This is for the July Blog Party on Adventures in Herbalism, hosted by Darcey Blue of Gaia’s Gifts.

I’m all about the up close and personal.  I learn best through my senses and direct experience. This is perhaps more true in the way I practice herbalism and relationship with the plants than almost anything else. While I enjoy reading and hearing about herbs, my most significant learning happens when they’re about two inches from my face, or when ingesting or actually applying them. I cherish the tactile, the sensual, the immediate.

Nearly all of the herbs I work with in my practice are wildcrafted, and so I have myself a fair number of plant adventures. Whether fording shoulder deep, fast-moving floodwaters with Darcey Blue to harvest Hops stroibles, climbing rocky hills in high heels (I don’t recommend this) in search of Desert Anemone with my local friend Sarah, hanging from tree branches with Loba while looking for berries or crawling through twelve food snow drifts on top of a semi-frozen creek by myself while trying to reach White Fir branches, I tend to like my wildcrafting a little on the extreme side. My family make our home in some of the most remote and least developed country in North America, which definitely creates some great wildcrafting opportunities all on its own.

If you happen to be around to witness such adventures, you’re very likely to catch me squealing like a teenaged girl in a mall, but over wildflowers and roots rather than boys or clothes. Or I might be down on my belly muttering random latin words under my breath while examining some hard to identify species. By the end of any given expedition I’ll likely have leaves tangled in my hair, briar scratches on my arms, dirt streaks on my face and a vehicle full of plant matter. This suits me just fine, and I’d rather have a picnic and muddy adventure in the woods than dinner in a restaurant and a movie any day.

I’ve sliced any number of fingers open, sprained various joints, hung by my hair from Juniper branches on the side of a mountain and even gotten myself quite stuck halfway up a cliff or two. At this very moment, I have several wounds on my hands in the process of healing (be careful with those hori horis, people), a strained wrist, scattered phytodermatitis on my arms and Willow whipmarks on my face from recent wildcrafting journeys. If you don’t yet have the particular disease that compels you to stalk your own herbs and food, you may well wonder what the hell possesses me to brave floodwaters, crawl through mud and avoid nosy authorities just for some weeds.

Why? Because it’s great fun, and nothing quite beats the thrill of finding the one small patch of sticky plants with smelly roots you just walked five miles and climbed a mountain for. Because being dirty and exhausted means I’m alive and living (not the same thing, in case you were wondering). It also gives me a specific and direct connection to the medicines I work with that simply can’t be obtained through ordering herbs online or even growing them in my garden. Getting to know them in their wild habitat provides me with insight and intimacy that I consider invaluable to my practice as an herbalist and vital to my personal relationship with the land and myself.

Truth be told, most of my trips to obtain supplies for our remote homestead are really just excuses to find the herbs that live a little bit further from home. When I make the four hour drive to Albuquerque I have at least a dozen different favorite spots I like to stop at to collect desert herbs. While heading for any city tends to leave me a bit cold, I do get awful excited to go visit my favorite  You’ll never see me as excited as when I’m exploring a new plant place, especially if that happens to be in a high elevation mountain meadow or remote Aspen grove. Despite the fact that I’m fairly afraid of heights, I do manage to find myself on a great many very steep roads and on the edges of dramatic ravines in order to get closer to new and mysterious green thing.

I’m not implying that I think this style of harvesting works for everyone (or is sustainable for the current population), but it is one of my own biggest joys and most persistent obsessions. While I enjoy gardens a great deal, no domesticated plant or pretty plot can compare with the rush that hits me every time I get to know a new wild place, inch by feral inch. Down in the dirt I can feel the world through my senses, direct and up close, as personal as skin and flower and as deep as root and song.

Green Wealth: Our Wild Plants & Weeds

by Kiva Rose

http://animacenter.org

We meet in a canyon greened by early spring rains and filled with the lush plant life that will fill our baskets and bags by the afternoon’s end. The people who gather to celebrate and learn about the local flora are as diverse as the plants themselves, ranging from Spanish abuelas to ranching families with small children to older couples to seasonal visitors. What they have in common is a love for the wild terrain of the Gila, a deep appreciation for self-sufficiency and a desire to increase their ability to live directly off the land.

Crowding along the edge of the creek bank, we crouch down for a closer look at the incredible variety of plant life at our feet. While the Southwest is often thought of as barren by outsiders, we locals know that our rivers, wetlands, mountains and even deserts are actually an incredible haven for a wide variety of native flora. I point out a particularly pretty yellow flower with distinctive orange spots, this common little Seep Monkeyflower is a powerful anti-depressant and excellent treatment for nerve pain and anxiety attacks. When still small, its tender upper leaves make a tasty cooked green or a crisp addition to salads.

Further back from the water are an abundance of vivid green plants deceptively resembling Peppermint. “I know those ones”, a little girl exclaims, “they sting!” And indeed, these Mountain Nettles have formic acid filled hairs covering them that sting the skin when touched or brushed against. Despite this initial inconvenience, Nettles are one of our most important and widespread wild foods and remedies. Rich in vitamins and minerals, they are an intensely nourishing and their sting quickly disappears upon drying the plant or cooking it. Medicinally, they can help treat allergies, hypothyroid conditions, adrenal fatigue, psoriasis and a host of other common ailments.

With the continuing decline of the American economy, it’s more important than ever that our communities remain as self-sufficient as possible. A big part of creating and maintaining that kind of sustainability is being able to feed and keep ourselves healthy with locally available resources. This means utilizing our knowledge of wild foods and medicines and increasing our experience whenever we can.

