Lessons From The Chamomile

There is as much to gain from what we harvest than there is from what isn't

In the early days of summer, we spend many mornings in the garden before the day becomes too hot. As the light crests over the house and the chamomile blossoms open, we head out to gather their temporary gifts. Chamomile looks similar to daisies, with soft white petals and puffy yellow centers the size of the tip of your pointer finger. The small flowers are plentiful and tedious to harvest but only available to us briefly. The perfect reminder of the fleeting gifts in life.

This morning on one of the last days of June, I sit amongst the chamomile, pluck the tiny flowers, and drop them into our basket. Sitting cross-legged near the bushy plants. While they float in the air, my daughter plops into my lap to help me. Instantly we are encapsulated by the sweet bubble gum scent of the flowers that floats on the wind.

These flowers are treasured mainly for what they will provide in the depths of winter. On a cold night in January that smells of snow and static, when the coyotes howl with hunger outside as a storm smacks snow against our windows, we will rehydrate the chamomile’s sweet perfume. Like magic, it comes alive with the simple touch of hot water. This beloved herbal tea will accompany me at the white oak dining table near a candle as I sketch our garden beds for the next growing season. As my pencil scratches on the paper and reveals the wood grain underneath, my dreams will be laid clear, while the floral chamomile will bring me back to this moment when the air smelled of new beginnings and my still small daughter pressed her tiny self against me on this warm morning. I will remember that moment what it sounded like when the bees buzzed, the mourning dove cooed to us, and the entire world was alive.  

I gather the flowers today and savor it all as I close my eyes to inhale the tender essence of the flowers. They always give far more than what feels possible to gather in their short blooming time. Soon they will fade and be replaced by the zinnias and cosmos. So I pause, seated in the grass, smiling as the grasshoppers keep us company. Everything is so effortless, lush, and fleeting in the same breath. I feel a deep bliss as I soak in what I will desire to be awakened in winter. The gifts of early summer are tangible, tender, and blissful. 

I ask the chamomile, “How do I gather all this goodness? How do I make the most of what this season offers? How do I trust I have gathered enough?” As I comb my hands through the wild stems of the chamomile to rake in blossoms amongst the tangled stems, I feel the chamomile release her flowers with ease into my palms. 

I drop the tiny flowers into my woven winnowing basket, and her simple response floats through the air like her bubble gum scent: “You aren’t meant to. You never were. What isn’t enjoyed goes back to building something more. Trust the process.”

Those words land in my basket as a harvest all their own. The sun is now heating the earth around us, and sweat rolls down my back, but I don’t notice as I linger on this truth and feel deep peace with it: To gather what is possible and life-giving and to leave what isn’t, knowing that what isn’t gathered builds upon the garden and ourselves in other ways.

I am reminded then that we aren’t intended to do it all. We cannot. In fact, when we choose only to do what we really need to and leave the rest, we aren’t failing but instead leaving room for something else to grow. The plant will go to seed when we gather just what is needed and leave what we don’t have time to harvest. The wind will spread the seed and grow new things, feed the birds, and design a new garden space for us, all while we peacefully watch it unfold and enjoy. Is this much different in our lives? 

That day I left the garden holding a basket full of blooms, a lesson, and questions to help me feel satisfied in the gatherings, not just in the garden but in life. I left with a new perspective on gathering this season of lushness and abundance with deeper intention. Both the blossoms and the lesson were gifts from the chamomile. 

I sit with the chamomile even now, and I linger with the question,s what do I truly want from this season’s abundance? What can be left knowing it will produce something greater? What is enough, and how do we come to peace with that?

I don’t want to spend this season rushing to gather more than needed. Instead, I am listening to the chamomile’s wisdom to be slow and intentional. I focus on filling my basket only with what fills me so that when the winter comes, as it will, I can see these gardens like I see myself—full of life even in the depths of winter. I have a deeper faith that what isn’t gathered will bloom something entirely new in the garden and in me.