immune systems
I’ve been thinking a lot about immune systems lately. My littlest offspring has been sick most of his 2+ years on the planet so far.
I’ve been thinking a lot about immune systems lately. My littlest offspring has been sick most of his 2+ years on the planet so far. Nothing awful, just a nasty cough that comes and goes and rounds of snot that makes him sound like a swamp cooler in his sleep. It could be much worse. But being a healer, I want him to be well, and being an herbalist, sometimes I feel like tucking my tail between my legs because I haven’t figured out the formula that gets and keeps him well. Self judgement is always so ready to take over!
So instead of trying to fix him, I’ve been working on a perspective shift: every time he wilts with the onset of illness, I say he is building the most robust immune system possible to weather this world. We all, animals and plants included, have to figure out how to survive this life, and our immune response is what keeps us kicking.
I think of the immune system as a structure that arises from within to keep the body in balance.
A healthy immune response is neither too much (allergies) or too little (auto-immune disorder). These days, immune dysfunction is a growing threat to all of us. Our bodies do all kinds of ridiculous things to try to find balance (anyone else ever been appalled by the amount of snot a body can churn out in response to a cat hair, whiff of invasive grass, or bite of something seemingly benign?).
Which leads me to this question: how does the body of the Earth do this? This year, we’ve likely all been effected one way or another by what media likes to call a natural disaster. In my own little town there’s been extreme flooding, mass evacuations from fire, and wind upwards of 80mph. But underneath our own experience, it seems to me the earth is working to restore balance through water and fire, wind and mud. There is a simple reality that balance is necessary, and our grand earth will have it no matter what. What if we humans actually are part of the Earth’s immune system? What if instead of us acting like a virus, we acted like a healthy immune system…If we took some of the burden off the elements, and made choices on our own to restore balance? If we committed somehow to being an ally, in even our smallest choices. We know how to do this, inherently, we all have immune systems ourselves, and with compassion and a sense of connectedness, that’s all we need to act in harmony with the Earth. After all, we aren’t separate from Earth, we are fully made of the vast elements and energies that we collectively callEarth. I think it’s high time we stepped into our rightful place as protector, not agitator.
tomorrow is a day of action
youth led climate organizations around the world have been planning for this day for a long while, hoping to wake up the older generations and urge us into action.
youth led climate organizations around the world have been planning for this day for a long while, hoping to wake up the older generations and urge us into action. Meanwhile, I have to explain again why we don't buy snacks wrapped in plastic to my kids as we travel the aisles of our local market. They protest, loudly and fully, but I hear the call for clean oceans and clean air louder than theirs, and stick to my guns, for a time. It's such a challenging time to be making adult decisions, trying to weigh out what is too destructive with what's important enough to have. I finally cave and let them each have an individually wrapped bar, for the sake of everyone in the store. I feel like a total pushover, but then, something else happens. My 8 year old starts walking through the aisles saying, "everything here is wrapped in plastic! the strawberries! the grapes! the yogurt! even the figs!!! what are we supposed to eat?!" people begin to notice his ranting, which brings small smiles: "oh, the big feelings of children". Then I see some look down in their own carts to assess how much plastic they are buying along with their food. I feel a surge of hope as this younger generation, so emboldened in their feelings, might continue to bring some lasting changes to how we do things. Maybe when he's an adult, it won't be so infuriating to go to the market to find food, instead of packaging.
My generation's work seems to be reckoning with convenience, and choosing what's less comfortable. With our young kids nagging at us to continue consuming, our teens lashing out in outrage, our parents vacationing the globe while they still can, we are stuck in the middle.
as w.s. merwin writes on convenience:
we believe that we have a right to it
even though it belongs to no one
we carry a way back to it everywhere
we are sure that is is saving something
we consider it our personal savior
all we have to pay for it is ourselves
This last line, doesn't ring true. I don't think the older generations have had to pay for the convenience they've required, but time has run out, and the next generations will be facing all of our choices head on.
So what are our choices? I have a vision of each of us doing something inconvenient for the sake of our earth's health. Join a march, write a letter to someone in power, hang a sign on your car, have a conversation with your neighbor. Let's act like the earth's immune system, protective and strong, holding in the foreground the image of a wholly beautiful earth for our future generations. Like a murmuration of starlings, we too can unite to create something beautiful. Let's not hide behind convenience and let our children be the ones to pay for it.
for the plants, for the people ~
~frieda kipar bay, rh
how to love privatized land
there's a place near where I live that I call "no man's land", a wild swath of earth and creek that's been abandoned for over a decade.
salmon creek
there's a place near where I live that I call "no man's land", a wild swath of earth and creek that's been abandoned for over a decade. It's 80 acres of buckeye, bay, alder, willow, a quiet creek where salmon once ran, and a rambling path full of nettle, horsetail, and hemlock. I've weeded out the poison hemlock, napped by the creek, and gathered nettles here for almost a decade. the plants have pulled me into this place.