We may sometimes think of the plants growing in our backyards or along the acequias as weeds or even pests, but they are often a plentiful (and free) source of food, medicine, dye and other important resources for anyone willing to learn about them. Many of can’t afford the luxury of medical insurance these days, and herbs provide a cheap and sustainable alternative to mainstream medical care for many mild illnesses and common health issues. Similarly, fresh produce is often imported from far away and we rural folk pay for that distance through both our pocketbooks and the lessened quality by the time it actually reaches us. By eating local produce we can cut down on cost while improving on taste.

As we continue our walk, old-timers frequently chime in with medicinal uses that their grandmother taught them when they were only children, supplying us all with precious and often nearly forgotten knowledge. One great-grandfather of six recalls how his mother showed him how to treat burns and wounds that wouldn’t heal with the smooth leaves of the yellow-flowered Evening Primrose. Without these important sharings, this valuable information will die with our elders and our children will be poorer for the loss of New Mexico’s traditional wisdom.

Along the dusty dirt road back to the parking area, we find a lanky plant that looks remarkably similar to Alfalfa but is adorned with a multitude of white flowers. This common Sweet Clover has a sweet vanilla smell and is a favorite with the bees now buzzing all around it. With pleasantly distinctive flavor, Sweet Clover makes an delicious local pesto, especially when combined with some Wild Oregano or Nettles. It’s also lovely as a tea and has many uses as medicine. It can treat issues as diverse as mastitis, varicose veins, venous fragility, menstrual cramps and even some kinds of heart trouble. An eleven year old boy picks a few leaves to chew as we pass by and lights up with surprise at the mild taste. After a moment of consideration he heads back for some more, this time accompanied by several other curious children.

The better we get to know our green neighbors the more we will appreciate the richness they provide us with – putting dinner on the table, healing our community and providing us with a renewed sense of well-being and wealth.

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All photos (c) 2009 Kiva Rose Hardin

A lyrical and personal piece by partner, Jesse Wolf Hardin, on the inextricable relationship between ourselves and the elements. Experiential, vibrant and deeply necessary, Wolf’s piece reminds us to expand our awareness out from out individual bodies into the larger body of the inspirited earth, to cultivate a sensorial awareness and to notice the preciousness of every single second of our vital, beautiful lives!
-Kiva

It is midday as I take a break from writing and step away from the worn keys and glowing screen, the creeping July heat speaking to my body and needs in a way that reasonable thoughts never could.  The same burning sun and swelling temperatures that inspire my walk to the river, seem each afternoon to summon forth the dark thunder-clouds of the Southwest’s monsoon season.  The river is at its most shallow this time of year, barely calf height in some places, and so I make my way to the one broad, deep pool supported by a latticework beaver dam.  By the time I get there and strip off my clothes, the day’s first rain begins to fall on on my bared shoulders, and I’m no longer hot but chilled by the persistent canyon winds.  It proves warmer in the river as I submerge, and internal discourse comes to a sudden halt as I am not only touched but seemingly filled by the attention-getting sensation of water hugging every inch of my body, its gentle currents stroking sensitized skin the way a cat might rub against a willing leg.  I lower myself until the surface of the river laps just below the level of ears and nose, a child-learned technique for best hearing the enchanting, bell-like sounds that raindrops falling into pool or river make.  And like a child, I tilt my head and open my mouth in order to drink in the blessed moisture falling from the both blue and gray sky.

On the way back, I enjoy the fertile and fruity smells of freshly dampened earth, and my bare feet revel in its rain-softened feel.  This is the ground we not only live on but with and through, regularly gathering and eating the wild greens that erupt from and are sustained by its rich volcanic soils, and collecting for our stoves any dying tree branches that this stretch of earth provides.  The trail leading to our cabin climbs steeply away from the river, and my increased need for oxygen has me breathing heavy, noticing more than usual how good it feels to stretch and feed my lungs, consciously sharing atmosphere with all that lives or has ever lived, exchanging gases with green growing beings in a mutually beneficial gifting cycle.  I’ve cooled down enough by this point, that I can enjoy the heat coming off the cookstove as I add wood to its box, and celebrate not only its bark-licking flames but the fires of creativity, of passion, of burning life itself.

As full time residents of the remote Animá wildlife sanctuary and teaching center, our lives are by necessity closely entwined with the elements.  Two miles and seven river crossings from the nearest propane station or electric power line, we depend on the fires we burn as well as the fires of the sun to power our satellite internet connection, computers, sweet music and much needed L.E.D. lights, as well as to warm our cabins in winter and cook our food year round.  It is the earth where we’re housed and walk that provides much of our food, that is a source of our insights, and that very literally “grounds” us in self, place and purpose.  The omnipresent winds shape the land’s character as well as its creature and human inhabitants, no less than they shape these cliffs and rocks, and while there are some who find them tiring, they are for me invigorating, a body of palpable air not just connecting me to all that is or supplying those crucial oxygen molecules, but somehow pumping me with other levels of energy, inspiration and impetus.  Likewise, we are dependent on the giftings of the clouds for the water we drink, that we wash our dishes with and fill our wood heated outdoor tub.  The immense diversity and intense fecundity of our sanctuary is thanks not only to our protection and faithful plantings, choice elevation and overlapping life zones, but to the rare rain and spring fed river that winds its way through it.   And as a natural healer, my partner Kiva has to regularly consider someone’s elemental balance, such as a paucity or excess of “water,” or a need for certain earthen minerals.

