Animá Lifeways & Herbal School

Celebrating Solstice: Listening to the Shadows
by Kiva Rose
http://animacenter.org

Darkness is your candle, your boundaries are your quest… You must have shadow and light source both. Listen, and lay your head under the tree of awe.
-Rumi

Today the sun begins its return to our hemisphere, and though it will be many weeks before most of us notice the subtle lengthening of days, we celebrate this turning point with a festival of candles symbolic of the growing light. Each day forward from here, the nights will grow slightly shorter, and gift us with a little more illumination through the many cold moons left to come. Especially in the holiday rush and cultural obsession with bright lights and shiny things to keep the dark out, it’s very easy to forget the unique opportunity that winter presents us with. Understandably, most of us feel an urge to rush the seasonal shift, and to focus on the arrival of the greener, warmer days rather than stopping to dwell in the moment and appreciating what this time has to teach us.

In this crux of dark and light, we reside in a world rich in shadow and many shaded colors. For shadows aren’t just some indeterminate grey area between two polarities, but rather the complex subtleties of a wide spectrum. We tend to prefer the light and to cling to the familiar and seeable world – and yet, depth and detail are often best noticed by twilight or the shadows passing storm-clouds. Just as the contrast of light created by shadow often makes for the most striking of images, so does the darkness of these days present us with the ability to see deeper into our own lives.

Winter is the story telling time, a period in which to remember and to ponder. A place in which to dream. It’s in this space that we often begin to understand what the intense experiences we had in warmer months have to tell us. It’s no accident that in folklore, the faery and all things magical are most likely to appear by dusk or at the cusp between seasons. These times of transition hold the secrets and potential of what can be seen or experienced.

In the dark of this season, the weight of memories and past grief can seem heavier without the reassuring guidance of light just ahead. As the sun has waned to a brief  glimmer and the nights grown long and still, it can be difficult to remain sure of our footing and certain that we’re heading in the right direction. In this way, the dark season teaches us to be still, to listen and to practice awareness with each step we take, to feel our way through the sometimes labyrinthian paths of our lives and emotions. By recognizing this, we can experience the time as the gift is.  Instead of fleeing from the onslaught of sensation or trying to take control of the situation by incessantly moving, we would do best to give ourselves to the earthen rest we’re offered.

In half-light and shadows are the reminder of mystery, and the inherent magic of our world. In the cold moons are the opportunity to nourish ourselves and rest, to remember and replenish, knowing that the light will soon be returning and now is the time to give ourselves the space to go within, until the light calls us forward into the next turning.

With that in mind, I offer you my own celebration of the Solstice, a lullaby for the dreaming time.

The Story Telling Moon
by Kiva

tell me a story, love
in the dark down
in this leaf lined log
where we lay together
and dream
root tendrils
into blooming

dressed in fur
your hair wild
and twisted with braids
and dried flowers
you touch my cheek
we curl together
stalking lunar circles
tracing sun spirals
on each other’s skin

the clacking
of small bones
between us
the stories we tell
of green buds
adorning brown sticks
of warm sweet honey
sticky on our lips

in the dark our tree
buried by
a thousand sparkles
by so many feet
of snow we speak
of swimming
to the cold surface
just to taste sunlight

but I breathe your scent
curl against your chest
arrange our blanket of moss
and brown leaves
turn with the moon
drink stars
and go deeper into darkness

———————–

(as always, please post and forward freely… photo of the Animá Sanctuary (c) 2009 by Jesse Wolf Hardin)

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From the Lion’s Mouth: Dancing A Weedy Revolution

by Kiva Rose Hardin  http://animacenter.org

Common Name: Dandelion

Botanical Name: Taraxacum spp.

Taste: Bitter, sweet

Energetics: Cool, dry

“It gives one a sudden start in going down a barren, stony street, to see upon a narrow strip of grass, just within the iron fence, the radiant dandelion, shining in the grass, like a spark dropped from the sun”

- Henry Ward Beeche

“Weeds are flowers too, once you get to know them”

-   A. A. Milne,  Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh

If there’s a single personal symbol of hope for me, it’s that golden-faced flower that peeks out from under trash-strewn vacant lots, takes over carefully controlled lawns, bursts from sidewalk cracks and blooms even on land damaged by nuclear radiation and other environmental degradation. Yeah, you know, that weed people are always pulling up and cursing and dumping poison on. Yep, Dandelion. This much maligned wildflower when looked at honestly embodies profound possibility for change and incredible capacity for the regeneration of life in the most hostile of situations.

In many ways, Dandelion is the very definition of insistent wildness, of life that survives and thrives anywhere, anytime, anyhow. Perpetually persecuted, it still adapts to nearly any climate, seeds itself in concrete, rock crevices, chemical-laden yards, vacant lots, and even in a sprinkle of earth and rock tossed atop a slab of metal. Dandelion is persistence, joy in the face of adversity and bliss even while broken-hearted. Dandelion is also sunshine with teeth, for her very name is from the French Dent de lion, meaning teeth of the lion. The name refers to the typically jagged leaves as well as the  tenacious nature of the plant itself. This once revered medicine and food is now looked upon as a trouble-making misfit, a smiling badge of resistance that defies all attempts to shut down insistent life and nature’s bountiful diversity.

Not one to be swept aside by convention, Dandelion is a cheerful outlaw as she slowly but surely busts down walls and breaks up sidewalks. She reminds us of the wildness of the earth beneath our feet wherever she goes. Regardless of zoning laws, landscaping plans and subdivision “weed-free” regulations, this vibrant plant is likely to dance in on wish-blown seeds and settle right down, enriching the soil and offering you medicine, whether you asked for any or not. Dandelion is the activists’ emblem, a brilliant spokesperson for necessary action and groundbreaking revolution, no matter the consequences or cost. And like the best revolutionaries, she also shows us how to live fully and encourages us to indulge in a tango or two. The happiness inherent in her nature is imparted by her very presence as well as through nutritional and medicinal means.

