Walking Stick Cholla (Cylindropuntia spinosior) skeleton in the snow.

Last night while I laid back in our old wood-fired clawfoot tub and felt the giant snowflakes falling on my face in the dark I was entirely consumed by how beautiful and precious these long nights and cold air are to me. All around me in the evergreen forests of my home, the snow fell silently and the ice grew a little further over the surface of the river that runs through the center of the canyon.

While I’ve always enjoyed the quiet and beauty of Winter, it seems to me that this particular cold season is the most pleasurable and lovely I’ve ever experienced. Part of this is no doubt simply due to how much I needed the slowing down that this time of the year brings for our family. Another aspect is my deepening relationship with the special medicine of the snow moons. It’s so easy for us plant-obsessed folks to feel abandoned by their herbal allies as they recede into dormancy. This combined with the lack of sunlight and insane way in which our culture insists we keep up the pace of Summer is a dangerous equation that often results in depression, lethargy and sadness.

Along with building up adequate Vit D levels for the first time in years, I’ve been immersing myself in the pleasure of the long nights with evening walks in the snow by star and moonlight. Climbing trees and gazing out over the sparkling canyon, or sitting for long periods of time examining the growth patterns of lichen or the slow descent of leaking resin have also assisted me in staying connected to the plant I love. Evergreen medicine, food and scents have been nigh on an obsession this Winter, with Loba and I competing for who can make the tastiest Fir-flavored treats and me working feverishly to figure out the most effective ways of infusing the scent and medicine of the evergreens, lichens and resins into all of my current projects.

Creating hand-ground incense from local plants to burn on the woodstove, formulating coniferous forest inspired perfumes and an endless stream of new elixirs, syrups and vinegars are all ways I’ve been engaging my senses and enjoying the current season. Our family enthusiastically celebrates the Solstice but leaves out the baggage-laden gift giving tradition which frees us all up to spend more time just indulging in the pleasures of long evenings together, seasonal food and inventing every possible White Fir flavored recipe.

Barks and roots, lichen and mushrooms, resin and sap, needles and boughs are my lights in this fertile, rich darkness of Winter. In too many years past, I found myself wishing for the season to pass me by in sleep and to live in perpetual green and constant flowering. While I certainly realized all the reasons why the land and we humans need the rest and time turned inwards, I met this shift in seasons with a certain amount of resistance and defiance. This year I finally realize, gut-deep, how much I benefit by the sweet silence and visceral rooting that can take place only now. Such a huge shift has left me not only enjoying the snow and dark, but relishing it and realizing I’ll actually feel sadness when the wheel turns and the next season emerges, even as I welcome the return of the light.

These pictures tell the story of a few of my recent rambles through the white mantled forest of my canyon home and the life that surges through the land even during the coldest nights.

New Mexico Ground Cherry (Physalis foetens var. neomexicana) shines a beautiful ivory-gold against the snow.

Red Stemmed Filaree (Erodium cicutarium) blooming in shelter of a rock crevice even under the snow and ice.

Gorgeous Juniper Mistletoe (Phoradendron juniperinum subsp. juniperinum) in fruit.

Piñon Pine (Pinus edulis) resin leaking from a wound in the tree.

Pointleaf Manzanita (Arctostaphylos pungens) bark red and curling in contrast with the evergreen leaves.

Harvesting early Narrowleaf Cottonwood (Populus angustifolia) resinous buds from a fallen tree.

Bracket fungi growing on a Juniper tree.

Silk Tassel (Garrya wrightii) leaf.

Scarlet Beehive Cactus (Echinocereus coccineus) persisting beneath the ice.

A Cliff Fern (Woodsia spp.) peeking out from under a rock on the side of the mountain.

Tarantula in the snow.

The amazingly fragrant Desert Cypress (Cupressus arizonica) infusing into oil on the wood stove for medicine, sensory bliss and food.

A great way to become more deeply connected to the seasons while studying earth-centered herbalism is by taking the Weaving the Wheel of the Year course with my long-time friend and Traditions in Western Herbalism Conference teacher, Darcey Blue!

