Leisha There is a simple pleasure in creating with my hands. Working with the beeswax, the herbs I have grown, and the oils I press or infuse brings me a kind of peace that only nature offers. I grow these plants, I tend them, and then I carry them into the kitchen to become medicine. The process is slow and small, and that is what I love about it. Each batch feels alive with the memory of the soil, the flowers, and the bees that moved among them.
The bees move through the gardens here as freely as breath, gathering nectar from wild herbs and blossoms. I have three hives that produce amazing medicinal honey. Their work is more than pollination. In their wax and honey they bring the memory of the land, of lemon balm in the hedges, of roses opening in the morning, of mint running along the edges of the paths. When I melt their wax into oils I feel as though I am binding the voices of the garden into something that can be carried in the hand and used every day.
Lemon balm is one of those plants that seems to glow with a quiet strength. Known in old herbal texts as “the glad herb,” she was said to lift sorrow from the heart and bring peace to restless spirits. Hildegard of Bingen wrote that lemon balm could gladden the heart and soothe melancholy. Centuries later, herbalists found she also holds antiviral powers, especially for the lips. That is why lemon balm has been used to soften the sting of cold sores and to protect lips when the body feels run down.
When I crush her leaves in my hand, I smell a bright citrus that calms the nerves and clears the mind. To blend her with the sun-sweetness of orange oil that we distill here, along with the steadying strength of rosehip, creates a balm I call Solar Shield. It feels like carrying a touch of summer’s warmth, while beneath it all lemon balm quietly does her deeper work of protection and repair.
The second balm was born out of my love for rosehip oil, the way it softens lines and helps skin knit itself back together. Rosehips are the fruits left behind after the roses have fallen, small red jewels rich in vitamin C and treasured through history. In times of war, when citrus was scarce, rosehips were gathered in England to make syrups for children to prevent scurvy. Folk medicine also spoke of rosehips as a symbol of renewal, the fruit that arrives after beauty fades, teaching us that age carries its own gifts. I blended rosehip with borage, a plant with star-shaped blue flowers that has long been linked to courage. Roman soldiers are said to have sipped wine infused with borage before battle to steel their nerves. Its seed oil carries gamma-linolenic acid, a compound modern science confirms calms inflammation and soothes redness. Into this blend I stirred mint and frankincense.
Mint grows abundantly here, its scent sharp and clear. The ancient Greeks told the story of Minthe, a nymph transformed into the mint plant, whose fragrance would always remind the world of her presence. Mint refreshes the breath, cools heat, and brings clarity. Frankincense, on the other hand, is a gift of the desert. It has been burned as incense in temples for thousands of years, its smoke carrying prayers upward. In medicine it has long been used to soften scars, reduce redness, and slow the signs of age. Together these plants form Mint Frankincense Repair, a balm that cools and restores, bringing the garden and the desert together in one small vessel.
What makes these balms special for me is the way the bees and the herbs weave their stories together. Beeswax and honey form the base, sealing in the healing power of plants. The essential oils of lemon, orange, and mint are not purchased in bottles but come from our own land, distilled by hand in small stills. Each tube holds not just ingredients but a whole story of soil, flower, bee, and handwork.
I love making these remedies. The process feels like alchemy, turning simple oils and wax into something greater than their parts. Each stir of the spoon, each drop of resin, feels like an act of devotion. I do not see them as mere products but as gifts of care that I am honored to share.
To place one in a pocket is to carry a piece of the garden and the hive, medicine that is humble and practical yet filled with beauty.
