On Epigenetics and the Drying of Herbs

I have been drying herbs in my kitchen since summer reached its half way mark. Dill, cilantro, mint, basil. Hanging in the windows, the sun has slowly crisped and browned their stems, their leaves. Tonight seemed like as good an evening as any to collect my now-dried spoils; rose hips and chamomile still wait to be tended to on the back porch.

There is something satisfying in the whole garden harvesting process. As I tended the herbs, specifically, there was something additionally comforting in the gathering process. Perhaps it is the rhythmic repetition of plucking each stem from the pile, one by one, the leaves all but disintegrating between my thumb and forefinger that run them down the length of the slender stalk. Fragrances fill my nostrils with positive memories of farm suppers, Dad's pasta, and--in the case of the mint--something like just having opened a new package of gum.

Epigenetics tells me that there are markers on my genes--little protein markers from my parents, my grandparents, and possibly other ancestors that leave a little trace of their experiences on my DNA, influencing the expression or non-expression of those genes as they intertwine with my own experiences.

I garden because I love the earth, and I want it to last; sustainability. Was there an ancestor so impacted by the rations and scarcity of wartime that it has driven my ever-growing preference to live simply, re-purpose, and take the time to harvest not just the fruit but also the seeds from what I've planted?

I garden because I enjoy less chemicals, and more natural products in my body; health. Was there a long-ago relative, lungs blackened by the Industrial Revolution, who witnessed the shortened life of her own working class family and friends?

I garden because I don't need research to tell me it's good for my mental health; well-being. With whom do I share introvert solidarity as I travel up through the family tree--those socially awkward comrades who nevertheless knew that the best thing for their hearts and minds was to spend free time with a book, a hammock, an art project, or with one's hands in the dirt?

Perhaps the comfort isn't so much in the rhythmic nature of the task, but in the connection to the long-ago. Despite technology, despite big-box convenience, the practice of gardening still exists--and, I would argue, is still necessary. Oh, that the DNA of future generations would not lose the markers that bring aromas into the kitchen, and calm the heart in the process.