Smoky Chai in the leaves

On this windy November afternoon I brought a thermos of my favorite smoky chai and a crisp mcintosh apple with me to a small copse of Alder trees and Wild Roses by the river. Listening to the breeze keening through the Pines on the mountain above, I sat down in the soft leaf litter and leaned against the silver barked  trunk. All around me, the air was thick with the musky-sweet smell of Autumn turning rapidly to Winter. On the ground, the rust and copper colors of fallen Oak and Maple leaves provided a stark backdrop to the lush green of young Mountain Nettles (Urtica gracilenta) that continue to persist and have been providing our family with nightly meals of Nettle soups and Nettle breads.

Frankly, I’m not sure there’s much in this world better than being curled up in leaves under my favorite trees with the smells of Fall, river water, spices and smoke all mingling together. The only word I can find to describe it is ~rich~. Rich in the sense of delicious and decadent, and rich in the sense of wealth. Simple wealth, certainly, but overwhelmingly satisfying and beautiful just the same.

Mountain Nettle (Urtica gracilenta)

Yes, this is a post about tea. I won’t be discussing the medicinal qualities or therapeutic actions of the plant, just how good it tastes and some suggestions for creating your own brews made up of smoke and spice. There’s a medicine in this sort of joy and beauty all it’s own. Something deeper than memory, so close to our bones that we might call it primal. Drinking in the sweetness of experience is a talent we humans have when we can just shut our brains up enough to be quiet and feel.

Now, normally I prefer to obtain as much as my medicine, food and beverages locally (and ideally, harvest it myself) as possible. I do make occasional exceptions to feed my obsessive affection for the fermented leaves of Camellia sinensis, as long as I can find high enough quality tea from a reliable, ethical (or rather, as ethical as things like tea and coffee and chocolate can be) source. In particular, I’m a devotee of smokey, strong black tea. This is especially true in Autumn and Winter when all sorts of rich, overt flavors seem to help balance the seemingly monochrome landscape with their sensory power.

The Teas

Fallen Alder (Alnus oblongifolia) Leaf

Preface: I almost always order my tea from Mountain Rose Herbs, partially because I can trust their ethics and partially because they just have excellent tea at a very good price. If you order from somewhere else you may need to adjust the proportions based on variations in taste and strength. That said, please adjust according to your preference as you go along. These aren’t proper recipes anyhow, just basic proportions so that you can create your own cups of smoke and spice.

Proportions here are based on volume not weight.

Russian Caravan

Russian Caravan is a tea that, in general, is strong, highly caffeinated and ranges from mildly smokey to something tasting rather like cigarette ashes brewed as tea. At its best, Russian Caravan is complex, smokey, full-bodied and with a depth of flavor that few other beverages can match. However, the name of this well known  tea is a bit of a misnomer as the tea brought in caravans from China to Russia was not smokey at all. According to early descriptions, it was actually a delicate, lightly fermented tea that the Russians preferred. Yes, most websites and companies selling Russian Caravan have an elaborate tale about the campfires of the caravans lending their flavor to the chests of tea… but while this is a great story, it’s seems to be just that, a story.

Whatever its origins, I’m a huge fan of Russian Caravan in its modern incarnation. Unfortunately, the quality and taste of the mix can vary a great deal from shop to shop and company to company. Therefore, I blend my own. It’s very simple to get a rich, complex and pleasantly smokey tea from just two or three teas varieties.

• 3 Parts Assam (if you choose to use a lighter base, such as Darjeeling, you’ll want to use a higher proportion of it to the Lapsang Souchong)
• 2 Parts Lapsang Souchong (Mountain Rose’s Lapsang Souchong is smoked over Spruce wood and brews to a beautiful red color.)
• 1 Part Pu’erh (optional but I like the mossy, minerally flavor it imparts and the red color it adds)

Spruce Fire Masala Chai

Masala chai has become incredibly popular in the US. On one hand I certainly appreciate the availability and myriad variations, but this has also resulted in a great of deal of powdered artificial vanilla-flavored, corn syrup sweetened nastiness that I would put right up there with boxed smoothie mix and red koolaid as far as taste. A good masala chai is a miraculous and delicious thing, especially with a dash of heavy whipping cream and a spoonful of wildflower or buckwheat honey. It really doesn’t need any improving at all but given my penchant for for smokey teas, I decided to make a smokey chai for the Winter months and so far my guinea pigs (otherwise known as friends and family and whoever else will take sips from the cups I push in their direction) concur that smoke and spice make a lovely pair indeed.