What is not only unavoidable but obvious and illustrative in our wilderness based lifestyle, may sometimes be less noticed or deeply experienced in town but remains no less real and true.  Even in the most urban environment with air conditioned buildings and thermostatic controls, with all food coming from a grocery store and grown in places unknown, we are both part and product of the basic elements.  We are all bodies primarily made up of water, the chlorinated and the oft-recycled liquid issuing forth from apartment shower heads was first pooled in blood-salt seas, siphoned skyward and dearly distilled by a fortunately irresistible sun, and delivered via cloud transport on the winds I revel in.  It’s not only possible but desirable to connect deeper with each of the elements in our lives, prizing and conserving water, gathering rain like a pirate even where it is legislatively frowned upon, voting to protect mountain watersheds, getting intimate with it by swimming in it at every chance, ingesting it straight and not just in tea, coffee or pop even if it has to be bottled.  By staying tuned to even the slightest movement in the air, we sense not only approach but oneness and continuance.  Being more conscious of our breath can help calm and center us.  Noticing the pace, depth or shallowness of our breathing can serve as valuable biofeedback drawing attention to what is triggering our feelings, fears, excitement or desire.  Noticing how the air feels when we take it in, can be a reality check regarding its purity, and motivation to become an activist against its continuing pollution.

You may have heard or read about what some call the essential elements of a gourmet recipe, a  novel or painting.  In the same way, the natural elements are not only the primary, basic components from which all else is built, but also the features and the spirit providing for, empowering and helping to define our art-full, whole and healthful natures.

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All photos (c) 2009 Kiva Rose

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Every year this special and very focused workshop becomes a little (or a lot) more intense. With the approach of each Shaman Path Intensive, Wolf and Loba and I are all filled with excitement and anticipation of the wonder sure to come! Remarkably, this year’s transformative event created a new threshold for what can occur when we’re focused and open. In fact, when I asked Wolf his assessment, he had only word for it: superb!

The monsoons arrived early this year and the Southwest’s wild rains provided us with an unseasonably lush and verdant canyon to revel and play in. Lightning-spiked storms rumbled through nearly every afternoon or evening of the event. The sweet serenade of warblers and thrushes and the gentle “meeps” of Muskrats sang alongside the river’s rippling lullaby.  A particular Blue Heron flew over our group several times a day, graciously gifting us with its harsh but beautiful call. The gorgeous Rocky Mountain Beeweed stood tall as trees and wide as groves alongside the river, blessing us with their delicate purple blossoms. Closer to the ground, the magenta and lavender Beebalm and brilliant orange and yellow Butterflyweed illuminated the rocky arroyo near the lodge.

A primary part of the deepening of this experience has to do with our exceptional and truly diverse participants. They ranged from herbalists and acupuncturists to scientists and school teachers to dreamworkers and caretakers, creating a rich tapestry of personality and life experience that wove together into a circle of unique power. Many in the group were very familiar with the Canyon and its magic, having been repeat workshop participants, retreat guests, students or apprentices. Several though, were brand new, and brought their freshness to the dynamic while our more seasoned members contributed a depth and knowledge born of experience.

Sonoran Desert herbalist, Darcey Blue and I worked plant and healing conversation into every little break we could find and she lifted everyone’s spirits with her baskets and bunches of herbs gracing the lodge. I’m sure we were a constant source of intrigue and amusement with our multitude of mysterious tincture bottles, salve jars and botanically complex beverages.

One special afternoon, the women (and Rhiannon!) took time out to journey to the river and plunge ourselves into its refreshing and gentle flow. Each of us lay back in the water and let it soothe the tension from our bodies and nourish us with the primal rhythm of the wound, the tides of the water bringing us ever deeper into ourselves. We painted ourselves with mud, danced on the sand, laughed and cried and sang before finally walking softly back the way we came, filled with a new sense of belonging and purpose.

Wolf provided us with many hours of thought-provoking, assumption-challenging and incredibly insightful talks. The topics ranged in subject matter from finding our calling and living our dreams to death and the Shaman’s inevitable dark night of the soul. Through it all, his immense compassion, wry humor and effortless eloquence carried us to new depths of understanding and feeling. This year’s workshops were extra exciting and we managed to record all of them so that we can offer mp3 recordings to you in the near future!

While age provides the opportunity for wisdom, it is certainly not the measure of it. No one embodies this quite as well as our little Rhiannon, whose wild spirit and perceptive eyes teach more in a leap and a glance then any textbook could hope to inform us with. She reminds us that teachers come in many ages and guises, and provokes us to watch for what we can learn in each moment, if only we are present and paying attention.

On our last evening together we journeyed downriver to the base of the sacred cliffs to honor the spirit of the place and drink in the power and magic of the land as it funneled through Wolf’s drum and into each participant. Above us, the moon poured through the clouds to kiss us and all around us the heady perfume of Sacred Datura flowers imbued us with the enchantment of this special inspirited land. Afterwards, Loba sang long and sweet into the darkness before we began our long journey back to the lodges by starlight.

Each individual was touched in a different but equally important way, from one woman’s profound understanding of her place as a creatrix rather than as a victim in the story of her life to our apprentice Resolute’s newfound alliance with a special medicine plant to another’s recommitment to nourishing herself to Darcey’s emerging understanding of the necessity of her voice and song in the web of the world. The vulnerability and openness of so many of our participants was certainly an inspiration to each and every one of us, and their example allowed everyone to get more from their experiences.

A consistent part of every event here at Anima Center is the phenomenal food and feasting! Fresh veggies from gardens as well as sweetly chosen organic and local produce came together under caring and conscious hands to create meals that were not only nourishing and beautiful but tasted so good that the woods were filled with mmmm’s and yummmmmm’s and wowwwwww’s several times a day. Warm loaves of hearty rye and nutty flax breads dressed with sweet cream butter sat alongside wooden bowls filled with golden yellow Calabacitas, ruby red Tomatoes, vivid green Cucumbers and the garnet tones of sweet Cherries. Fresh fragrant Basil, pungent Beebalm, Venison, handmade sun-dried Tomatoes, River Mint, Mustard flowers, Watercress and many many Wild Grape leaves made their way into our dishes, infusing us all with a special wildness and place-based delight.

