The Intimate Process of Harvesting Medicinals
The whine of a lawnmower and the repetitive groan of a tinny engine struggling against thick grass finds my ear. It is always a lawnmower, or a weed eater, or a leaf blower, interrupting my attempt at solitude and on a Sunday no less. Those who’ve moved into this area—after proclaiming their profound adoration for the scenery and the peacefulness of these mountains—quickly forget all humans have need of quiet.
I’ve stepped into the woods beside my house, a sacred place filled with medicinal herbs that I have vowed to protect with my very life, if necessary. A newcomer has moved in behind us. A flatlander, who hired a company to drop trees ten hours a day and then haul dump truck, after dump truck, after dump truck loads of gravel even before the ink had dried on the purchase agreement. Thirty acres that the seller desperately wanted to preserve and that zoning specifically prohibits from converting into commercial property. Further up the mountain, the neighbors who don’t have a buffer have pooled their vast financial resources and retained legal counsel. That is the way to protect the mountains now. One needn’t believe that a landowner will do the best thing for the environment, or the mountains, or will actually use the land in a manner for which they have agreed.
While the neighbors prepare for battle, I seek peace that can only be found beneath the canopy of trees. As a believer in the ways of plant medicine, I also seek healing both physically and spiritually. There are two ways to treat the land; either using brute force, or in a way that honors the gift proffered by Mother Nature. One can enter the woods with a whisper, or rush headlong behind a destructive machine.
Today, I seek comfrey, Cynoglossum officinale, which Native Americans called knit bone, and “dog’s tongue.” Before going into battle, the Cherokee wrapped the arms and legs of warriors in comrey’s tongue-shaped leaves to protect their warriors and absorb inflammation which occurred to the bones. The Cherokee knew there’s healing in these mountains, if we seek it. But healing only comes to those who listen. It seems that these days we haven’t the time to listen. Not with chainsaws and excavators and weed eaters and the leaf blowers breaking the silence of the forest. My friends, doesn’t the mountain speak to you as she does to me? I wish I could take you with me and teach you her ways. When I step into the shady canopy I ask each plant, “Who are you? What do you do? How can you heal us?”
Most importantly I ask, “What can I do to protect you? How can I explain to others how vital you are to healing our brokenness?” It takes more than a mountain vista to heal the brokenness of mankind. The last question is always the most important. Without the protection of these mountains we are vulnerable. Without strong mountains, sentinel trees and a healthy forest undergrowth, we humans have become increasingly weak.
Accompanying me on this journey, Lexi, my rescued mix dog, and Mama Kitty, our Tortie. Yesterday, she brought a rabbit to the front door once again trying—as all outside cats are wont to do—to teach we helpless humans how to feed ourselves. Despite my attempt to make her an inside cat, she sits at the door and howls to be free.
Isn’t the desire for true freedom at the core of every soul?
I wish the incessant lawnmower racket would cease. I long to hear only the wind clapping the limbs together and water cascading against rocks. The poison ivy is waist high here, but I press on. Praying away any snakes I might encounter. I’m fearless in the woods until the moment I see a snake. Poison ivy slaps against my skin. I’ll remove the caustic oils by washing with a combination of lavender oil and dish soap.
When did we start being afraid of Nature? I wonder as I grab a tree for support and pull myself higher up the mountain, grateful to have been raised an outside girl. I wasn’t always allergic to poison ivy, not until I boasted to Poppa, that I could “roll around in those leaves of three and never get a single whelp.”
Two days later I was at Urgent Care.
The Intimate Process of Harvesting Medicinals
We have become a boastful bunch, sharing things on social media to garner likes and popularity hoping for success, money, fame, or in my case, a publishing contract for my latest novel. I wonder, do these things really matter? I spend too much time on social media. Too much time seeking relevance. Are any of us relevant or influential? Or do the comfrey plants I spy in the distance that have thrived in these mountains through the ages have more significance than any word I will ever pen in a post? Of course the comfrey plants are more valuable.
Mama Kitty has taken the lead. She’s meowing, telling me it’s time to go home. I don’t want to leave. I want to watch the dog with her nose to the ground, sniffing new things and occasionally releasing a whispered- woof. I want to explore, as she does and discover new things, that matter; things that will be here long after I’m gone, unless humans wipe the forest clean.
Seeds collect on the fabric of my jeans. I pluck the tiny barbed-seeds of the comfrey plant and scatter them. My wrists have begun to itch. Mama Kitty is right, it’s time to go. I must hurry home to slather in dish soap, else a round of steroids are in my immediate future. The road that was once clear has become impossible to navigate because of the downed trees that have died from disease or been hurled to the ground from recent storms. One day I will be too old to caretake this property, too old to harvest comfrey. One day I will be forced to make a hard choice about the future of this land that I am so connected to, just like my precious neighbor did. I pray to the heavens the one who owns my land then will love it as much as I do.