For simplicity’s sake, I’m going to assume that you know how to make your own masala chai or that you have a pre-made blend (preferably made with whole tea leaf and spices rather than powdered.) If not, recipes abound, as do excellent blends.

• 3 Parts Masala Chai (preferably a blend with a fair amount of Cloves included)
• 1 Part Lapsang Souchong

Yep, that easy… I think this tea tastes even better if brewed an extra minute or two.

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The sweetness of Autumn turning to Winter

Burned out mountain forests between Alpine, AZ and Hannagan's Meadow

Today I saw many miles of what’s pictured above. Black, dead trees and ground covered in a thick layer of ash. Exploded Pine limbs littering the periphery of the fire’s path and shattered trunks that collapsed into dust with a gentle exploratory touch on my part. While many sections of the burned forest were old growth Pine and burned so hot that they will be a long time indeed in regrowing, there are also many areas where lighter fires swept through and green patches that escaped entirely unscathed.

Fire itself is of course an age old occurrence that has a natural and beneficial place in the ecology of these mountains. What’s more recent is the decades of fire suppression combined with humans lighting accidental fires much earlier in the year than the more standard lightning triggered fires that usually occur just on the cusp of monsoon season and are often self-controlled by seasonal rains. These earlier fires burn longer and hotter with extremely low humidity and little can be done besides protecting human habitations until the rains come .

Unlike desert or scrublands, the resinous heart of these coniferous forests high in the Arizona and New Mexico mountains can burn incredibly hot and long.

Burned peaks in the White Mountains of the Apache National Forest

But the grieving is not what I want to address here. What I’m focusing on in this post is what’s survived and the new life that is already so insistently creeping back to the edge of where flames so recently resided.In spite of the severity of the fire, life persists. Where it burned quicker and lighter, the land will actually benefit from the removal of brush and the introduction of more fertile soil through the ash created by the bodies of burned trees and other plants. Where the fire burned slow and hot, the soil may be sterilized for years to come but all around it the green of life’s vitality.

Patches of hopeful green on the more lightly burned mountains

Much of the more lightly burned area that can be seen in the above picture is from the backfires created to combat the the main fire. The burned peaks above are from the actual Wallow Fire. The backfire burned areas should recover in fairly short order and with the monsoon rains, new green growth can already be seen. Not so with the primary fire damage, but even there life will eventually return even if in a different form and ecology than was originally found here.

And on the roadsides and riverbanks, green things still grow despite the drought.

Yerba del Lobo (Hymenoxys hoopesii)

One of the plants I was most relieved to see, albeit in much smaller numbers than usual, was the gorgeous Yerba del Lobo (Hymenoxys hoopesii), a medicine I first learned from Michael Moore. In our area, Hymenoxys is locally abundant in higher elevation mountain meadows, creek banks and similar wetland habitats. In good years, Yerba del Lobo can create a golden wash for miles across the sub-alpine meadows that make up some of my favorite places on earth.

This plant is a strong counter-irritant that Michael compared to Arnica and noted that in his experience it was feebler. I’m not sure if it’s our particular population or some other variable but I’ve actually found Yeba del Lobo to be stronger acting in many cases than Arnica, and the counter irritant effect is often strong enough to visibly redden and also cause feelings of heat where applied. Like Arnica, the liniment is frequently utilized in the treatment of musco-skeletal injuries, especially those aggravated by cold or dampness. Some people find that Yerba del Lobo is too heating on its own and I often formulate it in pain relieving salves/liniments with Artemisia spp., Alnus oblongifolia and Populus angustifolia.

©2011 Jesse Wolf Hardin

I was delighted to find a good sized meadow with an abundance of not only Hymenoxys, but also Cutleaf Coneflower (Rudbeckia laciniata), Verbena macdougalii, my favorite local species of Geranium, G. richardsonii and a number of other remedios of the mountain Southwest. I even harvested a good amount of our higher elevation Mountain Alder, A. incana ssp. tenuifolia in order to compare it to the Canyon Alder I more commonly work with, A. oblongifolia.

Picnic lunch in the meadow

Loba set up a picnic lunch while Rhiannon and her best friend, Cassandra, danced in a patch of tall grass while a misting rain fell. We were at about 8500 feet and the forest surrounding the meadow is populated with Aspen, Douglas Fir, Spruce, White Fir and the occasional Southwestern White Pine. We ate goat cheese and freshly picked watercress on buckwheat sourdough while gazing up at the enormous trees behind us and then back at the blackened patches on the other side of the meadow.

