Thanksgiving – The Gifts Beneath Our Feet

It started, as so many things do out here, with curiosity. I was wandering the edge of our clearing one afternoon when I noticed the shimmer of something green and familiar –  yarrow, mullein, evening primrose, wild basil, even a few brave stalks of goldenrod leaning toward the sun as though to say, “We’ve been here all along.”

It stopped me in my tracks.

How long had these plants been quietly waiting for me to notice? How many seeds, tucked away in the soil, had been resting for years – maybe decades – maybe long – until the light shifted just enough, or the trees thinned just so, or I finally slowed down enough to see them?

I don’t know if that’s what gratitude feels like in its purest form, but I think it might be close.

The Forest Provides

When we moved here, I imagined I was bringing life to this land. You know – building a home, planting gardens, making things “better.”

But lately I’ve begun to realize how backward that thinking was. The forest doesn’t need my help to be abundant. She’s been quietly preparing a welcome basket since long before we arrived.

Take the yarrow and evening primrose, they’re the comforters of the herb world – calming, uplifting, and steadying. Both grow in abundance here, almost like the forest wanted to make sure I had something soothing to sip after long, dusty days of work. A reminder that rest is part of the rhythm.

Yarrow  – its feathery leaves standing guard at the edge of the path like a natural protector. Yarrow’s been known for centuries as a healer of wounds and a symbol of resilience. I can’t help but wonder if its message is also for me: Be strong, but stay soft. You can heal, but you don’t have to harden.

Then there’s mullein, tall and fuzzy, standing proudly along the sunniest spots. I learned it’s good for the lungs – helping you breathe a little easier. There’s a metaphor there too, isn’t there? The way the land seems to whisper: Breathe, Carol. You’re home.

Tiny Teachers

Self-heal is one of my most recent discoveries and could become one of my favorites. Small and unassuming, it often goes unnoticed until you crouch down. Its purple flowers are little bursts of joy – humble, determined, useful. The kind of plant that says, “You don’t have to be big to make a difference.” All 5’ tall of me loves that! 

Wild basil hides among the grasses, not flashy like the kind we buy at the store, but fragrant in its own way. It reminds me that not everything needs cultivating – some beauty arrives wild and free, soaking up the patches of sun and flavoring life in unexpected ways.

And goldenrod – oh, the underrated goldenrod! I used to think of it as a weed, a sign that summer had ended. Now I see it as a golden torch waving proudly in the late-season light. It’s medicine for melancholy, a burst of sunshine when the days grow shorter. Nature’s way of saying, “Don’t despair – beauty still grows here.”

The Waiting Seeds

Sometimes I walk the perimeter of our lot and wonder how long these seeds have waited. Did they lie dormant for years, buried under fallen cedar needles and birch leaves, biding their time until a little sunlight reached them again?

It feels like a quiet kind of faith – trusting that the right conditions will come, even if it takes years.

And that got me thinking: how often do we do the same with our own lives? We tuck away dreams, ideas, or parts of ourselves, convinced that their time has passed. But maybe they’re just waiting – just like those seeds – for the right season to grow.

Maybe the land is reminding me that growth doesn’t disappear; it just rests until the conditions are right.

Thanksgiving in the Woods

Thanksgiving weekend always makes me reflective. It’s the time of year when the air smells of woodsmoke and leaves crunch underfoot, and I can feel the rhythm of the seasons turning toward stillness.

Out here, the forest teaches gratitude in quiet ways.

It’s not the kind of gratitude that needs a holiday table or a speech (though I do love a good mashed potato). It’s the kind that lives in the noticing – in the tilt of a wildflower toward the sun, or the sudden appearance of raspberry leaves peeking through the golden grass.

When I see these plants emerging, I can’t help but think the land is speaking in its own language.
 Mullein saying “Breathe.”
 Yarrow whispering “Heal.”
 Mallow murmuring “Rest and renew.”
 Self-heal encouraging “Begin again.”

What if gratitude is simply learning to listen?