The freshly picked flowers of Dandelion infused in olive oil, make a very effective rub for all sorts of aches and pains, from knotted muscles to injured joints. It’s especially helpful for those who feel saddened or depressed by the pain and need a little extra sunshine in their lives. The flowers also make a fabulous wine, and every Spring I’m sure to gather enough to make at least a few quarts of the wine and mead. I specially reserve one of those quarts for my special Southwest Sunset Melomel made with Dandelion flowers, Prickly Pear fruit juice and desert wildflower honey. The wine and mead are a wonderful cheering tonic for the long Winter days and the blues that often accompany them. Small doses of the flower tincture can also serve the same purpose.

A nomad with deep roots, this plant travels far on the white wings of her seeds but also sends her taproot down far wherever she settles, fully engaging with the land wherever she is and provides us with an excellent example of presence, focus and a life fully lived. The bittersweet roots are grounding in nature, restoring the proper circulation of fluids in the body and nourishing the kidneys and heart in the process. Dandelion leaves and roots are very effective diuretics and especially helpful for those with a constitutional tendency towards high blood pressure, gout, bloating, feelings of excessive heat, a sense of too-tight skin, water retention and scanty urination.

The roots tend to be more bitter and diuretic in the spring and more sweet and starchy come autumn frost, teaching us the value of living by the seasons and that a plant’s medicine changes through the year. The bitter taste of both root and leaf  can initially turn many people off, but this same unpleasant experience is part of Dandelion’s most important medicine. It increases the release of gastric juices throughout the digestive tract and improve digestion, especially if there’s symptoms of heat and acidic imbalances. The leaves make an excellent food-based digestive bitter and can be added to all manner of salads and cooked greens for their bitter bite and their high mineral content. They’re a great addition to pestos (as are the flowers), soups, pickled greens and even kraut! The roasted roots make a bittersweet but pleasant and hearty brew, well accompanied by cinnamon, nutmeg and a splash of cream.

Dandelion is also a primary medicine for almost anyone with hepatitis. The cooling, heat-draining nature of the herb is wonderful for relaxing and cooling an overworked, irritated and liver and accompanying hepatic functions. For the same reason, it can be very helpful in clearing up red, itchy rashes as well as many chronic skin issues such as eczema and acne that are rooted in an inflamed or stuck liver function. The bitter taste promotes the movement bile and prevents sludge and stones from from forming. However, care should be taken if there are already existent stones, as moving the bile in such a case could actually lodge a stone in a duct and cause further problems as well as pain.

The medicine of this wild and rampant weed is pervasive and wide-ranging, and lifetimes could be spent delving into her generosity. Children are naturally drawn to the bright spark of her flower and share the blossoming exuberance that accompanies her presence.  Every time I see a Dandelion, I smile, and am filled with the reminder of what a powerful teacher this plant is. Her courageous insistence to not only survive, but thrive in the face of hurt and hostility, has repeatedly given me renewed hope. I take her fierceness and fervent joy to heart, and close my eyes and make a wish every time I spread her seeds with my breath. We healers and earth people are all dandelions shattering concrete with delicate, yet infinitely strong roots. Every wild food, plant medicine & healing choice that takes us closer to wholeness is a revolutionary act and a step towards radical wellness on a planetary level.