It’s not often a group comes together to create and tend quite as well as this particular one and Loba and Wolf and I are deeply grateful for all the care that was given to this place during the event! The love each person invested in their actions was seen and appreciated. To all of you who blessed the Canyon with your prayers and presence, with your love and gratitude and attention, we want to thank you! May your journey be powerful, and your life fully lived.

All Photos (c) 2009 Kiva Rose, Jesse Wolf Hardin, Darcey Blue, MaryAnn and Elizabeth!

Monsoon season is a magical time in the Southwest. The air grows heavy, the clouds roll in and the thunder rumbles across the mountains. Within days of the arrival of the first storms, the golds and sages of the semi-arid woodlands, grasslands and meadows erupt into a riot of vibrant wildflowers and lush green growth. Although Summer is our busiest guest season, and I can’t keep caught up even with 13 hour work days, I simply can’t resist the siren call of the Canyon to come out and play.

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One of the most alluring of all the Canyon’s Summer plants, is the gorgeous Beebalm, known locally as Wild Oregano or Oregano de la Sierra, named for its strong, spicy flavor. Matthew Wood also notes that it has also been called Rose Balm by some authors, which of course is a name I like a great deal! While there are many varieties, both wild and ornamental, of Beebalm in North America, the most common spp. here is Monarda fistulosa var. menthaefolia, although we are also blessed with the presence of M. pectinata and M. punctata.

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Any of the spp. make a wonderful spice to use anywhere you would usually add Oregano, with which it has much in common. Our Beebalm tends to be spicier than Oregano, with a slightly buttery taste and an extra layer of lemon-tanged pungency that makes it excellent in beans, marinades, stews, chile, tomato sauces and many other dishes. The fresh flowers with their sweeter but still very spicy taste are wonderful in salsas, chutneys, many sauces and certainly as an infused honey!

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Each year, to gather our annual harvest of Beebalm for both medicine  and food, we head up a long winding arroyo that runs next to the mesa into the higher, moister mountains. Halfway up is a special place we call the FaeryGrounds, a rippling staircase of crystal-studded black and red rock. It’s here where the Beebalm grows the richest and thickest, bursting from crevices and and cliff-sides in a vivid display of pink and purple flower fireworks.

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There’s no doubt that Beebalm is a magical flower, and one that specifically helps us to see the enchantment of the everyday. Its spicy-sweet taste and extraordinary blossoms bring us back to the present and urges us to notice the beauty and sweetness of life. This is a plant of movement, and excels at shifting circulation and energy outward and up in the body while clearing stagnation and heat.

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As a nervine, Beebalm is lightening and opening, and promotes a strong sense of euphoria, joy and calm. It’s a wonderful remedy for those with depression, sadness or anxiety based in stagnant or old emotions and situations. Combine with Rose for feelings of self-doubt, nagging depression and a feeling of not being able to move on from deeply sustained pain.

It does have the potential to be too diffusive and upward moving for some individuals, especially those with a tendency to be ungrounded, spacey and are already too diffused and uncentered. I have seen more than one vata/airy type person nearly float away on butterfly wings upon simply breathing deeply of Beebalm’s scent. Perfect for those people who have forgotten we can fly but sometimes uncomfortable for those who have trouble staying rooted.

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Further up the wash, past the FaeryGrounds, above the Butterfly Pool and among higher elevation plants such as Mountainspray, Wild Valerian, Gooseberry and Oregon Grape Root are the gorgeous Castle Rocks (as seen as above). Yet no matter how high you climb, there’s even more Beebalm gracing the mountain sides.

Beebalm is prolific but it doesn’t give the impression of working hard to keep its foothold in this rugged terrain, it simply seems to explode out of rock ledges and gravel with the immense ease and grace of someone well acquainted with their power and abilities. Even after the most ferocious floods and during long term droughts, this wildflower insists upon expression and fruition, predictably bursting into bloom every June.

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The culmination of Beebalm’s profound moving powers and it’s spicy oils results in it being one of the most effective herbs I’ve ever used in nearly any case of infection. My years of alliance with this plant have resulted in literally dozens of case studies illustrating its effectiveness in the treatment of MRSA and many other antibiotic resistant infections in myriad manifestations. This all began with reading Matt Wood’s original reference to the plant’s use for UTIs and chronic yeast infections in his classic Book of Herbal Wisdom. Experience and extrapolation has taught me that Beebalm’s usefulness extends to almost any infection, whether chronic or acute. I especially like it combined with Alder for the additional lymphatic and metabolic support.

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This gorgeous flower is also an effective and multifaceted diaphoretic, the spicy tea works wonderfully in many cold/flu/fever blends. Likewise, it’s a prime digestive herb in many cases of stagnation, fermentation and general gut inflammation.

Keep in mind as well, that Beebalm also make a great poultice, especially for for burns. Tincture, fomentation, infused honey and vinegar also make a great burn soother, especially when combined with Rose and/or Evening Primrose.  I adore Beebalm flower honey just for its incredible taste, but it is phenomenal as a burn dressing (including burned tongues!), cough syrup or sweet addition to a hot diaphoretic tea.

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In the middle of the arroyo, very near the Faerygrounds grows a beautiful old Velvet Ash tree whose roots were left partially exposed by our last large flood. In the gnarled fingers of the tree have collected stones, crystals, leaves and bits of wood and plants. The result is a bit of enchantment bound together by the elements and certainly a gift to us humans who happen upon it.

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Back home again, fresh from the river where the arroyo finally empties out, with my arms full of the bounty of wild land.  To read even more about this special indigenous American herb, you can also read my monograph on the Medicine Woman site.

