This is a piece I wrote for the magazine Botanical Anthology for their Summer 2024 issue.
“Ahh, so this is you,” I caught myself saying out loud as I crushed a little yellow flower in my hand, releasing its blood-red juices between my fingers.
I had been living with plant medicine since childhood, mostly in the form of homeopathic remedies; a little Arnica cream for a bruise, Hypericum for a pinched finger, Apis for a bee sting. The creams and sugar pills all looked alike and bore no resemblance to the herbs they were derived from, but still I was enthralled and asked for an herb garden as a young child, only to let it wither with neglect as I knew little of how to tend to such plants. I recently found a diary from when I was 11 years old; one entry simply said, “When I grow up I’m going to make soaps, bath salts and herbal remedies to help people when they’re sick.”
In my early 20’s I began to dabble: picking up shea butter and coconut oil, essential oils and beetroot powder. I mixed, melted and filled countless tins, crafting soaps with rolled oats, crushed almonds and dried rose petals. With every bottle filled, every bar of soap wrapped and gifted, I could feel a tingle of magic…something rooted and deep. When I stumbled upon the term ‘herbalist’ I nearly dropped to my knees with knowing. A shock channeled through my body and my feet barely touched the ground as I ran to my apartment. Still in its infancy, the internet didn’t have a lot to offer me, but I did find a correspondence course from Rosemary Gladstar and began my herbal journey in earnest.
I had known herbs in their dry, dusty form at that point, filling bins and jars in the local market shops. They were all shades of grey/green or brown. They were not identifiable by sight and it amazed me anyone could tell the difference between them. When my books and supply list arrived in the mail I began to fill more jars. I built a custom shelving unit and lined each shelf with labelled bags, jars, sachets and books. It felt resonant, as if I were slowly stepping into the memory of a distant grandmother lining her own shelves, building her own apothecary.
I left the city for a slower-paced life in a small farm town with just enough yard to build a studio and small veggie garden. On a drive to the city one day to purchase unfamiliar herbs, I got lost and stumbled upon (or was divinely guided to) an herb farm. Three generations of growing, selling, and using herbs, just twenty minutes from my little home. The abundant greenhouse at Richters was overwhelming; I didn’t know many of the plant names or how to grow, harvest or dry them. So I simply stocked up on the freshly dried herbs they sold and found vibrant colours and aromas emanating from each bag…these weren’t the dusty herbs I’d known thus far. Recognizing the quality, I vowed to never use old, over-dried herbs again. I made tinctures and salves, elixirs and bitters, oils and creams. My shelves overflowed and books and bottles began lining the floors and every surface. I began to know these pants deeper over the next several years.
My husband and I moved again, with our 1 year old, to a few acres in a valley. We immediately built a huge veggie garden and imagined an eventual herb garden as well. But no need to rush; my jars were still full. I began by tucking dill, rosemary and mint between rows of tomatoes and peppers. A herbalist friend from our old town sent me a package of seeds: dandelion, burdock, nettles. I chuckled…only a herbalist would send such seeds. I had done herb walks with her and admired these long-overlooked medicines growing all around us…still choosing to purchase the dried variety, of course.
In our third year with a growing family of five and a desire to raise them with plant knowledge, I finally filled trays of rich soil and sprinkled with seeds of Saint John’s wort, chamomile, vervain, calendula, catnip, lemon balm, mugwort and valerian. Window sills were filled with tomatoes and celery sprouts alongside these less familiar leaves. I had to read the labels each time I looked at the seedlings, reminding myself of what was what. As I carried these trays of herbs outside and walked barefoot in the cool grass I noticed familiar leaves under foot. As I walked our property and the edges of the river I couldn’t peel my eyes from the green growth everywhere…what leaf is this coming up? What green growth is here? I began to look beyond the jars lining my shelves and took notice of the medicine growing all around me. As May rolled into June I noticed giant umbels of elderflower dotting the edge of the river and squealed in delight. I gathered them fresh and breathed in deep. How had I not known this smell before…these subtle aromatic layers that existed only under the open sky? Fresh flower-infused honeys and cordials ensued, infused with fresh violets, dandelion and lilac.
My neighbour Ben, a permaculture gardener, took me to a spot along the river where the maples grew tall and dense and blanketed the river in shade. Here he introduced me to the wild nettles with their rich green and tinge of purple I hadn’t known before. I gathered some up and fried them in butter. The deep mineral taste vibrated through my bones, singing a song hinting of distant memory once again. And suddenly all the reading I had done on nettles seemed to fit into place and sink into a feeling of remembering.
The valerian was transplanted and the fragrance, strong and musky, filled my senses and I smiled thinking of the dried white roots in my kitchen cupboard. Then mugwort began to grow at the edge of the garden, shooting tall to the sky. Large flat leaves so silver underneath. I plucked a leaf and could taste the medicine of connection, of opening to spirit, of gently rooting me to the earth. I kept a leaf on my tongue as I worked the garden and knew she should be a lifelong friend.
June rolled on and as the sun reached its peak in the solstice sky I noticed a hint of yellow at my feet not far from the garden. Could it be? I plucked just one and stared at its bright yellow petals. Holding a little leaf up the sky I saw the telltale pinpricks of light seeping through. Crushing the flower between my fingers, I saw the red begin to stain my fingers…Saint John’s wort. My longtime healer Hypericum, used for pinched fingers in my childhood. It all came rushing in at once and I laughed out loud. Here I was with trays of the delicate plant tucked into my garden when it was growing wild not twenty feet away.
As I watched these herbs growing and filling my garden, my relationship with them began to change. Studying became easy while I sipped tea of freshly gathered chamomile, catnip and lemon balm. The fresh herbs were a lubricant for learning. My tinctures were suddenly vibrant and full of life, my herbed honeys rich in colour and flavour. My photo studio turned into an apothecary as I slipped from one career to another and the ceiling hung with bundles of drying herbs and baskets. Leaves were stored whole and only crushed just before infusing in oils or as tea. Colours stayed vibrant and pulsing.
Motherwort popped up beside the apothecary door and I knew her immediately. I bit gently into a leaf and let its bitter juices course through my entire body. I felt its prickly seed pods, carefully protecting its offspring and budding with purple flowers.
Herbs once learned became friends; full of complexity and nuance. Where once I felt pressure to memorize their actions and constituents, now it felt like a dance, a relationship that becomes richer with time. Sitting with a plant might be all the medicine one needs. Taking a little nibble, holding it close to your heart, listening to what it might whisper in the space you make for it. The medicine changed. The story began shifting shape and my desire to learn from books alone softened. I began instead learning from the plants themselves.
Wandering the garden now, I formulate from intuition and plant spirit connection. Holding a client or organ system in my mind, I wander the garden with an open heart, listening for the whispers on the breeze, watching for a plant that begins to dance and tremble, picking a little of this and that until it feels whole and ready. Then I might flip through a few books to double check the surprising herbs that landed in my basket only to find an obscure reference that fits oh-so perfectly.
Working with plants tenderly sewn by hand or wildcrafted has shifted my entire practice and the results of my work. Do I still purchase dry? Or keep products in stock year round? Not really. I formulate with fresh herbs almost entirely and keep batches small. I purchase from reputable growers when in need, but otherwise I’ll just wait patiently.
