“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!” she purrs at us with the satisfaction of a cougar who just spotted potential prey. I am definitely sensing a feline theme emerging. “I just let your sisters know about the dissertation Bunny Whitmore is about to give. I’ve read every page of her bookNature’s Pharmacy: Healing Without Harm,and I’m completely obsessed with all of her homeopathic ways. There isn’t anything kale or castor oil can’t cure, or just about.”
“Good to know,” I say.
Mom looks as if she’s been personally touched by the spirit of wellness itself, and her eyes are bright with the conviction that kale or castor oil can bring about world peace.
“Let’s not stand around in the hot sun with the kids,” she continues, already herding us toward an oversized red and white striped tent that takes over the grassy knoll looking over the shoreline. “Come on, let’s go get ourselves good seats. Your sisters are already inside.”
We’re ushered toward a big circus covering that’s set up near the lake’s edge. Rows and rows of folding chairs are packed beneath the striped canvas, filled with women who look as if they get theirnutritional advice from Pinterest and their fashion sense from farmers’ markets. That’s basically me on both counts.
Up on the makeshift stage stands Bunny Whitmore herself. Her long sandy hair is braided neatly down her back, and she’s dressed rather plainly in a floral t-shirt and khaki pants that screamI’m too spiritually enlightened to care about fashion. She’s writing things on a portable chalkboard with such intense concentration it almost assures she’s preparing to deliver life-changing information to the masses. And she just might be.
A refreshment table is set up to my right, but instead of coffee—the lifeblood of civilized society—there seems to be a good selection of iced teas that look as if they taste like grass clippings and good intentions.
A variety of desserts and fruits are laid out in an appetizing display—everything somehow manages to look both healthy and indulgent at the same time, which is quite the accomplishment. I can’t wait to get my hands on those fresh figs and dates. I always buy both at the grocery store and then gobble every last one down as soon as I get home. I can’t help it. Dates are practically nature’s cookies, and suddenly I’m craving two or twelve of those sweet treats. Not to mention that a date wrapped with bacon and stuffed with goat cheese is basically a gift to taste buds. Charlie introduced me to the yummy morsels when she added them to the appetizer menu at the Honey Pot Diner, and I’ve never been the same since.
Oddly, even though I can identify most of the fruits, I can’t seem to identify a single one of the desserts. Now that’s a first. They look like someone took perfectly good ingredients and decided to torture them with the power of positive thinking. I’ll have to get a better look at them after the seminar, assuming I survive whatever nutritional enlightenment is about to be thrust upon us.
A bell goes off—probably made from recycled wind chimes and organic hemp—and everyone takes their seats with the kind of quiet devotion that makes me wonder what they put in the kombucha.
Bunny steps up to what passes for a podium and smiles at thecrowd with the serene confidence of a fitness guru who’s never met a carbohydrate she couldn’t vilify.
“Good afternoon, beautiful souls,” she begins, her voice carrying the soothing cadence of someone who does yoga at sunrise and actually enjoys it. “Welcome to Wellness and Wisdom from the Wild Side! I’m Bunny Whitmore, and I’m here to help you discover the healing power that’s been right in front of you all along.”
I have to admit, I instantly love her. There’s something about her calm, centered energy that makes me want to confess my sugar addiction and ask for forgiveness.
“Let’s start with something everyone thinks they know about,” Bunny continues, gesturing toward the tent opening where afternoon sunlight streams in. “The sun! People think it’s the most dangerous thing in the world, but do you know what’s even more deadly?”
She pauses for dramatic effect, and I find myself leaning forward despite my better judgment.
“Sunscreen!”
A collective gasp ripples through the tent. Several women clutch their purses, probably calculating how much SPF 50 they’ve been slathering on their children. Heaven knows I’ve already slathered all three of my littles with a half-gallon, and that’s just in the last week alone. No one is getting a sunburn under my watch.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” Bunny says, her voice carrying the conviction of someone who’s done some serious scientific research. “We’ve been told our entire lives to slather ourselves and our children in chemical sunscreen the moment we step outside. But let me ask you this—what did humans do for thousands of years before SPF became a marketing goldmine?” She points a finger at the sky. “Our bodies were brilliantly designed to absorb and utilize sunlight. When UV rays hit our skin, they trigger the production of vitamin D—a hormone so crucial to our health that deficiency has been linked to depression, anxiety, bone disease, autoimmune disorders, heart disease, and weakened immune systems.”
