they’re cool. Stick with me for a minute and I’ll tell you what I mean.

indoor garden plant: cactusia noelica indoorica

This Christmas Cactus was discovered lying on it’s side on the floor of a Walmart at Christmas time. One night after work I stopped on my way home from the office to shop for some ornaments. I wanted to decorate the first Christmas tree I would have living on my own after finishing college and moving into an apartment.

I had a big cart and was wheeling it around looking at boxes of glass ornaments, and strings of tinsel … there was Christmas music playing and I was feeling like I’d rather be in a cute little boutique shopping for ornaments than a grey, cavernous Walmart. But such was my budget.

Anyway, there it was on the ground in the middle of the aisle, potting soil spilling out of it’s broken pot: A little Christmas Cactus. I bent to pick it up and replace it on it’s shelf and noticed the potting soil was so dry it was like a weightless brick. I could hear it begging for rescue. Really, actually hear it. So, instead of putting it back on it’s shelf I put it in my cart and paid full price for it.

I know: bargain hunter, right?

Well, that plant has seen to it that I got a return on my investment. Every single year since then this cactus has bloomed for me no matter where I’ve left it in the house, or whether I’ve forgotten to water it. I’ve moved from place to place, leaving it here and there. Sometimes it isn’t happy with where I’ve place it, sometimes it is. But no matter it’s mood, that plant gives me flowers.

As you can see in the photo, it’s doing it again. I found a spot not far from a south window that it seems to like well enough. It’s faithful in its timing – it blooms every November and is done before Christmas.

I have a bunch of beloved house plants– they all have their own spirits and personalities. I’ll be writing about some of the plants I bring in to winter over in coming weeks. But this cactus is my favorite because of it’s loyalty and appreciation.

We should all have a friend like that, don’t you think? Mine happens to be a cactus.

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Healing and Inspiration: Closer Than You Think

When we moved into this farm it wasn’t with any dreams of reviving or farming the place. The truth is that this farm was already fully a version of it’s best self. The family before us had lovingly restored it and it was a working horse farm when we bought it.

Instead, we chose the property for what it would offer us–an opportunity to live in a house so thoroughly infused with grace, charm, and history, that it seemed nearly impossible to avoid living a charmed life within it’s old walls.

I’ve always had gardens, and installing them here was a labor of love–to be clear– love for myself. Installing a garden is really more an act of inspiration than construction for me, and trying to feel my way through creating a layout that would harmonize with this place’s energy has been a process.

I sought advice for the kitchen garden layout from Enchanted Gardens – a wonderful garden designer in Holliston– because I wanted something traditional and found myself hesitating to move established plants. The existing locataires–evergreens, mostly– had deep, firm roots and projected a sense of belonging that it was hard for me to get past. In the end, I changed little and am working around much of what was here.

That process made space in my mind to connect with the plants that were here and that I added. Their energy has a sentience that it isn’t hard to perceive once you start spending time around them. Most (not all) of them are good company; they have the ability to calm and encourage clarity. There are a few – nettle, for instance, that are less friendly. But generally, flowers and herbs are easy to connect with and have a quality of soothing that I imagine attracts many people to gardening.

Being among plants is an antidote to over-activated nerves, which seem to be ubiquitous in our modern environment and online-connected style of living. I’ve found myself gardening more and more over the years, allowing my time with favorite plants to encourage my intuition and beat back the stress of daily life.

So aside from nurturing the body with fresh vegetables, herbs, and flowers, being in the garden nurtures the mind and the emotional body, making way for inspiration and a sense of calm.

Why not plan a small project for the spring? A small garden – it could even be a container garden. The benefits and the beauty of being among and caring for live plants make the investment well worth it.

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November Garden

The early snow storm we had before Halloween was the end of the zinnia, the portulaca and other annual flowers, and remaining peppers, lettuce and radish. The montauk daisy’s glorious spray of blooms – now wilted, browned, bruised. On that morning I left the house to substitute at the local middle school, imaging a dusting or perhaps an inch of snow. But the snow fell and fell, making a 4-inch thick blanket on everything.

I returned to a garden on its way to winter dormancy.