But recently, the land was sold and it has suddenly become a place I am no longer welcome. It feels wrong to walk the overgrown path that now 'belongs' to someone else, even though there's no sign of them yet. From the road I can see the creek needs clearing and the hemlock weeding, but I'm somehow not supposed to care anymore.
How quickly we can go from knowing our place among things to being uprooted and without purpose.
Not far from this lot is an old Miwok village site. There's also a massive home peaking out of the forest 'next door'. It's an interesting intersection of how things were ordered in the past and what we've come to see as normal in the present. Privatized land, with fences and borders, weakens our ability to read the land; to follow the creek's curves or find the biggest patch of nettle. It's like trying to be a lover to someone with too many clothes on...
But seriously, what do we lose when we are no longer welcome to stand where our ancestors' ancestors stood? What wisdom gets lost without access to land?
My father was born at the height of a war. When he was just 4, the land was seized by another country, and he was shipped out to never return. He was banned from his homeland for the duration of his life. Up until his last days, he longed to return to that patch of earth that somehow still felt like home, even with all the decades and miles in between. No wonder people who've been displaced from their native land long for it generation after generation, as the indigenous people of this country do. Even the gangs cling to street corners in defiant ownership, as Ta Nahesi Coates reminds us.
Although sometimes it feels near impossible to change the reality of privatized living, it's vital to feed hope with ideas about what it might look like if we lived in a way where land was not something to own but something to share. (One of my favorite writers about active hope is Rebecca Solnit.) And in fact, there's a community across the road from "no man's land" with a smattering of small off grid homes tucked gently into the valleys, where folks live lightly and fences are erected to keep sheep in, not people out. Seeing this I take note of how to inhabit hope...how might we fold ourselves into the land and meet in the cool mossy crevices and shady creeks of our lives? What might we speak of then, there?
may our hearts give rise to answers.
~frieda kipar bay, rh
how does a rose mother an oak?
Before I lived on this land, a woman obsessed with roses lived here, for decades. She planted a garden of countless roses, box elders, ornate Japanese maples, and other water loving plants.
Before I lived on this land, a woman obsessed with roses lived here, for decades. She planted a garden of countless roses, box elders, ornate Japanese maples, and other water loving plants. We call this area of the property the 'Secret Garden', because it's as wildly overgrown and out of hand as the one in that story. We've let this area go without tending for several years because, quite frankly, I never saw any of these plants as very useful, and I only give water to what is useful. "Better to spend time on re-introducing the native oaks, the native grasses in the fields, the medicinal herbs" I thought. Well, little did I know that the roses have been quietly doing their own work to restore a habitat fit for native life.
I was recently bushwhacking through the Secret Garden to gather the first rose petals, and inside each wildly un-pruned rose bush, a coastal live or valley oak had sprouted up, shooting past my height towards the big blue sky. The roses have been a safe haven for these acorns to transform into their greatest potential: strong, resilient trees that are the very breath of this ecosystem. Trees who will one day be a haven themselves for so many creatures, pulsing with oxygen and soaking up CO2 while churning out arguably the best food on the planet. Here I have been toiling away at getting tiny acorns to sprout in the boggy fields of this three acre parcel, fencing them in with wire and stakes to protect from wild turkeys and sheep, bringing them mulch and water and song, and the rose has just been sitting there, unwatered and untended, mothering the oaks forth faster than I ever could.
Needless to say, I have been humbled. Not only at what's possible without me meddling around, but the living truth that our earth knows how to be herself - how to use what's given to rise up rooted and whole.
So how can I be like the oak, I wonder? what can I use to become as vital as an oak tree in my community, as the oak used the rose? Echoes of radical self-care come to mind: engaging with not only experiences that feel good, but using the uncomfortable, prickly parts of life...like how struggle makes way for deep rooted growth.
Then I wonder, how am I the rose? What or who can I offer safe harbor to become more than I will ever be? What can I nurture that will be here for the next generations? These questions - in the face of looming climate catastrophe - are not small ones. But asking them gives rise to hope that there is something to be done, some great effort to rally for.