Bunny moves closer to the audience as passion for the subject begins to grow inside her. “Meanwhile, we’re coating ourselves inchemicals like oxybenzone, octanoate, and avobenzone—all endocrine disruptors that our skin absorbs directly into our bloodstream. We’re trading the sun’s natural healing power for a cocktail of synthetic chemicals that can interfere with our hormones and cellular function.” She pauses, letting that sink in. “I’m not saying to bake yourself into leather, but fifteen to twenty minutes of morning or late afternoon sun on your arms and face? That’s not dangerous—that’s medicine. That’s your body doing exactly what it was designed to do.”
I secretly vow to make sure my children get some sunshine each day and never hose them down with chemicals again. Although knowing my luck, they’ll probably burn to a crisp the first time I let them outside without industrial-strength protection.
The twins choose this moment to start making noises that suggest they’re either hungry or composing their first symphony of the day in the key of chaos. Possibly both.
“Now let’s talk about something that’s affecting every single one of us—hormone disruption,” Bunny continues, her tone growing more serious. “Ladies, our endocrine systems are under constant attack. The shampoo you used this morning? Likely contains parabens and sulfates that mimic estrogen in your body. That plastic water bottle? It’s the leaching of BPA that confuses your hormonal signals. Even our food is loaded with synthetic hormones from livestock and pesticide residues that wreak havoc on our delicate internal balance.”
She moves to her chalkboard and writesCASTOR OILin bold letters. I give a slight nod because thanks to my mother, I’m in the oily know. “But here’s something our grandmothers knew that we’ve forgotten—castor oil. This miracle oil supports lymphatic drainage, reduces inflammation, promotes hair growth, and can help regulate hormonal imbalances when applied topically.”
Bunny holds up a small bottle. “You can massage it into your scalp for thicker hair, apply it to your abdomen for digestive support, or use it on your face for clearer skin. But—and this is crucial—never, ever ingest castor oil unless you want to spend the next twenty-four hours intimately acquainted with your bathroom.” A nervous laugh echoes around the tent. “It’s a powerful purgative that our ancestors used forconstipation, but trust me, a little goes a very long way.” She smiles warmly. “External use only, ladies. Your hair follicles will thank you, but your digestive system definitely won’t.”
I mentally make a note to purchase gallons of castor oil, though I have no idea what I’ll actually do with it. Maybe I’ll start a side business as a holistic wellness guru? Lottie’s Lifestyle: Baking Your Way to Better Health. Except that might be false advertising. My desserts can do a lot of things, but making someone healthier is iffy at best. But emotional well-being? Now that’s a different topic, and one that my fudge brownies are masters of, hands down. Oricingdown, as it were.
“Who here has cayenne pepper in their spice cabinet?” Bunny asks, and several hands shoot up. “Good! Now, who actually uses it regularly?” Most hands drop, and she laughs. “I thought so. Ladies, you’re missing out on one of nature’s most powerful healing tools.” She picks up a small jar of red powder. “Just a tiny pinch of cayenne pepper in your morning tea, your soup, even sprinkled on your fruit—yes, fruit!—can transform your health. Cayenne contains capsaicin, which fires up your metabolism, improves circulation, reduces inflammation, and can even help regulate blood pressure and blood sugar levels. It’s like having a tiny internal furnace that burns away toxins and stagnation.”
Bunny’s eyes light up with enthusiasm. “But here’s what really matters—minerals. Every single disease, every dysfunction in the human body, can be traced back to mineral deficiency. We’re walking around depleted because our soil has been stripped bare by industrial farming.” She moves to her chalkboard again. “Magnesium deficiency causes anxiety, insomnia, and muscle cramps. Zinc deficiency weakens immunity and slows wound healing. Iron deficiency leaves you exhausted and foggy-brained. And don’t get me started on what happens when you’re low in potassium, selenium, or iodine.”
Bunny holds up a container of sea salt. “This isn’t table salt. Real sea salt contains over eighty trace minerals that your body desperately needs. A pinch under your tongue each morning, or dissolved in water, can start replenishing what modern life has stolen from you.”
I glance down at the twins and vow to make sure they’re meetingtheir mineral needs, though I’m not entirely sure how to gauge the mineral content of breast milk. Maybe there’s an app for that.
The twins begin to fuss in earnest now, making sounds that suggest they’re about to escalate to full-scale warfare. Lyla Nell tries her best to comfort them, patting their hands and letting a few loose threats fly, “Be quiet for Mommy, right now! Da nice lady is teaching us to be heal-fy! Or I’m telling Daddy!”