Cautions & Contradictions: A generally very safe and food-like herb, Dandelion is still a strong diuretic and those with low blood pressure or already excessive urination should avoid its use. Additionally, avoid if you have active gallstones.

~~~

Pic (c) 2009 Kiva Rose Hardin

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Of the Earth: Original Speech and the Senses

by Kiva Rose Hardin

http://animacenter.org

“Our senses are meant to perceive the world. They developed with and from the world, not in isolation. Using them is the act that opens the door that is in Nature.”
-Stephen Buhner

“All we have to believe with is our senses, the tools we use to perceive the world: our sight, our touch, our memory. If they lie to us, then nothing can be trusted. And even if we do not believe, then still we cannot travel in any other way than the road our senses show us; and we must walk that road to the end.”
-Neil Gaiman

Original speech was never words. The language of primal being and the living earth speaks in a soft brush of fur against our bare skin, flows on wild melodies for our ears to hear, blossoms into a rich sweetness on our tongues, fades into a thousand shades of green in the forest canopy, envelopes us in the heady musk of an orchid. Words are shorthand, symbols for the real world. – Don’t mistake me, words have beauty and power, but only so far as they evoke the sensory web in which we live. Abstractions, concepts without root in the flesh and blood of earthly existence are but stillborn shadows of the inspirited organism that is our planet. The healer cannot afford to play pretend with big words and heady ideas, our work is in the achingly physical planes of skin, root, bone, leaf, heart, petiole, uterus, stamen, belly. This is our territory, our haven, our speech and most of all, our home.

As humans, we are intended to reside in our bodies and in our connections to the land, each other, the all. Our senses are not meant to be just half of the equation, with the other half cerebral hyperbole and mental loops. Our senses and our honed awareness of them are the entirety of being. Indeed, if we do not live wholly in our bodies, we do not wholly live. Our minds exist, not outside of the senses, but as a processing center for sensation, so that we might further refine and hone our awareness, our capacity to feel and our ability to respond to those feelings.

Our ancestors, as indigenous peoples of planet earth and full participants in the natural world, knew well how to listen to the land. They heard and understood the language of river, otter, rock, dragonfly and flower. In the age of industrial civilization we speak of these people and those days as if they were long gone. As if, in fact, it all might have been a myth, a fanciful fairy story to begin with. After all, old women do love to embellish stories by the fire, and men are well known for their exaggerated tales, so perhaps life has always been this burdensome and boring and we humans have always been this cut off from the magic and mystery. Perhaps we never did speak to plants, and we really are as crazy as our neighbors (who catch us whispering compliments to Dandelions) suppose we are. This insistent and insidious whisper of doubt stems from our fear and our imagined separation from the natural world, including ourselves. And despite the many stories to the contrary, it is not magic and the realm of Faery that have faded from our world, but we humans who have closed ourselves into the vast corridors of our minds and turned our backs on the innate enchantment to which we are each born.

——————–

3 Steps to ReLearning Original Language

1. Surrender to the Senses
The first step is to forget words, and the best and most natural way to do this is to give ourselves over to our senses. Step away from your computer, wander out of the house into the forest or garden or into your lover’s arms. Immerse yourself in the experience as if it was the first time you’d ever smelled dew-wet grass at dawn, or kissed the inside of your husband’s wrist, where the pulse pounds beneath your lips. Give yourself up to it as if it were the final time. As if this whisper of indian summer wind lilting through the elms that line your road is the last sound you’ll ever hear.

Now, start with five minutes each day, spend that entire time without words in your head. But don’t space out or float away from your body, stay firmly rooted in the here and now, ground yourself in your senses. If you can’t manage it any other way, choose five minutes of eating. Eat very slowly, don’t analyze the food. Notice it, savor it, and if it’s not worth savoring, get something else to eat. Give yourself over to instinctual experience of touch, taste, scent, sound and sight.

Integrate this into your daily life, even when it’s painful or unpleasant. If you burn your finger on the stove or your toes are cramped by your too small shoes, pay attention and respond rather than blocking or numbing it. Feel it, explore it, live inside it until you recognize the feeling’s fingerprint upon your senses.

If this is hard, persist. If it’s easy, delight in it. Don’t trivialize or rush the process. Don’t imagine for a moment you already know how to do this, no matter your age, your experience, your education. This is important, this is the primary way in which the natural world speaks to us, and it is the only way in which to learn the most vital aspects of a healer’s practice.

Don’t worry about translating every sensation into meaning, that comes later, and will only inhibit the process at this point. For now, simply cultivate a mammalian awareness and child-like presence. Notice. Embrace. Savor.

2. Inhabit your body.

One might think that surrendering to sensation would be identical to inhabiting the body, but I have seen and experienced the phenomenon of entering the body or immersing the self in sensation just long enough to experience incredible pleasure or crushing pain, but otherwise habitually abandoning the body to its automatic processes with little notice on our part.

To inhabit the body is to consciously and completely attend to breath, play, pain, dream, bliss. It is to stretch and wriggle into every crevice and corridor, filling our skin with our selves. It is to finally realize that our skin IS our selves. We are not merely souls trapped in flesh, but rather animated, inspirited matter in the form dancing, crying, loving humans.

Many of us may wish our bodies were younger, more toned, smaller, lithe or less scarred – and yet, our bodies are both home and, hopefully, an expression of our own character, a lined map of the lives we have lived. The more fully we inhabit our bodies, the more our bodies will reflect our authentic selves, from the sparkle of the eye to the gesture of eager hands to the balance and confidence with which we move. There is no other body for our beings, just as there is no other planet for our people. We are here and nowhere else. The journey to loving and valuing our body, perceived flaws and all, may be long and arduous indeed, but we begin with accepting that it is who we are and by inhabiting it as completely as is possible.

Consciousness resides in the entirety of the body. Practice centering your awareness somewhere besides you head. Let your index finger or left calf or your belly become the primary conduit for consciousness for a little while. Every day, send you awareness to different parts of your body and allow them to wake up, to feel and sense fully. When you’ve learned to expand yourself into all parts of your body, try holding your consciousness within the whole body at the same time. Understand that the idea that your awareness is only in your head is culturally indoctrinated lie, because in fact, we humans and all animals, lived inside the entirety of our bodies not just one extremity.

3. Engage the Present

Once we’re finally at home in our bodies, we often find ourselves living more intensely from moment to moment, deeply aware of the soft sweep of our clothing against our skin, of the morning light on our faces, of the bitter yet rich bite of the day’s first cup of coffee, of the pulse of breath as it flows from and to us. This brings us into the present, into each second of the day. There’s no more numbed out hours where we forget we’re anything but lumps of tissue in front of the TV or thumbs pounding away at video game controllers or clever brains solving complex networking problems from a cubicle.

In the vital, precious present moment, we immerse ourselves into our original wild nature, and feel the pull of the forest from outside our doors. We remember how to hear the plants speaking to us, the earth calling our names, all through the connecting threads of our senses and the presence that allows us to hear and understand.

Utilizing your heightened sensory awareness, notice whenever you start to pull yourself from the present. Even (or especially) when the stress of marital strife, sick kids or a bad job triggers the desire to escape into fantasy or convenient distraction, bring yourself back. For many, the simplest way to to maintain presence is to engage in a sensorily rich and informative practice, such as gardening, dancing or gathering medicinal plants or cooking. Such activities require the respect of remaining in the moment and noticing each nuance.

Whenever your mind threatens to overflow with an endless train of words or barrage of useless images, bring yourself back to the now. Go outside and below the nearest tree or with whatever bit of wildness you can find. Don’t banish the words, just let them fade away in the face of the immediacy of tactile experience. Press your fingers to rough bark, or lay your face against smooth green leaves, or immerse your body in moving water. Give yourself back to the embrace of the moment, to the original speech that flows between us and the earth.

