By Nicholas Tippins

Three jars of superfoods sit on my shelf. Dark bottles, carrying ancient medicine. I dip my spoon into the jar of Spirulina, and draw out a green so dark it I could be looking at it in the bottom of the ocean. The next one is brighter, like grass sprinkled with emeralds. The third is brown, the color of root and bark. They contain nearly all the vitamins, minerals, antioxidants and adaptogens that my body needs.

I can see my ancestors harvesting these sacred foods, making medicinal meals from them. They must have held them with reverence: they were their own life force. I can see them searching, knowing which signs to follow—perhaps deer are partial to a certain medicinal bark, or the seeds found in scat give a map of the area nearby.

I watch them borrow from the plants, accepting Mother Earth’s gift with humility, returning with the joy of a full basket. The children’s fingers are stained by berries.

I feel the thump of Grandmother mashing the roots and hear the sound of children cracking shells. Meanwhile, the aroma of nourishment wafts over them as mother roasts, stews, or slices the food into a meal.

I watch the tribe gather around the fire, their lives so very fragile in the heart of this wilderness, to enjoy the life force that sustains them.

But now, I simply stir the powder into my drink.

I am grateful for my superfoods. I like that they arrive easily, and that the company I buy them from takes care in procuring ingredients of good quality. I am deeply thankful for the nourishment they provide. Whenever I miss a day of drinking them, my body craves them. Yet, I feel something missing in them.

That missing ingredient in our food is relationship.

During my first class with herbalist Linda Conroy, she laughed about the common question of which products she would recommend. “I always tell people, I don’t know about products. I know about plants!” she said.

Something in that phrase stuck with me. It was not only in the phrase, it was in her whole being, how she was connected to her craft. Her body, and the way it appeared to merge with the earth. She seemed rooted, as if she would sit down and occasionally become a hill, or a tree, or a wild animal lying still and alert. It did not seem miraculous, merely natural.

What she introduced us to was not just the healthiest varieties of plants, but also a way of relating to them. Building a personal relationship with the plants that nourish us turns out to be one of the most important parts of creating holistic health. Without relationship, it is a mechanical exchange.

And we are not mechanical beings, nor are the plants. Have you ever felt the meaty life of purslane, the vivid seduction of stinging nettle? We are both living creatures, and we each benefit from creating a relationship with one another.

I have learned, also, that many of the ingredients in my bottles of superfoods grow wild where I live, and many more can be cultivated here. I have also learned that wild foods themselves—by virtue of being wild—most often have far more nutrients than cultivated foods.

This is good knowledge, for it points me to a simple truth: I am no longer called to live disassociated from my food (which is itself my life). I am to witness its birth, tend to it when I see harm, watch its delicate first leaves turn strong and vibrant. When I harvest it, I will do so with humility and gratitude. I will bathe the roots with care, strip the leaves with tenderness, and boil it with spirit and relish.

Wildcrafting is a joy, and it adds the one last ingredient that is missing in healthy food. Yet I do continue to use my purchased superfoods. I do so because I seek balance as I take small steps, one after another, towards a greater relationship with my food.