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Who we are
Momma Bear’s Wild Things started in the dirt. And through tears.
Not metaphorically—though, sure, there’s plenty of metaphor—but literally, with my hands deep in the garden soil of my Maine backyard, surrounded by chives gone rogue and calendula that refused to quit blooming. After losing my son Adam, the world tilted on its axis. Grief has a way of rearranging you. But in the garden, things still made a strange kind of sense: wilted things nourished new life, weeds bloomed stubbornly through the cracks, and even in winter, something green waited underneath it all.
Adam was the first to call me Momma Bear. He said it with a grin and a hug so strong I sometimes still feel it when the wind rustles through the trees. His siblings picked it up too—it became a bit of a family badge. Protective, playful, full of love.
After he passed away, I found myself returning again and again to the garden. Not for answers, exactly, but for company. For peace. And one day, while snipping herbs for dinner, I looked around and realized: everything I needed to create was already growing. Flowers. Leaves. Seeds. All these wild, beautiful things—right here, just waiting to become something.
That’s when the spark hit. What if I took the wild things I grew—and the ones that found me on hikes or hiding near the stone walls of old homesteads—and turned them into small treasures? Not just food, not just keepsakes, but something alive with meaning. Something that smells like summer and tastes like memory. Something with roots.
So I started making things. Necklaces from pressed violets and larkspur. Sachets stuffed with mint and lemon balm. Salt blends spiked with wild oregano and garlic scapes. A little sweet, a little savory, a little wild—just like Adam would’ve liked.