—————

To remember, to open the senses fully, to bring ourselves back into fellowship with place  can take time, practice and great intent. For most of us, it means emerging from many years and generations of isolation and sensory deprivation. As difficult and confusing as this process of re-awakening can be, it’s also incredibly rewarding and pleasurable as we re-learn the almost lost language of our ancestors, of our more than human kin and the earth itself. For we who are healers and shamans, as the medicine people of an increasingly industrial age, this is the work of a lifetime. The more we can give ourselves back to sensory immersion in the natural world, the easier it will be to hear the plants and animals, the land itself, speaking to us. Likewise, we will better know what herbs are best in specific situations, what each person most needs to be whole and healed, and where our individual place in the great mystery lies. When we return to our senses, we awaken to the knowledge that the whole world is singing, that there is meaning and magic in every moment and thread of life, and that we are a part of it all. We remember that all of life speaks the same intense, sensory language, and then we too, begin listening and speaking within the wild dialogue of taste and touch, song, scent and sight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All Pics (c)2009 Kiva Rose Hardin except Loba by Woodstove (c) 2009 Jesse Wolf Hardin

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Intro:  The following is the latest poem by our Kiva, and what will likely be the first in a thematic series.  Those of you familiar with her other poetry will note that this piece features not only a new mood but also a fresh rhythm.  Rather than a subterranean river, an inward journey of mystery and transformation, this new work seems to be an evocation of a world and identity waiting to be assumed, an above ground flow of life giving waters that propel us forward into our own fresh ways of being, giving, doing.  This new collection will speak of the Medicine Woman and the healer’s connection to the wondrous plant allies, but the call is for each of us to root, bloom and help heal others in our own individual ways.  I hope that it moves you…  -Wolf

A Wild Remedy

(From the Forest’s Edge)by Kiva Rosewww.animacenter.org

standing at the center of this circle
with my gathering basket and medicine bag
so many years worth of wildflowers
gone to dust, carried out on wind
that moves around my ankles
like a small animal, wailing
with the fever that keeps
me restless and watching,
still calling for the rebirth
that’s always rising
one wave following the next
the tides of our healing
receding and then reviving

when I shake my head
to clear it of your cries
leaves and roots come
flying from my hair in a flurry
of dirt and foliage and the scent
of the earth rising in a storm
heavy with rain, rampant with thunder
wild with the dance that drives
me from day to day
my arms full of herbs
and the hurt that haunts
my people, the wounds
that refuse to heal
until I dress them in bark
and resin and the breath
of my fervent prayer

I weave green lichen
and spiderwebs into
cloth, dress your wounds
with my tears, give myself
to the rhythm of this work
the pull and ache of
what I am called to do
the mantle of elder leaves
falling across my shoulders
before gathering on the ground
shaking and shimmering
before fading back to leaf mould
and dust

the skin growing back
the edges knitting until
you can’t even remember
the scar until I trace it
with my fingers from memory
the knowledge of how you hurt
and how you heal
a history that my body
cannot help but hold

goldpoppies and meadowrue
red hyssop and the motion
of my hands as I bathe you
in the fragrance of the forest
the magic of the land seeping
into you and bringing you back
pink as new flesh and breathless
from the dreaming you traveled on
to be reborn into this place between
worlds and words where the flowers
wear faces and teach us always again
how to be human and whole

——————-

(Artwork by Jesse Wolf Hardin.  Share this poem as you like…)

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Intro: When we first met Kiva, “Poet” was one of the roles or identities that she identified with most.  She wrote for herself first, as every poet must, but the revealing honesty and excruciating intensity burned, blew, rooted and grew with a message for everyone.  That poetry is generally such an under-appreciated form of literature anymore, is a sad statement on our kind… for the poem is beauteous, heartful, dancing truth stripped of all else.  And of all the poets and poems written, I know of none better than those of our own scribe, Kiva.   -Wolf

Morning River

(Within Walking Distance)

by Kiva Rose Hardin

(www.animacenter.org)

With the ground warm
and wet underfoot
I unfurl myself
into the morning -
a fern frond unwinding
from the earth,
hair loose and
catching in the junipers
as I stretch my face
out towards
sky and the sweet
blossom smell
of seven o’clock
in the mountains

everything worth having
is within walking distance -
dirt under my toes,
leaves and bark
brushing my face,
and my love’s fingers
reaching out in sleep to
curl against my calf

and always -
always the song
of the rushing river
rising from below

everything I love
I hold close to me -
my daughter dancing
wild and sleepy-eyed
at first light,
forest creatures
walking past my bed
late at night,
the taste of berries
sweet and tart
and jewel red,
blooming reckless
against my tongue

I hold it close -
I press it against my lips,
and in the morning
I walk to the river,
step into the current
with a rustling of leaves
-breath, birdsong-
and close the distance
between myself
and everything
I have ever loved

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Each Spring I take precious time out to journey into the high mountains of either New Mexico or Arizona in search of a some of the more elusive high elevation herbs I work with. While many people tend to think of the Southwest as strictly desert, this region is actually incredibly diverse and includes everything from arid desert to lush wetlands to treeless alpine vistas. Every ecosystem and region has its own unique personality that makes it worth exploring an getting to know.

As an herbalist, I’m afraid my favorite places are probably rather obvious — they’re the ones with the most plants! The areas I often frequent are usually middle mountain riparian and Ponderosa/Gambel Oak forest (like much of the canyon itself) and sub-alpine Aspen/Spruce forest and meadow because they are so rich in botanical diversity.

This time around I headed towards one of the Gila’s highest peaks to spend time in a remote area that is lush with Wild Roses, Elderberries, Strawberries, Raspberries, Violets, Cinquefoil and many other important edible and medicinal herbs. This favorite mountain is a veritable fairy tale forest and has that enchanted feel that only old trees and well established plant communities can give. Towering Spruce and white-skinned Aspens form the bulk of the upper story of the forest broken up by intermittent meadows filled with wildflowers and berry bushes.

I’ve visited this same spot several times in the past, but every time I am amazed anew by species I previously missed. And the long, slow trip up the twenty mile long winding, washboard dirt road provides ample opportunity to admire and exclaim over the changing habitat as we ascend from 6,000 feet to 10,000 feet. This year I made the journey with both Loba and Rhiannon, and we brought along a picnic lunch to celebrate the glory of Spring in the mountains. Rhiannon had never been to this particular spot and was shocked and amazed by Strawberry flowers and Aspen bark, and by the amazing view from the mountainside out over the rolling terrain of the Gila.

An incredible array of delicate blooms peeked from the forest floor and I think I could have spent the entire day on my belly getting to know each one. Soft Yarrow leaves and intricate Violet blossoms carpeted much of the area with a smattering of Dandelions and Potentilla to brighten up the day. False Solomon’s Seal and Western Coshosh (also known as Baneberry) peeked out from underneath Elder trees and Gooseberry bushes.

Not long after our arrival, black clouds began to move in, the wind picked up and thunder rumbled just above us. After exploring and gathering as much as possible in the remaining sunshine, we headed back down the mountain to eat our midday feast next to the creek that flows down from the peaks above. Amidst raindrops and wind, Loba gathered watercress from a grassy bank that was also filled with Buttercups and Speedwell while we prepared a simple meal of Beebalm/Sweet Clover pesto, meats and cheeses, skillet bread, red sweet pepper, deviled eggs and greens. We huddled together in the shelter of the jeep and watched the storm blow in around us as we thoroughly savored our food.

I treasure these much needed adventures into the bioregion I love so well.… and the hours of nearly wordless exploration and interaction with the wild, inspirited world give me the inspiration and fuel for the vital work that I am a part of here at Animá Center. Each sip of wild water and barefoot stroll through a sunlit meadow reminds of the how and why of my mission, and provides me with the vision and knowledge to ensure its growth.

~Kiva