Even in a withered, tired, "unwatered" state, we each have the capacity to make room for something as strong and resilient as an oak in this world. The problem is, many of us think we are too exhausted, too old, too busy to offer our greatest gift. Or maybe we think we've already done what we can. Or maybe we think that nothing we do will help anyway. Well, these old roses planted at least 35 years ago now, had their heyday as beautiful cut flowers on many a table. And now, they are doing their real work: harboring the next oak woodland that will overtake the forced pastures of my rural neighborhood no matter what. So I've been asking myself this question lately: "What is the strongest force (be it child, community, legislation) that I can nurture today?"
~frieda kipar bay, rh
where seeds of hope live
We are driving through a deep wet canyon, rain accompanying us, when my young son says, "so where exactly does plastic come from?"
fruits of earth and water
We are driving through a deep wet canyon, rain accompanying us, when my young son says, "so where exactly does plastic come from?" I get up on my soapbox for a moment and regurgitate some strange explanation of how we make fuzzy soft blankets out of the earth's deepest oldest compost. When I'm done, he's silent for a moment, then responds, "wow, humans are so creative!" Radio silence ensues as my mind catches up to his. I'm astounded by his positive spin on what I consider a negative situation. But yeah, aren't we the most incredibly creative creatures? We then get in to why we humans continue to think it's okay to take this precious resource for our use. I say something about our inability to hear "no", and to consider consent. He shoots back, "it's not that mama. it's because we just don't realize the Earth is alive." Silence again. As I take the next swooping curve deeper into the canyon, I look out to the trees. Towering bay trees, some spindly firs, a couple of live oaks dance along the creek bed we are following. Suddenly the road seems to have more texture, the sound of the creek gets louder, my heartbeat comes up into my ears. In that moment just before this one, he's right, I was not considering the Earth as a living breathing being. It changes everything.
Now home from our adventure, questions re-surface: can I feel that the Earth is alive, right now, as I sit under a lamp hammering out my thoughts on a screen? Do I really know that in my bones the way I imagine indigenous people all over the world know that? And if my neighbor new that, who just paid three men to level an old friendly ponderosa pine in 7 hours flat, would he have reconsidered?
I think my kid is right. We humans are so creative, and have such an amazing capacity to change things but so often we align ourselves with our destructivity rather than our collective generative ability. the seeds of hope lie in our creative energy, not just for our species, but the whole living breathing planet - in which we are included.
how to find the full moon fully
"hurry up! we have to get there in time to see it rise!"
"hurry up! we have to get there in time to see it rise!" I called to my 7 year old adventure buddy. We drive out and up to the highest spot around, parking just outside a nameless vineyard to await the arrival of the big pumpkin moon. We wait and wait, until the gloaming light is nearly gone. "will it every rise?" he wonders. And then, like magic, there she is. "wow, it's rising so fast!" he says, but really, it's us that's spinning like a slow motion top, and as that information settles in we both stand still, dumbfounded, as the big belly of the moon is revealed to our little spot on earth. thank goodness for gravity, I think. we clap. we sing a silly song. we give thanks. we get giddy. my body is noticeably lighter as I look on in wonder at the now floating orange orb, the outline of the oaks, the first stars, my child howling with coyote-like abandon. In celebrating something outside of myself, I get to be a part of the celebration, and it is medicine to my often-overwhelmed state. it's almost as if awareness is infectious, and the more we notice, the more we are noticed. I'm reminded of David Abrams words in The Spell of the Sensuous:
"to listen to the forest is also, primordially, to feel oneself listened to by the forest, just as to gaze at the surrounding forest is to feel oneself exposed and visible, to feel oneself watched by the forest."
It's a heady way of saying, "yes, when you love the earth, the earth loves you back." duh. why is this so easy to forget? Anyone else out there having a difficult time remembering to love the earth on a daily basis? It seems to require one thing to do so, and that's simple: to notice. but whole religions are made up on that notion, so I guess it's not all that easy.
