What Is Healing? Healing Herbs at the Foot of Mount Uludağ and Nature’s Forgotten Balance

What Is Healing? Healing Plants at the Foothills of Uludağ: May’s Awakening in the Lands of Simana

The first day of May dawned with a light, gentle rain at the foothills of Mount Uludağ.
This rain, which fell steadily throughout the day, did more than simply wash the earth’s surface; it washed away the dust accumulated in the memory of the branches, lifted the weariness embedded in the leaves, and, by weighing down the air, imbued it with a sense of anticipation.

But the true transformation revealed itself that late afternoon, when the rain subsided. The air suddenly deepened. It was as if an invisible door had creaked open, summoning all the scents from within the earth, one by one.

The wet earth released that deep, mineral scent characteristic of the foothills of Uludağ. Green ceased to be merely a color; it became richer, deeper, and seemed to draw inward. Even the wind changed its nature; it shed its harshness and began to blow as if caressing.

And at that very moment, nature took a new breath on this very soil where Simana once walked.

This breath is invisible to the eye. But it is felt when it touches the skin, recognized when inhaled, and—even if only for a moment—reminds a person of themselves. It is precisely at this point that a person asks themselves: What Is Healing?

When we ponder “What is healing?”, what first comes to mind are often the elements that heal the body. Yet nature’s true answer runs much deeper. The answer to the question “What is healing?” lies in a person’s ability to reconnect with themselves, to realign with the rhythm of the earth, and to surrender to the natural flow of life.

At the foothills of Mount Uludağ, nature silently answers this question after every rain. The answer to “What is healing?” sometimes emerges in a droplet of water on a leaf, sometimes in the scent of wet earth, and sometimes in that invisible touch the wind makes with the skin.

The Garden After the Rain: The Moment the Senses Awaken

When you step into the garden after the rain, at first glance, nothing seems to have changed.
The same trees, the same flowers, the same paths… But if you pause for a moment, bend down, and get closer, you realize: Actually, nothing is the same.

The medicinal plants growing on the slopes of Uludağ do not hide themselves after the rain. The scents are more distinct, the textures more vivid, the effects more apparent. Perhaps the first answer to the question “What is healing?” lies in the reawakening of the senses.

The sweet-scented flower slowly releases its soft, enveloping scent into the air; it draws you in without rushing.
The lavender hasn’t fully bloomed yet, but it doesn’t hide its presence; even before it blooms, it leaves a soothing trace.
Rosemary cuts through the mind like a sharp line, clearing away the fog.
Thyme, in contrast to all this ascent, calls you back down, toward the earth.

Roses smell as if they’re breathing out without haste.
Lilies are silent; they make no announcement of their presence but hold the space.
The marigold stands with a color that reminds one of the sun even before it has seen it.

Persian rugs spread out as if laid upon the earth; the scent of lilac drifts about like an old memory suspended in the air.

In this garden, scents do not mingle. Each knows its own boundaries and guards its own space. And each tells a different story to those who notice. Every story leads to the same question: What is healing?

As we continue to ask, “What Is Healing?”, we come to understand that the answers lie not only in the plants but also within the human being capable of perceiving them. For sometimes a sprig of lavender, sometimes the scent of thyme, and sometimes a rose blooming in silence offers a wordless answer to the question, “What Is Healing?”

The Awakening of the Trees: A Quiet Yet Powerful Beginning

At the foothills of Mount Uludağ, spring reveals itself through a slow awakening rising from within the trees.

Pomegranate trees don’t sprout leaves overnight—they do so day by day, hour by hour. Even while their branches are still bare, the secret movement they carry within suddenly turns green one morning.

Apple trees, on the other hand, are more generous. They load their branches with the purest shades of white and pink; the blossoms do not simply bloom—they multiply, spread, and obscure the branches from view.

Quince, cherry, sour cherry, apricot, and peach… In these bountiful lands of Uludağ, they bloom all at once, as if by mutual agreement.

The mulberry tree puts on its leaves—with a delicate, fragile yet stubborn rebirth.
The walnut tree takes its time; it blooms at its own pace.
The fig carries a vitality that is not yet visible but does not hide its presence.

Everything waits for its own time, and when the time comes, it transforms into what it is meant to be. Perhaps another answer to the question “What is Healing?” lies in nature’s ability to bring things to fruition without forcing anything.

The fact that a tree does not rush to bloom, that its roots work silently deep underground, and that it reveals all its beauty when the time is right, is one of the simplest answers to the question, “What is Healing?”

The answer to the question “What is Healing?” in nature is patience, harmony, balance, and continuity. This cycle, which reappears every spring at the foothills of Mount Uludağ, quietly reminds us of how life heals itself.

And as one wanders these lands, they eventually come to understand that the answer to the question “What is healing?” is not a secret to be sought externally; it is an ancient wisdom that resonates within when one listens to nature’s rhythm.