~~~

All photos (c)2009 Kiva Rose

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With the thunder rolling through the mountains and the raindrops splashing against the dusty ground, there’s no doubt it feels more like the middle of July than the middle of May. We have our fingers crossed that the last few days unseasonal storms will provide some much needed moisture rather than triggering lightning set forest fires during what is normally our driest season. The nearly black clouds roll across the Gila, even as sunlight spills through and around them, creating a fascinating display of light and darkness upon the green and gold curves of the land. This natural chiaroscuro plays over New Mexico’s water and earth in an annual demonstration of wholeness, not of contesting opposites but the complementary parts coming together to create a greater beauty than either alone could engender.

As odd as the weather may be, the plants still seem to know what month it is and are coming out in their own steady schedule. Down by the river, the wild roses are beginning to bloom — their vividly pink petals unfurling slowly, a few more each day, and  their scent wafting up and down the river on the breeze. Gold and orange faced Monkeyflowers, lavender petaled Veronica and white sprays of Watercress grow from the riverbanks while the creamy lily-shaped blossoms of the Yucca adorn the stark cliff-faces and rocky mesas. Come evening, the rich, nearly overpowering scent of Wild Honeysuckle and Canyon Grape flowers drifts on the cooling air, drawing us all outside to breathe deeply of the sweet, almost intoxicating aroma.

Everywhere I step, I’m greeted by the colors and smells of Spring. The great sheltering canopies of  Gambel Oak and Canyon Walnut rear up from the hillsides, providing a shady haven even in the hottest of weather. At their feet, Pink Penstemon, Purple Vetch and Wild Skullcap proliferate and spread among last year’s slowly composting leaf litter.

On my frequent walks I almost always carry my large gathering basket, its strongly woven interior easily holding the many bundles of herbs I often harvest when out. I also wear my curved gathering knife (a sweet gift from Wolf) with its intricate damascus blade that’s perfect for cleanly cutting through even a thick section of plants. Rhiannon often accompanies me and together we hunt for the sweetest greens and newest flowers, crawling under fallen trees and climbing up lichen-kissed rocks.

No matter how many times I explore the same area, I’m bound to find something new — a clump of red earth, a rust colored crystal, just opened blossom or a small splinter of bone. Even the shades of earth and dirt change with season and weather, in the same way that the other colors and textures of every bit of the natural world are constantly adapting and shifting in relation to the rest of the whole. We as humans often want to hold onto what we love, whether child or place or era — to keep it safe, pure and unchanged. And yet, through the complex evolution and interplay of life in the myriad forms of soil, rocks, rabbits, butterflies, anemones, salmon and eagles we can see that vitality and loveliness are rooted in dynamics and relationship. Always moving, always adapting, always becoming.

In truth, beauty is not ephemeral, it doesn’t mysteriously disappear from humans at age forty or fade with the plant’s shift from flower to fruit to seed. It is constantly growing, changing, shifting. We are born, we age and die and become the soil, only to begin again. Every part of that process is beautiful and filled with the potential for grace and growth. In the light and the dark, in the blooming and the seeding, in storm and stillness, the land remakes and rebirths itself, and we along with it. In the chiaroscuro is the dance of life

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Talking With Plants
   
by Kiva Rose

Part 2 (of 2): Plant Revelations & Miscommunications

That we take plant words in through our nose or our skin or our eyes or our tongue instead of our ears does not make their language less subtle. or sophisticated, or less filled with meaning.
-Stephen Buhner

The truth is that if we’re only listening for words – for language in human terms – then we’re barely listening at all! The world speaks to us in the ancient tongue of touch and color, texture and fragrance, through taste and breath and every part of our senses. Listening through our whole body teaches to be open to the world and each other in a whole new way and with a depth and subtlety that even the best words cannot begin to approach. All of nature communicates on this level, eternally engaged and intensely aware. We humans have pursued the allure of the linear mind and categorizable information and in the process, often abandoned the instinctual (and primary) intelligence of the body. Certainly both forms of learning are useful, but to underestimate the value of physical, tactile understanding is to undermine our relationship to the greater whole. The mind works best when integrated as a co-operative part of the body rather than designated the dictator of an artificial hierarchy of organs. Remembering and awakening the often submerged senses of the body requires patience and dedication for many of us, but the rewards are great. Knowing ourselves as living, vital parts of the natural world provides a visceral, bone-deep sense of self-knowledge and belonging in a larger family.