We drive home, invigorated by the chilly night and the moon that now seems impossibly high, and climb into bed with the keen awareness that we are spinning - fast and constant - hurtling towards the morning light, with the sun already getting ready to make it's own grand entrance, if only we are there to applaud.
grieving with elderberry
"are you sure you want to go all the way up river to the elderberries?", I asked as my 7 year old and I paddled our kayaks upstream.
cedar waxwing on elder
"are you sure you want to go all the way up river to the elderberries?", I asked as my 7 year old and I paddled our kayaks upstream. We'd been going for about 30 minutes already, and I could tell he was getting tired pulling his own pint-sized kayak along in a zigzag path through the water. "Yes. I'm definitely sure!" He yelled back, and so we continued another mile up river, with many stories and songs to distract him from his biceps, until we finally docked at the spot we knew to be a short walk to several laden elderberry trees. His determination to get them, and get them this way (not by car) was clear, so I followed. We approached the heavily fruited trees slowly, but the birds moved off anyhow. We asked for permission to pick, offered strands of hair, a song, and picked up trash. Each snip of the berry umbel sent the limbs flying towards the sky with an exhale of freedom, and we sang as we harvested. After some time of tickling the berries from the stems into the jar we aimed to fill, the birds began to come back. We continued our silly songs and humming as the birds got braver and closer. Soon it felt like we were just two in a tribe of many, gathering berries for the collective. one bird even pooped a little dark purple mess right into the hat we were collecting in, sending us laughing and making jokes about harvesting etiquette. I felt a nurturing satisfaction from the trees as we sat in their shade and did as they bid: take this fruit and spread these seeds. I made a little silent promise to do so before I left, and my child belted out a happy thank you song as we made our way back to our boats with a full jar of dark purple goodness. I don't often harvest elderberries in my area, because they seem too few compared with the amount of people interested in taking, but this patch felt welcoming and abundant. I didn't realize how much I needed to feel that from the earth, the gladness that we'd come, the welcome of our presence.
Growing up in the 80's, there was this sense that we could save the planet, we could change things if we just recycled our glass bottles and didn't throw trash and cigarette butts out the windows anymore. But here and now, things feel different. I'm now raising kids in a world that has given up trying to turn the train of destruction around, and mostly we are all just standing around dumbfounded at the fact that things are changing, and faster than the scientists expected. I now live with the reality that fires and thick smoke are a part of every summer season where I live, just as my extended family has to run from hurricanes every Fall on the East coast. It's dismal when I let my brain take it in, and physically heartbreaking when I let my body actually feel it. But here we are, making our way to the elder to give thanks and take what is offered. Here we are teaching our little seeds how to connect and tap into the utter joy of living on this earth.
After our time with the elders, the paddling was hard. It was hot, the tide was pushing against our boats, and my little one was wilting visibly. Then came the "I just can't do this", then the whimpering, then the tears. But all the while, somehow, my child kept paddling. He knew there was no other way, that he had to keep going through the exhaustion and pain and finally, tears. I saw his struggle, and felt my own as my heart swelled to fix it for him, but I couldn't. We sat in the grief together, and kept paddling. It felt like a tiny part of the bigger picture, the one where we are all allowing our collective grief to rise and flow as we continue on. It reminded me that elderberry holds an affinity to the lungs, and our lungs hold grief. Perhaps it's no accident that she fruits in the Fall, supporting the grief of the earth: the scorched hillsides, the spent sunflower, the heavy hearts.
As we move forward, making our way in this season of fire and Fall, the image of the hovering hummingbird comes to mind, it's little solid body utterly calm and still in the fury of wing flutters.
when life gives you weeds
you get to sit in this chair, I'll be on the bench over here. you, with lady's mantle reaching up on your right, comfrey stroking your back, figwort quietly standing by on your left, hops shielding you from the wind, and rose threatening to knock you over with her fragrance.
above: among the weeds..and hops, lady's mantle, fennel, figwort, roses, and comfrey
you get to sit in this chair, I'll be on the bench over here. you, with lady's mantle reaching up on your right, comfrey stroking your back, figwort quietly standing by on your left, hops shielding you from the wind, and rose threatening to knock you over with her fragrance. All that, but also cleavers and velvet grass and fennel encroaching and draping and covering and sneaking up where you thought there were no weeds! but the practice is this: when the weeds take over, sit with them.