All pics (c) 2009 Kiva Rose, except the portrait of me at the end which is (c)2009 Jesse Wolf Hardin

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Additional Reading:

Medicinal Plants of the Mountain West by Michael Moore

The Earthwise Herbal (New World Plants) by Matthew Wood

The Book of Herbal Wisdom by Matthew Wood

The Practice of Traditional Herbal Medicine by Matthew Wood

Personal correspondence with jim mcdonald

It’s been one of those weeks, folks. Filled with visitors, stomach bugs, weird accidents and monumental amounts of food preserving. Thus, I am behind. If you’re waiting for a package, email, lesson or phone call, I swear I’m getting there. My own immune system has been tottering on the brink of overtiredness and I’ve been forced to draw inward a bit to focus on myself and my family. Everyone seems to be recovering at this point, and I can actually think clearly today so hopefully it’s all on the upswing again.

Worst of it all was poor Rhiannon having a heavy mug shatter on her head in the middle of the night (precariously balanced on a treehouse shelf against the admonishments of her parents, I might add), which resulted in a significant slice above her left temple and a whole lot of blood. Considering how very rare any accidents (even scraped knees or bruises) have been for her in her wild eight years of life, I was quite shocked to open the cabin door and find her with blood matting in her hair and a terrified look on her face. The cut was far from deadly or even dangerous, but gory enough to scare her into a panic. Which made it that much more impressive that she knew just what to do. She washed the wound, took a good look at it, smoothed her hair out of the way (a painful prospect when your hair is actually attached to the ripped flesh) and then smeared it full of Larrea salve. She screamed and yelled in pain while she put the salve on, but the pain (as well as the blood) stopped within minutes of application. Besides the fact that she got the green, strong smelling ointment from one end of her head to the other, I couldn’t have done better myself.

She was shaky and pale so I kept her up for a while to watch her (to rule out a concussion), and then dosed her with Lavender and Tulsi when I was sure she was really ok, and then bundled her off to bed. I’ve let her take care of its healing herself except for daily checkups, and she’s done a great job of keeping clean and salved up. It’s totally painless at this point and knitting together neatly. She’s also been a huge help even while recovering from a painful bout of stomach flu.

When a guest was recently stubbed his toe and cut it in the process, Rhiannon was quick to show him how to make a spit poultice an then carefully bandaged it for him with the poultice and some tape. It quit hurting quickly and healed up nicely. It’s a sweet thing to be able to pass on an age old way of healing to my little girl, and I’m so proud of her eagerness to help and excitement to learn new things. Handing down the perspective of plants as allies to her has fulfilled a lifelong dream for me, as does working with every one of my deeply valued students.

As much as I love working with the plants and with clients, it is of equal importance to me that I pass on my knowledge, understanding and skills to others. The role of the teacher is not one I initially imagined, expected or even wanted, but time and experience have shown me how vital this dynamic truly is for me… as well as for those women who are passionate about participating and learning within a living tradition of healing and relationship with the natural world. There is perhaps nothing more rewarding than aiding another healer in their journey to realization and fullness. It’s the primary reason I write as well — books, lessons and blogposts, letting the wisdom of the plants and of this beautiful earth flow through my fingers onto these pages. Giving back the gifts given to me in an endless cycle of transformation and renewal.

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I’ve just finished up another piece on The Power of the Microcosm that you might be interested in as well.

There’s something so primal and satisfying about a warm vessel of infused herbs in my hands. Sipping a honey sweetened brew of flowers, roots, barks and leaves brings back ancient memories and also spirals me fully into the here and now, fully present in each nuance of taste and aroma. Curled up in Autumn’s growing dark with the scent of Sweet Clover and Rose wafting through the air, I am reminded again of my own essential need to still, to sink into the earth and pay close attention to my surroundings. To the soft sand between my toes, the sun going golden as it sets over the canyon wall and the steady heat of the blue mug beneath my fingers.

Drinking tea is one of those simple yet profound acts that can be both personally healing and communally inspiring. One ceramic pot of water and leaves can take us inwards or bring together a circle of friends. It has much in common with the mystique of food in being elemental and ultimately wild in its roots, but there’s also a unique medicine to tea. While a meal can be called a necessity, tea remains a luxury — a call to purposeful rest, if only for a few minutes. It’s a moment between worlds and tasks dedicated to pleasure and self-nurturing. It’s also something in the mix of the ethereal and material, of taste and trance all blended up into a miraculous burst of flavor, scent and ritual.

It’s not just in the drinking either, more than half the process lies in the creation of the tea. Whether a single handful of Nettles or complex mixture of many herbs, there is a great magic in the intentional choosing of flavors and properties — for the enjoyment of the senses and the nourishment of the self. Loba and I take great joy in our semi-annual task of blending together a large batch of special canyon tea for supporters and friends. We pull out jars, crocks and bags of our favorite herbs to be tossed together into a giant silver bowl. Every year the mix is a little different, sometimes the dominant flavor is Hibiscus or Chamomile or Tulsi, occasionally it’s just a simple blend of a few choice plants and sometimes a complicated cornucopia of spices and herbs. When the recipe is perfected it’s sealed into pretty jelly jars and decorated with ribbons and hand painted labels. The end result is an ephemeral yet precious gift that that each recipient will receive again each time they pour steaming water over colorful bits of flower petals and crushed leaves.

From the delicate form of expensive and rare blooming teas to the simple allure of a hardy brew of Oatstraw, we remain fascinated and comforted by the magic and medicine of tea. Perhaps most of all because of the way it calls us into the present, primary moment. It reminds us of the essential importance of the tangible, touchable world we inhabit. It asks us to participate in an age old rite of plant and human intertwining through the elements of fire, water, earth and air. Through the blessed union of earth and us.

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I also just finished an essay on Falling in Love with Flowers: Redefining Healing Through Relationship that you might like to read.