For those of us whose work is to facilitate healing with the help of the plants, speaking with them takes on a whole new level of significance and challenge. In the wordless language of the plants is also encoded the particular medicine that herb holds for human being. To discover and understand that language in a practical and thorough way is the work of a lifetime. Still, the common sense basics can be learned by any child. Most of know that bitter greens stimulate the release of gastric juices and encourage efficient action by the liver. In the same manner, many people are familiar with the use of common kitchen spices in food to increase circulation and digestion, or that just the scent of a flowering rose is enough to lift the spirits and invoke a sense of sensuality and relaxation. While these are simplistic examples, they are very much in keeping with the basis of how healers from many cultures speak with the plants every day.

The properties and personality of each herb is discernible through its taste, scent, appearance, fragrance, and even its habitat and relationship with surrounding flora and fauna. Dreams and intuition often play an important part the plant-healer relationship, but the foundation is built on a profoundly physical awareness of self and medicine. Learning when to use what herb for what person and when isn’t simply a process of memorizing information or hit and miss experimentation, but rather a complex and lyrical language revealed to those who cultivate a lifelong intimacy with the green world.

Besides what they may seem to impart about us or itself personally, on another level all plants – and indeed all elements of the natural world – are to one degree or another active transmitters of and conduits to the Anima… to the memories and intentions, knowings and implorings of the inspirited living earth.
-Jesse Wolf Hardin

Plants also speak to us through our intuitive and emotional senses. While we may be expecting or waiting for instruction in English, the plants impart to us through impressions and feelings. Depending on the species, its native ecology and our receptivity, the intensity and complexity of the communications may vary a great deal. Most often, they are subtle in nature and require our focus and attentiveness to be discernible. Understanding the real meaning of these impressions requires practice and discernment as well as an understanding of the contextual whole. We may think that we hear that a plant is good to eat and then find out different from a field guide or another person more familiar with the local flora. It’s imperative then, that we use all our senses and understandings to perceive what we’re really being told rather than risking the possibility of misinterpreting through narrow vision. The stronger our affinity and the more intensely we cultivate intimacy with the plant world, the more clearly we will recognize and make use of their gifts.

Plants tend to relate to each other and the world as tribes of species, and through the plant world as a whole rather than on the highly individuated basis humans are more familiar (and comfortable) with. The great benefit of this is that all plants are integrally connected to the ancient wisdom of their type, and of all flora and of the earth as a whole in an immediate and accessible way. When we’re able to reinstate our own natural connection to them, we also have greater access to the collective consciousness, with its vast store of information and ways of knowing.

Cherokee herbalist David Winston aptly illustrates both the dangers and benefits of listening to the plants on this intuitive level through the teaching stories he uses in his Talking Leaves class. In one case, a man who had just attended a workshop on communicating with plants was convinced that the plant he was sitting with was telling him that it was safe to eat as much of it as he wanted, and he was in the process of eating several leaves when David happened by. He recognized the plant as a strong neurotoxin and attempted to warn the enthusiastic forager, but the man insisted the plant had told him to go ahead, and paramedics had to be called later that night to save the man’s life from severe poisoning. In a contrasting case, David was working with a woman suffering from immanent kidney failure, he had tried many remedies with limited success and the woman continued to decline. One day he felt distinctly called to treat her with Stinging Nettle, not the leaves as he had tried before but a tincture made from the seeds. Remarkably, it appeared to have restored full kidney function to the woman as well as many other similar cases that followed. It is now a primary remedy for renal failure by a growing percentage of herbalists and has also been affirmed by certain scientific studies. What made the difference from one instance to the other was the level of discernment, and it can sometimes require years of practice and measuring the results before we trust our intuition as the primary or sole means of evaluation. What I recommend is listening with all of the senses from touch to instinct and intuition while also weighing in research and the advice of those most experienced with a particular plant.

And whether we are confident about this less tangible level of communication or not, it is important to remember that the plants speak to us from every direction, through the air we breathe, in the taste of the food we eat, on the scent of a spring breeze, through the feel of cotton or linen cloth and from all around us. From forest and desert, garden and field, meadow and river, the flowers and trees sing the song they have known since long before the first human stepped upon the earth and will likely continue long after we have been taken back into the dirt we sprang from. In their wild melody is the wisdom and healing of every age and place. In the soft mutter of seeds and the deep hum of trees is the language we were each born to understand. Run your fingers across the furrows of bark and root, and begin to listen.