This chair that looks out onto the rest of the herb garden is so hard to just sit in, with all the weeding and puttering that could be done, but I've found it to be the perfect place to practice the art of staying with what is. How easy it is to wonder, then immediately jump onto the computer to get an answer. Or to have an idea, then right away set up some new social media site or page to voice it. Or to just feel compelled to get something done - to be one of those kinds of people who knows how to follow through/step up/assert/succeed. It's a little too easy these days for me, and others I witness around me. We all seem to be trying so hard all the time, you know? I relish in a good challenge, and the weeds provide me with just that. sit. still. so, the mantra continues: when the weeds take over, sit with them. and what happens? find out, let me know what comes for you...
hide and seek
across the computer crack lies a long thin leaf of soap root (Chlorogalum). I picked it up while hunched over the plant yesterday as my kid stalked the coyote brush, trying to find me.
across the computer crack lies a long thin leaf of soap root (Chlorogalum). I picked it up while hunched over the plant yesterday as my kid stalked the coyote brush, trying to find me. I swear I wasn't abandoning him to the hills in the fading light, we were playing a good game of hide and seek along the edges of the Nicasio Reservoir after a long day of dragging him around with me doing errands. Anyhow, huddled up with soap root (and a few empty beer bottles), I had some time to wonder: the leaf looks just like a tongue, wavy along the edges, that indicates too much dampness...a system that's too boggy and needs draining. and, this plant is growing in the sandy muck along the bank - I wonder if it's good at not getting bogged down, for it's own benefit." I asked, then picked a leaf to taste.
Before I got a chance to taste it I was found ("AH HAH!!"), and immersed back into the game. Later, upon doing 3 minutes of research, my book confirmed that indeed, soap root was used for more than the usual "soap, brushes, and to stupefy fish" by First Nation locals: it's a diuretic (takes excess water out of the body) and was used for stomach aches (i.e. cramping/bloating/indigestion/etc.).
Finding this tiny connection point gave me hope that the earth still contains everything we need to be well, despite our best unconscious efforts to exploit her. And for that matter, if I had to rely on this scratchy-looking hillside for my food and medicine, how would I treat the land differently?
If pills were a thing of an ancient civilization, would we still be able to cure gut dysbiosis, "crone's disease", "hashimotos thyroiditis", the inability to digest food? Not that soap root can treat all these imbalances, but by looking at the soap root leaf for long enough to really see it and know something about it I know that yes, somehow our Traditional Medicines will prevail, and our embodied wisdom along with it.
why roots stay
Isn't she pretty? So dressed up, I love looking deep into Rosemary and imagining the flowers were the true inspiration to the victorian era. Know what I mean?
Isn't she pretty? So dressed up, I love looking deep into Rosemary and imagining the flowers were the true inspiration to the victorian era. Know what I mean?
Anyhow, what I really want to wonder and write about is roots. I've been watching this one plant, marshmallow, for years now. Every year new shoots come up, stretch to reach the sun from the north side of the house, and then die back down to nothing as the frost sets in. And every year I cut back the stalks, wondering what that root is doing down there. I mean, it started with maybe 2 little stalks, then 10, then too many to count. How much does a root have to grow to support such growth?
And then I translate: So for perennials ,which most herbs are (and which we are, living year after year), every year there is a dying back and shedding of excess growth. Then, if left in one spot, there's time for the roots to widen and wander, and then the plant (or person, perhaps) returns in Spring with more growth, more breadth, more wisdom. I wonder, if our culture celebrated staying in our communities rather than moving from one coast to the other for a job, a change of pace, a cheaper place, would there be more collective wisdom, a deeper root to tap and grow from? Would we know more about the ground we dwell upon, or even change the language, to the ground we dwell in? It's not easy to stay "with" - in relationship, in livelihood, in land, but I have a hit that if we could, we might have an easier time with both letting go and growing out from, just like the plants. Maybe that's why winter feels so good for us wanderers, it's the only time we let our legs land and give our own inner roots time to widen and wander - and become wise.
chamomile teaches belonging
Once upon a time, I sowed chamomile seeds in the back field, but the goats have always gotten them before I could.
Once upon a time, I sowed chamomile seeds in the back field, but the goats have always gotten them before I could. This year, the goats moved on, and the land has been left alone. I walked out one morning recently with my new babe in arms, and there stood mounds and mounds of chamomile, stretching it's lovely arms upward and greeting the morning with gusto. The little bright faces look as if they are longing to be picked, and I was reminded of Robin Wall Kimmerer's words on the honorable harvest:
"The Honorable Harvest is not so much a list of "do not's" as a list of "do's." Do eat food that is honorably harvested, and celebrate every mouthful. Do us technologies that minimize harm; do take what is given. " She goes on to write about how the plants are our best teachers on how to give and receive; how they are always there to freely and endlessly give, no matter how we might neglect them or forget to say 'thank you'. It reminds me of parenting, giving everything I've got to these kids I love so much. With this in mind, I fill my pockets with tiny flowers for my newborn's goopy eyes, my sore nipples, our collective digestion and to soften and support our nervous systems. All the while, whispering thank you through tear-filled eyes, offering my salty gratitude to this bright little plant being. And not only is it a gratitude for the medicine offered, but the reminder that we too are made of this stuff, capable of such deep giving, and belonging to this earth.