Geranium richardsonii

This lovely light pink to white flowered Geranium is my favorite species for medicine in this area. While less colorful than its middle elevation relative, G. caespitosum, it has a much larger root system and is also considerably more astringent in nature, making it more effective in treatment of inflamed, boggy tissues both internally and externally. Since our oaks here in the SW tend be far less astringent than the average oak in the rest of the county, I tend to utilize a number of smaller plants for their astringency. Sumach (Rhus trilobata) and Geranium are two such plants commonly found in my materia medica.

An overflowing basket of Yerba del Lobo, Cutleaf Coneflower, Alder, Geranium, Iris and more

While Wolf took pictures of the activity, Loba gathered Watercress and Rhiannon and Cassandra exclaimed over wildflowers I of course was, as usual, on my hands and knees in the dirt examining plants. I spent a good part of my time using my hori-hori to dig up a bit of Coneflower and Iris to help refill my now depleted stores. In the process I also gathered some Wild Onions and Mint for the pantry.

Iris missouriensis

I was surprised to find a number of Iris still flowering in the meadow. While at the end of their prime, they’re still remarkably beautiful, especially in the way their faded tissue catches the sunlight filtering through low-lying clouds. Besides being lovely to look at, the bitter rhizomes of Iris have strong alterative, lymphatic, diuretic and anti-inflammatory actions. Please note that Iris should be used only once dried, and that it can be toxic (and thus, very unpleasant) in overlarge doses. In small doses, I find that it formulates extremely well and can add a great deal to many bitters and lymphatic blends.

Our I. mirrouriensis of the West seems somewhat less strong in action than the I. versicolor of the East, but still plenty strong for most purposes. Ellingwood described the specific indications of Iris:

This agent will prove serviceable when the stools are clay-colored, the urine scanty and the skin inactive and jaundiced. In small doses it is indicated in irritable conditions of the mucous membranes of the digestive tract, with altered secretion.

And indeed, Iris is most effective where the metabolic system seems to need a kickstart via stimulation (which physiologically often means some level of irritation) in order to effectively produce the secretions needed for proper immune and metabolic function. Again, dried plant, small doses and appropriate formulation keeping the specific indications in mind.

8,000 feet up in the mountains, a flowering Elder tree in the background and Frasera speciosa in the foreground

On the way home through the mountain passes I noticed several large patches of what the locals call “Indian Root”, botanically known as Frasera speciosa of the Gentianaceae. More widely known as Green Gentian,  Elkweed or Cebadilla, this locally abundant herb is probably the single most revered plant by the folks of my village and surrounding areas.

Indian Root, Frasera speciosa

This bitter, rank-tasting plant with its yellow taproots has many of the expected properties of the Gentian family, primarily considered a digestive bitter by many. Locals have a litany of much more specific uses that I’ll discuss more fully in a later monograph on this plant. It certainly works great for that classic Gentian indication of epigastric fullness even after a very small amount of food is consumed, especially where the bloating is accompanied by copious loss of fluids via excess urination or diarrhea.

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More surprising was an Elder tree in full bloom standing atop the dry hillside above the Indian Root. While Wolf took the little girls to a local cafe, Loba and I set to work gathering up some of the creamy white blossoms.

This was such an incredibly wonderful surprise since I didn’t expect to be able to harvest any Elder at all this year! The odd yet sweet scent of the leaves and flowers made Loba and I somewhat giddy as we happily scrambled about reaching for the most accessible branches while being sure to leave plenty to become berries for the wildlife.

Mountain Vervain, Verbena macdougalii

Another delightful find was that nearly every unburned roadside and meadow contained an abundance of Mountain Vervain (Verbena macdougalii) in spite of the ongoing drought. One of my most turned to allies for treating tension and anxiety, I always gather a LOT of this plant every year. A specific and repeatedly successful used of this pretty wildflower is for tension and nerve pain in the shoulder and neck area in people who could generally be deemed “uptight” and who get irritable and short-tempered under stress. Overall, Verbena seems to have a remarkable ability to release the muscles around the base of the neck where it meets the shoulders. I’ve often seen this result in people getting the “shivers” not long after taking the tincture as the muscles relax. I’ve also seen it address tension headaches that even prescription painkillers hadn’t been able to touch.