————-finis——————-

This essay by Kiva Rose will be appearing along with an Interview with herbalist Susun Weed, in the upcoming issue of Susan Meeker Lowry’s wonderful home-published magazine Gaian Voices.  As a gift to our blog readers, she has offered to send a free copy to anyone requesting.  Please include $2.00 to cover postage.  If you know of a group or church where they could be distributed or sold, please contact Susan for quantities:
Susan Meeker-Lowry
132 Fish Street
Fryeburg, Maine 04037
or e-mail: info@gaianvoices.com

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Talking With Plants
   
by Kiva Rose

Part 1 (of 2): Cultivating Intimacy with the More Than Human World

“In the stillness I looked inside and saw the wound laid down within all of us… The wound that comes from believing we are alone amid dead uncaring nature. And then I took a breath and began to share stories of a time when the world was young, when everyone knew that plants were intelligent and could speak to human beings…  A time when it was different.”
-Stephen Buhner

Down on our bellies on the grass, we take a flower’s view of the world. The huge blue sky, the ancient sheltering trees, the dance of the wind with every being and the rain drizzling down – iridescent drops spilling onto skin and petals and fingers and roots. From this perspective we’re children again, speaking in the primal wordless hum of ancestors and plants, animals and delighted babies. We’re here, in the truest sense of the word, in this moment and place, immersed in the fragrance and feeling, engaged in the timeless exchange of human being and earth.

Perhaps the simplest and most effective way to begin the process of communicating with the plants is simply to spend time with the individuals we feel called to. Seek them out in as natural a setting for them as possible. For a Wild Rose this may mean a green riverbank and for a Dandelion it may mean a sidewalk crack outside a gas station. Meeting it in its chosen habitat helps to provide a context for our experience and the building of the relationship. Remaining in a wordless, completely present state honors allows us to listen intently and to fully experience the gifts of the plant.

Many exercises, suggestions and books have addressed the subject of how best to spend focused time with the plants. What I practice and recommend is that we each find a meaningful way to consistently spend time with the living plant. This could be simply sitting with the plant for some, performing some kind of personally significant ceremony with the plant for others, or even sleeping outdoors with it for a few nights for some. Whatever we find that works for each of us, do it on a consistent basis. Just as with human relationships – while love may spark at first sight, the relationship depends on time invested and commitments made.

“It is only when we are aware of the earth and of the earth as poetry that we truly live.”
-Henry Beston

Close your eyes, and imagine this is your first day alive on earth. You’ve never before seen the brilliant green of the Summer field that rolls across the hills behind your house. Never tasted a flower petal in all its sweet complexity, or leaned so close to smell a blossom that you lifted your face away brushed with a fine dusting of brilliant yellow pollen.

Or, remember that every sensual act of touching, tasting, smelling, listening and feeling can be as intense, overwhelming and remarkable as sex, as life-changing as psychedelics and as heart opening as prayer.

Humans are masters at adaptation, taking in a change, switching gears and going with it. And yet, a pitfall of this valuable evolutionary tool is that we sometimes allow ourselves to take the everyday for granted, we assume that Sunflower will be there tomorrow and that next year the same pretty Sage plant will bloom in our gardens. We tell ourselves that any day – any day at all – we can stop and take a closer look at that tangle of tree roots by the front gate. If not today, tomorrow, or next month, or surely before the first snow obscures it from view.

Or maybe not. Maybe we come home from work and the city has removed the tree, or we die in a car wreck, or we suddenly have to move. Perhaps we just get busy, and forget for a while and suddenly it’s all different. The roots have died and broken off and that amazing tangle of tree, moss and earth is gone. This same ability to defer important things, from children to health to basic happiness, is what allows us to daily walk by profound beauty and integral miracle and say, “oh yeah, I’ve seen that before, I’ll take a closer look tomorrow.”

When we allow ourselves the eyes of children – the newness of the taste of sweet, sun-warmed Clover nectar in our mouthes for the very first time – then we are at last present enough to talk with the plants. A couple of Summers ago we visited a little canyon where Blackberries cover miles of creek bank our then seven year old daughter. Their dark green vines twisted down into every earthen crevice and fat black-purple jewels hung next to just opened white flowers. Rhiannon was so intensely excited that she was instantly on her knees, her hands clasped together and actually shivering with excitement. “Oh Mama, oh my goodness, I never ever thought I’d really get to see a real, amazingly alive Blackberry on the plant.” She gasped for a bit of breath, “Wow!  I can’t believe I’m really here, it’s better than a dream, and I never thought they’d be that FAT and that BIG and that beautiful dear dark color! Mama, I think they sing!” And then, in her bare feet and pink sun-dress, she proceeded to crawl in and out of the maze of canes, carefully picking pints of berries with nary a scratch on her bare little legs.

I try to approach every plant, every day with a similar awe-struck attitude. It reminds me of the feeling I had when I gave birth to Rhiannon, this shock and amazement and throat-tightening gratitude of holding this brilliant, precious being in my arms every day and being allowed to be in her presence every minute, every hour, every day. And no light eating, green growing being is any less a miracle than a human child.

“Plants are exemplary communicants, warning us away from taking parts that might be unduly harmful to either them or us, and sometimes suggesting a specific medicinal use to the sensitized listener.  Still, what it communicates first and foremost is the essence of itself and its immediate kind, its expressive ‘plantness.‘  While we may truly be able to hear what a plant has to offer us, only the fruit says ‘take me, I am yours’.  And it can be enough to hear its song that says ‘I’m here, look at me. Quiet your words and still your fantasies long enough to truly and fully experience me’.”
-Jesse Wolf Hardin

Insulated as we often are within human-centric communities, it can be easy to forget that there is a way of seeing and feeling bigger than our own. This is never more evident than when we attempt to interpret the language of the natural world. Too often we hear exactly what we want to hear, or sometimes, just what we are most afraid to hear. In these cases, our perception is so heavily colored by our own expectations, emotional hangups and personal history that more often than not results in us mostly talking to ourselves rather than with the plants.