the web of many weavers
i'm not usually an early riser by choice, so these past few mornings since the time change, getting up with the first light have been extra special for me. i go out to release the rooster and his gals into the day, and turn towards the east to see a sea of spiderwebs connecting every single solid object.
sunrise, nov. 8th, 2016
i'm not usually an early riser by choice, so these past few mornings since the time change, getting up with the first light have been extra special for me. i go out to release the grumbling chickens into the day, then turn towards east to be met with a sea of spiderwebs connecting every single solid object. i kneel down for a few minutes to just watch, noticing how every plant fence trellis random stick and structure are connected, and settle into a quiet heart and mind. some time goes by, my body says "cold now", and i decide it's time to go make tea. before i get up, i turn to look behind me for some reason, and see a long thread of silk connected to my back. there is no difference between me and the fence post it seems (really). i'm comforted in being included in this landscape of connection, and let the strand float from my back as i make my way to this human day.
T h r e e T r e a s u r e s
I touch his cheeks and say “this is wild oats.”
I kiss him lightly and say “this is passionflower.”
I wrap my arms around him, snug, and say “this is skullcap.”
I like this place. It’s safe here. There’s weeds.
i've been noticing how at ease i feel watching my child bomb down the driveway on his bike towards a makeshift ramp to launch from. seems like i should have some heart palpitations or something, right? so i got to thinking about how often i turn to certain plants in the herb garden for comfort and reassurance, and thought i might share my top three plants to always have growing close by. these are the plants that i go to again and again for first aid moments. here it is.
1. big gash? blow to the head? stitches needed? my big rambling bed of yarrow leaves will save me. they staunch deep wounds, and draw the capillaries together to heal quickly and fully. antiseptic too. and helps with pain and bruising. grows all year around here. a must have. native plant and permie people love it too:)
2. bee sting? splinters? stomach ache? itchy rash? plantain is so my friend for all of these. fresh plant poultices draw poison and foreign objects out, leaves in tea help sooth a hot, dry, tight digestive system. in oil, on the skin, does wonders for strange rashes that usually surface in the late summer with latent heat in the body. and really, this plant doesn't dry all that well, so having it growing is essential.
3. kind of a toss up here, but since i'm only doing three, i'm gonna go with lemon verbena. surprising? well, it's just the one i go for that seems to always have at least a few leaves for nervous system reset and digestive relief. the fresh leaves in tea is so completely calming, and delicious, and helpful with anxiety, upset stomach, and overall 'drama'. if skullcap is up too, i'll definitely add that in, but verbena is a nearly year round ally. they remind me that although life is full of suffering, there's always room for an exhale, and with that, acceptance.
4. rosemary. for sinus steams and food soaks and broth and smelly shoes and and...just sayin'. :)
now is a good time to get perennials in the ground, and since the drought is "officially" over (for the moment), you can watch the rain encourage deep roots.
may your garden give you easy belly and open heart!
a basket to hold it all
It's been an intense time for all of us...standing rock...trump...holidays.... I've been finding refuge in weaving this basket, smelling the pine needles as i watch them wind themselves into a vessel. it feels like i'm participating in an act of transformation that is beyond what i could ever imagine, and that feels so very helpful right now.
pine needle and flax basket beginnings...
It's been an intense time for all of us...standing rock...trump...holidays....
I've been finding refuge in weaving this basket, smelling the pine needles as i watch them wind themselves into a vessel. it feels like i'm participating in an act of transformation that is beyond what i could ever imagine, and that feels so very helpful right now.
Also, I've been reading the words of the elders who are holding the energy at Standing Rock, and have been profoundly moved by the integrity, simplicity, and truth of their message. They have been here, tethered to the earth, and deeply understanding that they aren't separate from it, for thousands of years. there's no business venture involved, no undercurrent of individualism, no scheming for the betterment of humans alone. I hear them voicing that they are doing what they are doing because they are a small part of the whole. Somehow, I feel like my mostly European roots got severed from that simple fact a long time ago, that i've had to actively remember and relearn what the indigenous people of this continent have never lost. It feels so powerful to have such a silly, big-headed clown spouting off reactions in the White House (and on twitter) alongside this group of first nations elders speaking with such equanimity about the simple fact that water is life, and they will protect that life with their own. Now feels like the time to learn to listen, deeply, to the root of what these people are saying. They hold the key in how to be in right relationship with the earth and all her inhabitants, and we owe it to our children's children's children to listen close and follow their lead. The gratitude I feel for the tenacity and truthfulness of the american indigenous people is immeasurable.
with the softness of lady's mantle and the brightness of lemon balm, i wish you well~
I Go Among Trees
by Wendell Berry
I go among trees and sit still.