Blue Flax, Linum lewisii

Despite the horror of the fire for humans and wildlife alike, it was a profound relief to see the green patches and roadsides. With so many of the forest service roads still closed, I haven’t made it back into the areas most seriously burned but I’m very grateful to have the opportunity to spend some time up in these beloved mountains, orienting myself to both the newly blackened landmarks as well as the vibrancy and vitality of life in flower.

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All photos ©2011 Kiva Rose unless otherwise noted.

Spring in the Country of Lichen & Spines: Fragments of Home

by Kiva Rose

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Warm temperatures have arrived early in my corner of the Gila, with the Golden Smoke blooming sooner this year than I’ve ever previously seen. This follows a cold (-35F is plenty cold for me, thank you) and dry Winter. Now our seasonal winds blow the sand up in spiraling circles until it dances like the shifting forms of whirling dervishes against New Mexico’s lapis colored sky. The skeletal limbs of shattered Russian Thistles caught up in these little whirlwinds give sharp edges to the dancers.

Golden Smoke (Corydalis aurea)

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The Canyon trees bend in the same wild winds and yet last year’s withered purple Juniper berries cling to their branches as they’re tossed about in the breeze. They retain their pungent yet sweet flavor as well, a little drier perhaps, but still strong with the distinct magic that comes only with being the fruit of a Red Cedar tree.

One Seeded Juniper (Juniperus monosperma)

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Even in drought these mountains remain a country fraught with magic. If anything, the enchantment is turned up enough in these extreme conditions. Walking among the apricot and lavender colored volcanic rock I often find myself with a sense of the surreal, or more accurately, the hyperreal. The contrast of the barbed tips of white and black cactus spines draped in swaths of green Usnea fallen from the limbs of tall Pines is in itself strange enough to be disorienting at times. The sharp wrapped up in the soft, the colors blending and emerging as something altogether new.

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Mountain Candytuft is our first showy flower each and every year since I’ve come to the Canyon. It’s purplish leaves and violet to white flowers dot the mountainsides and draw the first butterflies. A member of the Brassicaceae, the spicy-sweet taste of its flowerheads is reminiscent of a more flavorful broccoli and I’m always so excited to add it to my Spring soups and salads.

Mountain Candytuft (Noccaea fendleri subsp. glauca)

Mountain Candytuft (Noccaea fendleri subsp. glauca)

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The Cane Cholla is blushed a vivid pink from the cold temperatures but will return to its usual green color before producing flowers in a month or so. Clambering up and down the arroyos and dry creekbed, I peek under likely boulders looking for a few fronds of green and rust colored ferns and run my fingers along the ragged margins of the many-colored lichens that grow from almost every stone surface here.

Cane Cholla (Cylindropuntia spinosior)

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The New Mexico Olive has just begun blooming and it’s golden spray of flowers will eventually give way to the bittersweet blue-purple fruits that Loba and I will harvest and brine and use as tiny but flavorful olives in our meals. When I stopped on my way home to photograph the flowers a spring-mad hare leapt from the brush and went galloping off in typical jackrabbit fashion, too quick for me to even snap a picture.

New Mexico Olive (Forestiera pubescens) in flower.

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Moonwort emerges from dust and sand, its silvery leaves streaking the landscape with a tenacious grace and filling the air with the warm sagey fragrance so peculiar to the West. The sweet butterscotch scent of Ponderosa resin mingles with the Moonwort and makes the canyon air at once heady and sensual. Crouching down in the leaf litter as I gather the Moonwort leaves and chunks of pine resin to infuse into warm oil, I press my face against the puzzle piece bark of a Ponderosa and breathe in the medicine of place. I sit back on my heels to absorb the whiplash power of something so simple, so fragile as awareness of this unbroken moment where I remember that this is what I’ve always wanted – all my stories and songs unraveling in the face of amber-skinned trees and downy bitter leaves. Sometimes the beauty of life just can’t be comprehended as anything rational, my body (including my brain) just have to experience it as this tactile, skin-shivering beast that it is. Fuck analysis for a moment, just drink it up.

Moonwort (Artemisia carruthii)

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Arizona Sycamores raise their tangle of bone-white branches to the sun and drink in the cold water that curls down the mountains to pool around their roots. The first hummingbirds beat the air with a breakneck rhythm that well suits their warrior ways yet also belies the expectations sometimes created by their seemingly delicate beauty. Like the land itself, what appears fragile at first glance may be reinforced with a deeper strength.