Walking the river just now means sinking to my calves in cold sweet mud, every step releasing the earthy aroma of clay. It’s blue-grey and slippery, the primal beauty that so many hundreds, thousands of ancient pots and vessels were made of right here in the cnayon. We have some of the remnants, broken jugs and a thousand potsherds, both painted and plain, all still imbued with the spirit of this place. Whenever I step into the slick puddles of wet clay each flood brings up I remember the ancient ones, the women shaping their lives with able hands, strong fingers finding the natural shape of each bit of earth and water.

This recent flood was unexpected, the storm moving in quickly and pounding the canyon for 24 hours solid with hail, pouring rain and whirling winds. The river came up so fast that the banks were cut to a sheer edge in many places, resulting in heartbreaking erosion. The upside is that we’ll have to worry much less now about winter fires and the cold season greens such as the wild mustard have a head start.

The Asters are still holding on to their color, remaining an insistent shade of brilliant purple even after several frosts. They look almost alien next to all the brown, crumpled stalks of the other plants — a striking reminder of the vitality of the growing season. And of the life that lurks underground, just waiting for warmth, rain and the opportunity to bloom.

A few days ago we were lucking enough to have the chance to purchase about fifteen pounds of fresh sweet peppers from a local organic farm, in all shades of green, red, gold and purple. Oooh, the yumminess! We’ve been indulging in roasted peppers stuffed with sausage, toasted millet, nettles, broccoli, goat cheese and peach chutney, then topped with olives. It’s so good that we’ve been eating them at nearly every meal, soaking in the last blessed morsels of summer. I’ve been enjoying more time in the kitchen this last week and have been doing most of the pepper stuffing myself for a nice change.

I concocted a new invention for Loba’s birthday, which I have happily named Faery Cakes. Made of freshly ground hazelnut meal, acorn meal, oats, spices, butter, rosemary honey and other enchanted ingredients, I also whipped up a kahluah/coffee/cream topping for it, and we sat on the tile hearth sipping dandyblend and taking tiny, delicious bites of Faery Cake. It was a very nice bit of October heaven indeed!

In last night’s full moon light, I spent a few minutes last night perched on a rock far above the river, playing my flute to the tune of the water and wind. Or perhaps I should more accurately say that the water and wind played me, as all the best music flows through us humans as living, responsive channels of raw, wild emotion and sensation.

It’s all these small, sweet moments of being barefoot in the mud, preparing food and music that make my life so incredibly magical. That make the normal of every day something deep, memorable and amazing. These, more than recipes or cures or theories, are what I hope to impart to you, my readers. These snips of color and light and earth and shadows to illuminate, challenge, delight and comfort… to inspire you to walk into the night, let the world indulge your senses.

Harvest Ramblings For the October Blogparty over at Gaia’s Gifts, hosted by Darcey Blue

Nights are cold, and the big down comforter is already on the outdoor bed. Although we’ve been having occasional rains, the plants are withering from the cold, shrinking back to their earthen bed with alarming speed. We’re scrambling for the last of the acorns before the bugs and bears get them and all, and relishing the last batch of Sweet Clover pesto before it’s finally gone. The moon still seems to be spinning by far too quickly, the time passing in a whirlwind of leaves and falling flowers.

For much of my life, this is the time of year I’ve chosen to move from place to place, wandering along with the change in the wind. Part of this is because it’s easiest for me to flow with the transition of the seasons themselves, and part of it is because I so hate to see the plants I love fade and die. These days though, I stay right here by the river. I try to be present with both the surge and ebb of life, to sit with the sadness of death as the leaves curl back and let the magic of transformation flood through me. The sunflowers rustle with cold and immanent frost and I allow the grief to rattle through me, a death song that leaves me momentarily still and sad.

The birds are quieting and the butterflies well on their way south to warmer lands. There are mornings when the canyon is so cold and silent that I consider curling up inside an acorn, and think of sleeping the winter away with my beloved plants. But instead I’ll huddle under my wool wraps and gather roots and barks. Sit by the warm wood stove and break apart twigs and leaves, listening to the boil of tea-water and stew.

Sitting on my worktable just now is a small heap of Wild Licorice, a quart jar of fresh Elderberry Elixir and a basket of drying Peach leaves. I sort and re-sort, blend and store. The shelves sage under their weight of tinctures, oils and dried plants and I admire the colors and texture of each hand gathered herb and preparation. The Medicine Lodge is totally packed with goodies and I know this cold season won’t find me unprepared.

In the late morning, I find a sunny spot on a boulder and play my bamboo flute to the cottonwood trees far below me, listening to the sound snake through the rock walls and slide into the beat of the river against the bank. My pockets are full of just gathered acorns, of Autumn bounty even as I play a song of letting go… even as I watch the last gold leaf fall from the Sumach bush.

Earlier today, Rhiannon and I took a little walk up the wash looking for acorns and cherries. It was beautiful canyon morning with mist lingering along the cliffs and mountaintops, as the river sang loudly from between its banks. We’ve been receiving generous amounts of rain each night and the river has been slowly rising in accord with the added precipitation. Rhiannon skipped ahead of me, barefoot and delighted with the weather, the prospect of cherries and life itself. She’s such an infectious little thing, I swear I gave birth to faerie creature! She was skipping so fast though, that I didn’t manage to get any non-blurry picture of her.

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The Goldenrod is going strong, and today I harvested a couple armfuls for oil and tincture. This plant has so many uses, from wounds to allergies to its unparalleled excellence for strained, sore or injured muscles. I use the flowers only for my oil, but the flowering tops for tincture. I tend to think that the more aromatic the flowers the better, but I have one species here (a larger, coarser spp than the one above) that has little to no smell that works great, especially for allergies and sinus drainage. I’m pleased to have harvested so much since nearly every year I manage to miss the bulk of the harvest because I’m so busy. Not this year though!