All my stirring becomes quiet
around me like circles on water.
My tasks lie in their places
where I left them, asleep like cattle.
Then what is afraid of me comes
and lives a while in my sight.
What it fears in me leaves me,
and the fear of me leaves it.
It sings, and I hear its song.
Then what I am afraid of comes.
I live for a while in its sight.
What I fear in it leaves it,
and the fear of it leaves me.
It sings, and I hear its song.
After days of labor,
mute in my consternations,
I hear my song at last,
and I sing it. As we sing,
the day turns, the trees move.
~ Wendell Berry from Sabbaths
what happens when we watch
hummingbird rollercoaster i happened to have put a bench in the middle of a robust little hummingbird's territory
last light on thistle
hummingbird rollercoaster i happened to have put a bench in the middle of a robust little hummingbird's territory (calypte anna for you latin geeks). i've been visiting that bench in the overgrown wild garden for some time now - many seasons - watching him spin around me from tree to tree, singing at the top of his tiny lungs and fearlessly dive bombing anyone who dares to enter his home. but today something new happened. this funny little creature flew way up above me, so far!, and just when i thought he'd never come back he swooped down towards the horizon, disappeared, then reappeared on the other side of me with a loud warrior cry, and went back up towards the sky to do it again. he circled around and around, at first i actually thought another hummingbird was chasing him he was so fast to rebound, but no. it was just this one tiny being ferociously enjoying his very own roller coaster. i was completely exhilarated. then, he was done. back on the oak branch, chewing out his ballad of a song.
it's not often i've had the opportunity in my adult life to be somewhere long enough to watch another animal's nuances unfold. it makes me feel at home. when i began learning about the plants in sonoma county, my relationship to them solidified my sense of homecoming, that i belong here, that i'm even needed here. and my hunch is that knowing a place is what has the capacity to heal an entire generation of wandering children. (which is just what we are.) so when i go on a little hike to tend the mugwort patch, thin the hemlock, or prune the elderberry it's not just a pleasure stroll, or a harvesting trip, but a collecting of the medicine of belonging. if you don't know it, kat anderson's book tending the wild is a lovely informative read, as is braiding sweetgrass, by robin wall kimmerer.
from wherever you are on the earth right now, i wish you homecoming.
being watched by this breathing earth
it's the season to be out, and out i have been. my apologies for not being in touch, but that's what happens when you are hoping to hear from an herbalist in the summertime. you know.
my son, sand listening
it's the season to be out, and out i have been. my apologies for not being in touch, but that's what happens when you are hoping to hear from an herbalist in the summertime. you know.
in the garden, the weeds grow faster than the herbs (of course), and the chickens are constantly letting me know they are much more mischievous than i give them credit for. but weeds aside, i'm brimming with pride at how this land has changed in four years. as i walk by the cottonwood that shades most of the dwellings here, i always say hello. i know something about them* now: who runs up their trunk, where they like to send runners, when the blessed poplar buds will fall and leave our feet sticky, and the difference between a 5 mile wind and a 10 mile windsong in the leaves. and cottonwood knows our rhythms too. i feel like i'm being watched, all the time, with slow growing eyes, and am reminded of these recently read words:
"the words conservation and ecology, as we use them in the Western sense, don't exactly fit what Indian people did or do with the land. it was their livelihood, which depended on reciprocity. thus, the trees were not seen just as trees, they were also seen as relatives. the trees are relatives and other species are relatives and they watched you all the time. it was a forest of eyes that looked at you to see how you were handling the remains of plants and animals." -dennis martinez
so if we each knew, deep down, that we are always being watched by this breathing earth, how would that change our whole narrative?
truly, i think that the greatest healing that can come out of learning about plant medicine is this shift in perception, in being in deep relationship with all that is. walking down a path and not anticipating the endpoint, but seeing the plant people surrounding you. not just knowing a pistol from a stamen, or the properties of skullcap vs. rosemary, but really recognizing that a quiet path in the woods is a very populated place and we are all being watched. sometimes, that's all that keeps me tethered...knowing that there's a witness, that suffering and joy and grief can always be a shared experience. otherwise, we are all so very alone. and being alone, well, it's not how humans thrive. it's not how any of us thrive, and we are all needed to take care of each other.