On the Catwalk, near Glenwood, NM

Femail Broad-Tailed Hummingbird (Selasphorus platycercus)

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My home is a fierce place, fragrant with the scent of aromatic plants well adapted to aridity, populated with the varied songs of the myriad birds that take refuge in the trees and long grasses and sparkling with the glint of the Southwest sun on a thousand volcanic rocks forming these cliffs and arroyos. The Canyon is wild with the tracks of mountain lions and coatimundi, the soundless rush of opening flowers and the singing winds that circle and play among the emerging leaves.

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In the river, blue mica glimmers among the sand as the fish gather and part, gather and part with the tidal impulse of all things that love water. Spring in the country of lichen and spines feels warm under my bare feet this evening, and I dance to its strange, liquid music.

Bluestem Willow (Salix irrorata) staminate catkins

All Photos ©2011 Kiva Rose

“Deep roots are not reached by frost” – J. R. R. Tolkien

Cebadilla/Green Gentian - Frasera speciosa

As the dark months roll in and the seasons change, I find myself spending a great deal of time digging, washing and chopping freshly gathered roots. The sharp fragrance of Elecampane, the earthy bite of Cebadilla, the anise intensity of Sweet Root, the unmistakable aroma of Oshá and perhaps especially the sweet spice of American Spikenard all permeate the cabin kitchen, the medicine lodge and even my skin. I have often been known to take bites right out of the freshly washed Aralia or Ligusticum roots, chewing them thoughtfully as I continue my processing. I find that this direct sensory interaction with the plants greatly aids my understanding of how the herbs work and the particular properties of the specific batch.

A great many of my roots, once cleaned and cut into small pieces find themselves immersed in honey in some fashion, often with a bit of whiskey or brandy for good measure. A regular ol’ tincture or even well-stored dried root would of course suffice but I love having these root honeys and elixir on hand during the winter. In some cases, as with Spikenard, the honey simply amplifies the already exquisite taste of the plant. In other cases, a good example being Elecampane, the honey help to moderate the very strong “medicinal” (this is a polite way of saying “tastes like shit” in most cases) flavor of the root. It’s certainly a great way to get most any child or persnickety adult (you know who you are!) to ingest their medicine.

Oshá (Ligusticum porteri) elixir and roots

Even my daily nourishing infusions this time of year are often actually decoctions, made up of spicy, warming roots and barks that act as warming, cheering allies as the green pulls back and the nights grow longer. The stews that simmer on the woodstove usually include Astragalus and mushrooms such as Maitake and Morels, not to mention the root vegetables like Parsnips, Carrots and Turnips that provide so much nourishment and flavor all Autumn and Winter long.

It’s a yearly ritual for my family to make up a good-sized batch of Gila Harvest Cider, complete with Horseradish root, Turmeric, Garlic and Ginger in addition to hot Peppers and the season’s last fresh Basil. Lately I’ve been adding Lovage as well, which has become a favorite plant ally in the last few years.

Cebadilla/Green Gentian (Frasera speciosa) roots

A particular pleasure of mine while the snow falls on the Canyon is to gaze at the many quart and gallon jars filled to the brim with Autumn harvested roots and berries as they macerate in their various brews. I especially love to unscrew the lid of the Oshá Elixir and deeply breathe that spicy sweet scent that so evokes the wild Aspen-clad verdancy of my beloved home here in the American Southwest. For a long moment, it brings me right back to being on my hands and knees in mountain meadows with my hands full of black, rich soil and the heft of fresh-dug roots. There’s a magic in this medicine, fraught with the spirit of wild land. Warm with the last days of Summer. Earth-deep and heavy with much-needed nourishment.

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In other news, all of the details on my Herb Energetics course with Learningherbs.com have been released and signup is almost here. You can sign up for a limited time only, so head over to http://herbenergetics.com if you’re interested and read all about it before enrollment is over. John Gallagher has done an amazing job making this course interactive and easily accessible for a wide range of people. While my own homestudy courses do contain an herbal energetics component, it is quite different in format than the Herb Energetics course and doesn’t include any of the video or audio files at all. The window for sign-up is very small due to limited enrollment space so consider doing it right now!

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.