Happily, I had already cut most of the herbs I wanted to save for winter before the snow came.

oregano, sage, thyme, and peppermint hanging to dry

There’s more to this than having herbs to cook with and make tea with. For me, bringing my friends in and enjoying them after they’ve gone underground is a joy and a comfort. There’s brightening peppermint tea from my cheeky, robust plants that only weeks ago were covered with bumblebees. And velvety, sun-loving oregano that had grown large enough to divide. Like gifts left by visiting friends.

The snow has receded for now, leaving auburn trees and sending flowering perennials into hibernation. Seeing them die back brings up a hopeful tug of anticipation for next year. Bittersweet hangs on some of my trees – a glorious murderer; beautiful, and choking the trees it hangs on. I resolve to cut some to bring indoors for decoration.

The last of the vegetable plants were cut and thrown into the compost last week. Hardier perennials, now mulched in, reach faded leaves toward gray skies.

November garden in New England.

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The Magic of Knowing

Modern medicines have their deepest roots in ancient history. It’s said that an herbal compendium was created in the 28th century BC by the mythological chinese emperor Shennong (1). And interestingly, scholars say that intuition and trial and error led humans to believe that plants, animals, and minerals have medicinal properties. So humans have understood the value of connecting to and working with plants from our earliest days.

Food taken fresh from the garden has a quality of sweetness and plumpness that makes you feel good on its own — you can taste and smell the difference from food that’s been grown and shipped a long distance. But aside from the difference in freshness, the experience of seeing, smelling, and touching the plants that produce our food is nurturing and reassuring, as well.

Vines, plants, and trees all have their own energies and personalities, their own habits of growth and characteristics that, experienced alongside the fruits and vegetables themselves, allow one to connect much more fully and consciously with the food we eat. Also, getting to know what conditions they thrive in (and the ones they don’t thrive in) serves to deepen one’s sense of “knowing” the plants that provide us our food.

It’s not all rainbows and unicorns, though. This year I decided to try a new variety of tomato (yellow pear minis) that I’ve never grown before. With limited space in my garden, I planted leeks in the same bed, thinking I’d given both enough space. There were some plants that were crowded, though; the tomatoes grew tall and leggy and became a towering bed of beautiful smelling tomato plants, dripping with yellow fruit – and some of the leeks that sat in the shadow of my towering tomatoes didn’t get enough sun to grow big – they ended up being the size of scallions. 🙂

All the same, I started the year with not a shred of experience growing leeks and though I’ve bought many a leek in the grocery store I had no idea what I could expect the experience of growing them to be like (aside from my handy gardening book’s instructions). There’s no substitute for experience, as they say, and so I started with planting them, as instructed, in small seedling pots before the final frost and keeping them on a heated seedling mat with grow lamps/sunlight on them. New England springs can be pretty rainy so on gray days they were under the lamp. On sunny days they sat in a south window or on our patio.

leek and tomato seedlings in the spring sun

They started out teeny tiny. Like little green hairs growing out of the potting soil. And they weren’t much bigger than that when I put them in the ground. I wasn’t sure they would survive, they seemed so small when I transplanted them that I worried they would wash away with a good rain. But they took off — and the ones that had enough sun grew into proper, good sized leeks. Now I understand why mounding dirt around their bases is important – you get much more useable white leek if you do that. So much for my adventure with leeks!

The experience of growing these little plants gave me a sense of connectedness and belonging that’s hard to describe and even harder to overstate. It was like making a new group of friends and now, when I think of vichyssoise (potato leek soup) I think of their tiny little seeds, and of the investment of time, love, and light required to grow them in the northeast. I think of how darling they are until they become towering allium – fresh, strong, and all grown up by the end of the growing season. In a word, I feel connected to them.

After harvesting the leeks I did precisely what I’d intended to do when I planted them: I cooked with them. Vichyssoise (recipe in The Joy of Cooking) and a beautiful braised chicken dish from

The leeks felt like a gift given graciously by the planet, and cleaning and slicing them for our dinners bestowed warmth and a sense of connection and familiarity that I relished–like the satisfaction and pleasure of having carnal knowledge of a love interest. Magical, indeed.



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