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The aromatic flower stalk of our native American Pennyroyal (Hedeoma spp) that has been blooming all through late summer and now into fall. I wish I could have this picture larger and at a higher resolution so you could see the shocking pink patterns within the flower and calyx. This infamous herb is wonderfully warming and stimulating for the uterus and also makes a very tasty tea.

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One my great loves, the Evening Primrose. I’ve been working with this plant for some time now, especially in regards to its actions upon the female reproductive system and the nervous system and I continue to be amazed by its gentle power and consistent results. The arroyo is just full of them right now, they’re growing from rock crevices and under massive trees. Persistent, strong, sweet and unfailingly graceful – I consider this herb to be one of my favorite teachers.

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Another picture of the Evening Primrose, this one slowly closing with a soft pink blush.

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And finally, the Cherries!  Big, fat and remarkably sweet after ripening in the New Mexico sun for the last month. They still leave a distinctive bitter aftertaste in the mouth, but make a flavorful and unusual jam.

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I would have taken pictures of the acorns too, which were huge and perfectly ripe, but I was just too busy scooping them up by the handfull in anticipation of more wonderful chocolate banana acorn cake. Soon though, perhaps a picture of the acorns alongside some lovely acorn treats.

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I love this transition of the seasons, of the light changing each morning and twilight coming just a little sooner each night. A season of transformation and deepening, of lengthening shadows and lingering dreams.

Home again, no thanks to the insane traffic and almost getting smushed between a semi-truck and trailer with an exploding tire on the interstate. About the time part of the exploding tire bounced off my windshield and the rest of it slammed into my front bumper, I was really ready to never see a highway or a city ever again. Once I got past Socorro and was heading back into the mountains that form the entry to the Gila though, I was able to relax enough to enjoy the incredibly long sunset that colored Horse Springs a rich shade of lavender and made the Sunflowers glow gold as the setting sun. Lightning spiked the earth to the east, and the clouds rolled over me as I sped southward and home.

Here in the Canyon things are vivid green, the ground is moist and the Cocklebur plants are easily seven foot tall in places. Walking beside the river is like exploring a rainforest, and the dragonflies spin over my head as I curl my toes into the sand. The rain comes and goes, pattering and roaring by turn, making the river sing sweeter than ever.

Sitting down to write this blog, I have a skirt full of Aster flowers I haven’t yet set out to dry. They’re sticky and fragrant and vivid purple. Their rich fragrance is one of the river signature Autumn scents. I’d recognize it with my eyes closed from a million other smells. The Globemallow are blooming at full tilt, their scarlet-orange flowers covering acres of land. You can see a picture of one there to the left, with its green heart and soft, fuzzy buds. I need to harvest some flowers in the next couple days, as soon as they’re dry enough not to mold when I hang them up.

The Evening Primroses are glorious, with thousands of white and yellow flowers from river to woodland to grassland areas here. One of my all time favorite medicines, this gentle herb is healing just to sit with while gazing up into its rose tinged hood. The Wild Hop stroibles are plump, green-gold nearly ready for the picking while wild blue Sage is knee high and breathes a spicy breeze whenever Rhiannon and I wander through them.

The acorns are still green but nearly full sized, a clear indication of harvest time! Just this morning we had a bite of the most amazing roasted acorn chocolate cake that Loba and a guest came up with. After you’ve had acorn and chocolate together, the chocolate will always seem lonely and flat without acorns forever after.

Life is beautiful at home, all full of flowers and food and fiddle music. Makes me wonder why I ever leave, and why I didn’t get here a bit sooner….

Mornings are cool, with a breeze that rises from the river and sings through the Pines. The sun comes up lazy and slow to peer through drifting clouds and Oak branches. Yellow flowers abound, the tiny gold stars of Wild Lettuce and the rolling curves of Mullein blooms. I sit in the river and let the current roll around me, listen to the water talk to me. Days like this, I just listen, and let all my words empty out into the sparkling sand. Sometimes, it’s better to be without the words, to allow poetry to be what it is: wild, deep and wordless.

A few days ago, five of us wandered up the arroyo to gather Beebalm and Evening Primrose – Darcey and I stopping to taste nearly every little Artemisia plant and Ptelea tree. There’s so much richness right now, that it’s hard to describe it. Everything is green, growing and blooming. Of special note was the single Chokecherry tree we found with nearly ripe berries. Since we hardly ever get any Cherries here we (and especially Rhiannnon) were very excited and we have plans to visit frequently until they’re fully ripe so that we can get a few before the bears raid it.

The CoffeeBerries and Manzanita berries have a growing blush, and we’re getting ready to head up the mountains for Blackberry harvest. And soon the Prickly Pears will be purple, fat and ripe as well. This morning I gathered a few small bunches of aromatic American Pennyroyal (Hedeoma) to dry for tea.

The days are busy but beautiful, I hope to be a bit more present in the near future with some new ~amazing~ flax gingerbread and donut recipes, and some new plant monographs as well, so be on the lookout.

It finally happened! The oppressive heft of rain waiting to happen broke though into a gentle, unsteady storm that’s been coming and going all afternoon and evening. The season is still building, and fullblown torrential downpours are somewhere in the near future. And now we’ll even be able to breathe without all the smoke hanging over the house. I am pleased to report that the plants are VERY happy about this shift, despite the onslaught of pea sized hail that bombarded them a little earlier.

In a break between showers, Loba and I grilled elk kebabs (in Indonesian marinade yum) over a sweet little fire burned down to glowing coals. And then we all sat in the sand in the stone circle and ate elk, onions, sweet peppers and squash with our fingers. It started to drizzle again just before we finished and we happily drank raindrops with the final bites of supper.