The Land as Mirror

When I first came to the woods, I thought I was seeking peace and simplicity. I didn’t expect to feel mirrored by the landscape. Yet here it is, reflecting back to me all the parts I didn’t know needed tending.

The forest edges are messy, but alive – just like the creative corners of my mind. The soil is full of fallen branches, logs and leaves, proof that endings feed beginnings. Even the wind through the poplars has a way of shaking loose what no longer needs to cling.

And every plant that pops up seems to arrive with impeccable timing, carrying a small lesson disguised as a leaf or blossom.

When I found St. John’s wort, for example, yellow petals caught the light in a way that stopped me. It’s a plant known for easing heavy hearts – growing right where the morning sun hits strongest. You can’t make that up. The land gives you what you need, if you pay attention.

Gratitude for the Hidden Helpers

Not all gifts come wrapped in blooms. Some come with prickles and patience.

The nettles, for instance, were a surprise. My first instinct was to avoid them, then to get rid of them, but then I remembered how nourishing they are once tamed – rich in minerals and vitality. They’re the perfect metaphor for life’s more challenging lessons: uncomfortable at first, but good for us in the end.

Even the humble plantain underfoot – the kind most people step over without a thought – is known for drawing out irritation, calming inflammation, and helping the skin heal. A quiet reminder that help doesn’t always look heroic. Sometimes it’s the simple, steadfast things that save us – and isn’t it interesting that we often pass it over as we lean toward complexity. hmmm

Receiving What’s Given

The herbs, the colors, the sound of chickadees in the cedars – they’re all part of a conversation I’m learning to participate in.

I used to think gratitude meant saying thank you for the things I already understood. Now I realize it’s more like opening your hands and saying I’m willing to receive what I don’t yet know I need.

Because sometimes the greatest gifts are the ones we don’t plan for – the bergamot that renews, the yarrow that guards, the mullein that helps you breathe again. Even if I don’t know how to use them yet, I receive. 

This year, as Thanksgiving approaches, I’m feeling especially grateful for what the forest offers – both in form and in feeling.

A Quiet Kind of Thanksgiving

As I sit here writing, the light is softening through the trees. The last of the birch leaves shimmer like stained glass, and there’s that unmistakable smell of cold air meeting warm earth. It feels like the world is exhaling.

I think about how many of us spend our lives chasing meaning, while the forest simply is – alive, generous, content to offer what it has.

The mallow doesn’t compare itself to the goldenrod. The yarrow doesn’t question if it’s doing enough. They just grow. They just give.

And maybe that’s the lesson I’m meant to carry into this season of gratitude:
 To trust in my own timing.
 To give freely from what’s already within me.
 To let life unfold without forcing it into shape.

Because when I look around, everything here – the herbs, the trees, even the soil – seems to be whispering the same truth: You belong here too.

With Thanks

So this Thanksgiving, my gratitude list is simple:

For the seeds that waited.
For the forest that welcomes.
For the lessons hidden in green leaves and golden petals.
And for you – reading along, sharing in these quiet discoveries, and walking this path of wonder with me.

Whether your Thanksgiving table is filled with family laughter or just the sound of wind through the hemlocks, I hope you feel held by something larger – something that reminds you of your own deep roots and wild potential.

Because the land gives, and gives again.
And all we’re ever really asked to do is notice.

A Closing Note from the Woods

If there’s one thing I’ve learned living out here, it’s that gratitude doesn’t always come wrapped in grand gestures; it often shows up quietly, in small green shoots or the rustling of cedar boughs on a windy day.

As you move through this Thanksgiving season, I’d love to know: what has the land around you been whispering lately? Maybe it’s a tree that’s caught your attention, a bird that seems to appear when you need it most, or a small plant you’ve never noticed before.

Take a moment this week to walk, pause, and notice what’s growing near you. The forest, the fields – even the cracks in the sidewalk – are full of little gifts waiting to be seen.

If you feel inspired, I’d love for you to share your own discoveries or moments of gratitude in the comments, or tag me over on social with a photo of what you’ve found. Let’s build a little community of quiet wonder together – one small noticing at a time.

With love (and leaf-stained hands),
 Carol