04/22/2026
In the deep, moss-heavy woods of Podlasie, where fog clings to the trees like a damp shroud, spring is a violent, sacred rebirth. My Prababcia (pictured) never let me forget that the earth is a living body, & in spring, she is raw. She would lean in close, her breath smelling of dried chamomile & ancient secrets to warn me about the Przedwiośnie; the time before the light truly wins.
For the Pokrzywa (Nettle) to rise, Marzanna must die. Every spring, we drown the goddess of winter, pushing her straw body into the freezing waters to break the ice’s grip. But I was warned: “Do not be fooled by the first green as it is drinking the last of Marzanna’s cold blood. It is bitter, fierce & heavy with the ghosts of winter.” Picking herbs too early, before the First Thunder of Perun had struck the earth, was a sin against old spirits. The earth is closed until the thunder wakes the roots. To pick before this is to steal from a sleeping god.
Thus, herbs are never just gathered, they are negotiated via the laws of the forest floor:
✨If you take the Miodunka (Lungwort) for its breath, you must leave something of yourself behind. A strand of hair, a piece of bread, or a silver coin pressed into the mud. If you take without giving, the forest takes from your own vitality.
✨The blue whispers of the Przylaszczka (Hepatica) are the eyes of the Wiły; the spirits of girls who died before they could wed. They guard the blue flowers. Prababcia warned if you pick them without a prayer, the Wiły will weave the fog around your feet until you forget the path home.
✨You must never gossip or shout while gathering. The herbs have ears (Zioła mają uszy). If they hear of your malice or your greed, the medicinal Moc (power) will drain out of the leaf and back into the soil, leaving you with nothing but weeds.
Nature is an emotive, sovereign force, pushing the Pokrzywa through soil to build our blood. The earth provides exactly what is needed to break the winter’s spell. The herbs are the szept (whisper) of the earth; a reminder that the sting of the nettle and the bite of the cold are not punishments, but the only way to know we are finally awake. 🕊️✨