I’ve been loving food books lately and am especially enamored of the River Cottage Meat Book, a truly phenomenal tome on preparing, cutting, curing and cooking meat and game. Lovely pictures and a well balanced and wise commentary on the horrors of factory farming, the deliciousness of good meat and the ethics of hunting and agriculture. Good stuff for us enthusiastic omnivores.

Speaking of wild foods, I just wrote a long post called Primal Sacrament: The Joy of Wild Foods and Medicines over at the Animá blog that I imagine most of you will enjoy. There’s lots of pictures included, and the pic here of Rhiannon with her Nettle is taken from the same series.

Tomorrow it’s time to gather mulberries, pick some more Peach leaves and stock up on a few other choice weedy friends. While I’m in the village I’ll buy a dozen local eggs, precious and hard to come by during the hot season and look for wild green along the river. Then I’ll be back here, in front of the machine, learning Dreamweaver and writing about herbs and more herbs.

My birthday is coming up in a couple weeks and I’m busy dreaming up a fruit sweetened berry flax cake… following a fire roasted meal of meat and veggies eaten under the trees. All topped of by a birthday kiss from the river. It will be a lovely way to turn 28, and another great excuse to celebrate life!

Every afternoon the clouds roll in, and every evening the smoke fills the air. It’s a thick haze that smells like charred Juniper and melted Pine sap, and turns the sunset a rusty gold. There are fires burning fiercely a hundred miles away in several different directions, and the late afternoon winds bring us a visceral reminder of how close one hundred miles really is. The rains may come any day, and the old people in the village anxiously scan the skies every so often, praying the clouds thicker and darker. Willing rain to wet the dusty ground.

Welcome to New Mexico: land of enchantment and wellspring of both fire and flood. There’s no gentle in between here, no “it’s all good” drone of mediocrity or absent minded mercy from place or people. The SW is renowned for its magic and spirit, and with all that personality comes a harsh intensity. The rural inhabitants of the area reflect this in their way and manner, often being both crusty and sweet, deeply private and hugely giving. To live here in this place and with these people requires a certain stubbornness, a good wild streak and a whole lot of perseverance.

To keep my little weedpatch going in the dry, windy weather I haul several buckets of water each morning to the garden. To get the dishes washed I haul another couple of buckets to the kitchen, and then back to chiseling out caulk out of the large broken window. Loba chops wood, getting a good store of wood built up in the shed before the rains come and drench every broken stick so wet they’ll never light. Wolf uses the small chainsaw to cut the wood down to a splittable size. Rain barrels get washed out and re-arranged beneath the roof spouts in preparation for the coming water. With no refrigeration, food has to be watched and processed carefully in this heat. Fresh killed meat must be dealt with immediately and cooked right away while veggies have to be wrapped and stored in the coolest possible place where critters won’t get at them (hopefully).

Homesteading is both idyllic and hard, time consuming and ultimately freeing. Visitors sometimes wonder what we do all day, since we don’t go to typical 8-5 jobs and some even imagine we spend much of our time just hanging out in the shade or idling by the river. This always gives us a good hearty laugh, since our work hours are more like 7-11, with Loba often getting up at about 5:30 to get the wood stove going and breakfast started and with Wolf and I sometimes working till midnight on projects, student curriculum and emails. Even Rhiannon works much of the day, dividing her time between outdoor work, kitchen help, school (year round) and exuberant bouts of playing in between. And when we grownups do take time out to play, it’s still intense and focused on concentrated nourishment. Of course, because our work is what we love, it all feels rewarding and fun even when we’re exhausted at the end of the day. Indoor work is accompanied by great music and outdoor music is accompanied by birdsong and wind.

It’s the balance to it all — the hard and the fun, the intensity and the bliss, the work and the play, the smoke in the air and the river washing its scent from our skin. One doesn’t come without the other, as life never comes without death, and it’s up to us to notice and take it in. To give each aspect its due respect and ceremony while integrating the whole of the experience into our beings and selves, continually becoming more connected and more ourselves.

There are fat, dark rainclouds crowding the sky and laying out shadows of birds and junipers and Rhiannon on the swing, long legs pumping the air. Monsoons are coming, and in spite of the work it means, I pray for a wide river and sweet, muddy ground. Thunder rumbles and shakes the air, and tells the stories of this place — tells of the rhythm and ways of cliff-face, thorns and forest.

Part of my morning has been spent chipping old caulk from the frames of broken windows. They need to be stripped clean so that new glass can be put in before the rains fall. A village friend came in to help us with chainsawing up some deadwood and brought us some delicious local sirloin steaks. And now I’m working away at the surprisingly large pile of emails in the Anima inbox while istening to the meandering but deep wildness of Alela Diane’s album The Pirate’s Gospel, especially the strangely tilting anthem of Sister Self, my new favorite song.

The Grape leaves have grown as wide across as my face, and on long walks towards dusk, I gather them and tuck them into a soft cloth bag. The one fully mature Elder tree of the Canyon has put out a few fragrant blossoms that herald, as always, the full arrival of the Summer Solstice. Faery flowers for a Faery festival where late singing doves and whip-por-wills serenade the sheltered curves of canyon wall. These surreal and intense days of seasonal transition invite the surrender of laying on my back in the current tasting the first few drops of the season land on my lips. Increased humidity heightens the scent of Grape flowers and Cottonwood leaves.

With the rains come a second Spring, and the awakening of some of the Gila’s most beautiful flowers, I get a shiver just thinking about it. Already the Prickly Poppies have unfolded their white petals across the fields and roadsides, and the Asters are rounding out their sticky buds. If you put your ear to the ground, you can hear the roots thrumming in excitement.