Wild Spring Immunity Tea
BY FEATURED WRITER: Gina Rae La Cerva
Gina Rae La Cerva, Wild Spring Gathering, photograph, 2021.
Wild Spring Immunity Tea
Gina Rae La Cerva / April 2021 / ISSUE 7
When the world feels like too much, take your grief into the woods. Bring a basket and a pair of sharp scissors.
Gather over-wintered rose hips from the bare stalks of wild roses. They will taste jammy and sweet, leathery on the tongue, like Nature’s candy. Sit on the ground and eat a few. Spit out the many seeds as a prayer for new flowers.
Gently pull off wrinkled juniper berries, leftovers from last fall. They will sound like hail as they drop into your basket.
When the wind kicks up, laden with pollen and dust, hold onto your hat. If it flies away anyway, follow it with curiosity. Thank the wind for the treasure hunt.
Rustle through the old leaves to find freshly sprouted dandelion greens. Eat these as a snack, for energy while you continue your forage. Their bitter taste will pull the bitterness from your heart and settle your restless stomach.
Listen to the birds in their mad rush for fecundity. Listen to the water flow through the acequia, cold as ice, winter snowmelt.
Smell the white blooms of apple trees, wild ancestors which were planted here long ago, when this place was the path to town down from the high mountains. When this path was how the shepherds brought their sheep down to market, to slaughter, after fattening them up beneath the aspens.
Be careful of the burrs and prickers, which demand you stay aware of your surroundings. Pick them out of your pants and socks with care, grateful for reminders of the sharpness of life.
Harvest a few pine tips, snipping them where they turn from deep green to the bright green of new beginnings. Thank the tree for gifting you this renewal.
Always ask permission from the plants. If you never hear “no,” you aren’t asking correctly. Sometimes the plant does not wish to be harvested. Respect this desire. If you cut a branch of sage, take only what you need. There is no hoarding in nature.
The soft leaves of mullein will remind you of childhood. Satin velvet to the touch. They feel more animal than vegetal. Notice how the morning dew beads upon each leaf, slowly dripping towards the center of the rosette, like a hidden place of love.
Notice the mistletoe, which grows on the piñon trees. We might call this plant parasitic, for it lives off the nutrients of the tree, but we do not know what it gives in return. Perhaps it provides a kind of friendship, botanical companionship. Perhaps it is a relationship of mutualism that we do not yet understand.
When you leave for home, thank this place for holding your sorrow. For providing you health in a time of sickness. For a song of fertility in a time of death.
In the evening, take the rose hips and juniper berries, the mullein and dandelion, the pine tips and sage leave. Put them in a pot with cool fresh water. Let simmer for 30 minutes, then turn off the heat and let sit for another half an hour. Ladle into a mug. Mix with a teaspoon of honey. Take a deep breath. Sip with appreciation for this ephemeral pause in a world that sometimes feels like too much.
Gina Rae La Cerva is a geographer and environmental anthropologist. Her first book Feasting Wild: In Search of the Last Untamed Food was recommended by the New York Times Summer Reading List and selected as a Best Nonfiction Book of 2020 by Amazon. She is usually found outside.