Plants are not humans, but they are no less sentient and complex beings for their differences from us. While not human or even animals, they are people in the sense that they are intelligent, adaptable, vibrantly living and deeply feeling. In our attempts to relate to them, we would be wise to acknowledge and respect their profound otherness. Our natural tendency in nature is to attempt to understand through the similarities between them and us, and indeed, we are all connected and related through an amazing variety of traits. And yet, each species has its own special gifts to contribute to the whole. We honor those gifts by noticing and appreciating the ways in which we are different as well as the similarities.

In the knowing of vine and tree, earth and stone we come closer to our selves, our own innate and authentic beings. And the better we know ourselves the less likely we are to project or anthropomorphize upon our fellow beings, and the more we appreciate the uniqueness of the plant as well as the threads that weave us all together. Time spent in communion with our allies allows us to nurture our understandings of both self and plant, teaching us the balance that is so integral and yet so fragile. From the plants and the earth, we remember how to be human beings in relationship with the world that is our larger and more comprehensive self.

(to be continued in part 2)

————————

This essay by Kiva Rose will be appearing along with an Interview with herbalist Susun Weed, in the upcoming issue of Susan Meeker Lowry’s wonderful home-published magazine Gaian Voices.  As a gift to our blog readers, she has offered to send a free copy to anyone requesting.  Please include $2.00 to cover postage.  If you know of a group or church where they could be distributed or sold, please contact Susan for quantities:
Susan Meeker-Lowry
132 Fish Street
Fryeburg, Maine 04037
or e-mail: info@gaianvoices.com

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The riverside is green with a profusion of Stinging Nettle, Wild Mustard and Moonwort and every day there are new seedlings and blooms. The Chokecherries and Wax Currants are leafing out, and the previously amber hued buds of the Cottonwoods are slowly turning a bright green. The stems of the Wild Roses are flushed a scarlet red, and they’re branch tips are swelling with the promise of leaves. Things change so fast this time of year, that I could write a new description of the land just outside the cabin every single day, and every day it would change with the many additions that would be necessary. I revel in it, and wish I could spend every single second outdoors, just watching the world surge and proliferate with the fertility that Spring inevitably heralds. And as each day dawns earlier and fades into twilight a little bit later, I feel more fully immersed in the beauty and bounty of the season.

There’s a storm blowing in tonight that brings with it the uncertain promise of rain and flowers and a lush spring for this forested stretch of the Southwest. There’s no way to know whether or not the dark clouds lingering among the mountain tops will actually result in any moisture, but you can be sure we’re praying they will! The desert regions below us are already awash in Anemones, California Poppy, Vervain and other native wildflowers thanks to good Winter rains. The river grows warmer every day, and we’ve all been taking advantage of the sunny afternoons and wonderful water temperatures to swim and splash.

A few days ago I found the first tiny leaves of Beebalm nestled in a patch of Nettles and Moss, so early in the year they’re variegated lime green and dusky purple, soft to the touch and huddled among bigger plants as if seeking warmth or company. They taste spicy and sweet on the tongue, already bursting with the fragrant oils that so distinguish this remarkable plant as a medicine, food and wildflower. Later in the year, they’ll explode into bloom, their purple, lavender and pink flowers a euphoric fireworks display that lights up the whole canyon. Locally called Oregano de la Sierra (Oregano of the Mountain), its distinctive taste make it an excellent spice that we dry to add to stews and sauces and grind fresh with olive oil to make a tongue tingling pesto. As a remedy, it’s medicine is so broad that it deserves a whole book of its own and I have written much about it on The Medicine Woman Tradition website as well as on the Medicine Woman’s Roots blog. From digestive disorders to fever to antibiotic resistant bacterial infections to severe burns, this gorgeous flower can provide remarkable healing.

We’ve been eating fresh Nettle greens of some sort nearly every day, from Nettle Venison Stew to Nettle Cream Cheese Dip to simple steamed Nettle greens with butter and preserved lemon. Wild Mustard greens and Mountain Candytuft flowers are chopped and added to each dish as well, adding welcome color and a pungently bitter bite to the meal.  A sweet group of women who stayed at Anima Center for a week gifted us with a basket full of just ripened oranges from Arizona so I made up a Vanilla-Orange Sour Cream Pie with a nutmeg cookie crust topped with whipped cream to take advantage of their strong flavor and abundant juice. Tomorrow Loba and I have plans to put together some Dark Chocolate-Orange Ganache and Wolf has been enjoying small cups of hand squeezed orange juice nearly every day. While wild greens are fairly abundant here, high quality fresh fruit is a fairly rare occurrence and we love to savor the sweetness in as many ways as possible.

Although we all succumbed to the recent cold that swept through the county, I’m happy to say that we’re nearly completely recovered, and even Rhiannon’s persistent cough has quieted and healed with the help of some Marshmallow root and Chokecherry bark and flowers. While I’m always deeply appreciative of the gifts of the plants, I find myself extra grateful when the herbs help soothe the discomfort or distress of my little girl. And it’s amazing to watch as Rhiannon learns more about treating herself herbally, and understands on a bodily level when the warming stimulation of Ginger is needed or when the cool slipperiness of Mallow is more appropriate. My own relationship with the green world has served me so well throughout my life, it makes it all that much more satisfying to pass on any measure of it to our daughter.

Every Spring I’m reminded what a rich place this planet is, how the diversity of life species support each other and nourish the whole, and how we as humans have an amazing, and integral place within this intelligent, flowering organism called Earth. Every uniquely veined leaf, singing coyote and nesting bird infuses me with the medicine, the healing vitality of life itself. As I pass knowledge from myself to my students and my daughter, I feel even more a part of the cycles and spirals of awareness and wholeness. With my toes dug down in the dirt and my fingers tangled up in the silky strands of Usnea lichen, I find my own sense of self in my connection to the whole.

~Kiva Rose

~~~

All Photos (c) 2009 Kiva Rose & Jesse Wolf Hardin

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