* when referring to plants, i've been enjoying using the more gender neutral, all encompassing word they.
may you know the earth as the earth knows you~
frieda kipar bay
a leaf that loves to be stroked
did you know that dock (rumex, that is) loves to be stroked?
reciprocal relationship
did you know that dock (rumex, that is) loves to be stroked? neither did I, until I followed the impulse of my hand, reached out, and gently stretched her leafy spine out between my fingers. I all but heard the little plant sigh with relief. So I did it again, and again; gently curving up and then down. I felt a noticeable calm in my heart, a softening in my belly - a connection to the bigger landscape that wasn't present before I made conscious contact. the leaf responded dramatically, in shape and sheen it looked healthier and happier than all the others. I was yet again hit with this phrase that keeps coming back to me:
If you love the Earth, She will love you back.
It's not a metaphor, it's an invitation to feel what is true. Touch is the essence of self realization, and connected-ness. As a dancer I've felt the depth of this truth person to person, as an herbalist I'm learning it's not species specific. And yet, we are too often taught not to touch, not to walk through, not to engage. If we don't touch, how can we be 'touched' by our exquisite earth? In an article in the local paper here I found wisdom in the words of Native community members who are working to restore the sacred healing grounds of Tolay Lake, a place long destroyed by settlers. Council members voted to take out loans against their casino to restore, preserve, and re-engage with this land. "If you don't have a connection with the land, you're lost," says Ross, who has been a tribal council member since 1996." What potent council for our wandering, fragmented, often disconnected society.
To go out and let the earth be effected by our touch, our witness, the ripples our bodies make in the water..who knows what healing is possible in this exchange of goodness? I vow to listen to the leaf asking me to reach out and connect...
* * *
So what is so stabilizing about Stabilizing Syrup?
I often get asked, "what's it good for?" about this particular syrup, and I'd like to share why it's one of three (only three) formulas I make to share widely. Stabilizing syrup came about out of a response to seeing more and more people dealing with fatigue, exhaustion, stress, immune overload, allergies, and insomnia. So, in comes ashwagandha, one of the best adaptogens for sleep issues, also deeply nourishing to the nervous system and balancing for the endocrine system. Eleuthero, dear lovely "poor man's ginseng", slightly energizing to the nervous system and supportive of the adrenals this plant tonifies the chi, or vital life force. Schizandra is astringing, tonifying, cleansing, and calming all at once, with deep effects on an over-burdened liver and digestive system. Milky oats equals nervous system lube...think about all those little nerve endings exposed to the sound of BART screeching through the tunnel and depositing you into a cold blustery day at the market - ouch! Nettles...don't we all know what she does at this point? Rosehip is a carrier herb, goji berries nourish the yin, reishi calms the spirit and drains excess damp conditions, i could go on and on. But to summarize: this formula is good for helping the body respond to stress (good or bad) with a moderated endocrine response, keeping the hormones in check and the organs able to do their jobs well. i use it every. single. day as supportive, preventative medicine...usually as a spark in my chai tea, sometimes added to sparkling water for an afternoon treat. may it serve you well.
a very old mushroom
The other day I was walking in the woods with an old friend, when my eyes landed on a beautiful big Ganoderma applanatum, our local reishi mushroom, growing on a mossy bay tree. The water was rushing in the creek nearby, and dripping off every leaf. Our knee high rain boots were a must. Finally, the rain has saturated us all.
reishi...
The other day I was walking in the woods with an old friend, when my eyes landed on a beautiful big Ganoderma applanatum, our local reishi mushroom, growing on a mossy bay tree. The water was rushing in the creek nearby, and dripping off every leaf. Our knee high rain boots were a must. Finally, the rain has saturated us all.
As I looked close at the perfect marriage of green tiny mosses, tall fragrant tree, and deep red mushroom, I remembered learning how amazing reishi is at transforming damp places - absorbing the excess water to balance out the surrounding ecosystem. They do that in our bodies too, creating flow in our potentially water-logged system(s). Kidneys rule the fluid flow of the body, so when things are backed up or stagnate it may result in water retention, fatigue, lack of sweat/eliminaton, irregular cycles, etc. Winter is the time of year to really support the kidney/adrenal system, and mushrooms are a potent diuretic option that's easy on the kidneys. The are particularly beneficial for kids, whose spleen/kidney energy is still developing and don't transform damp as easily (oh the every present runny nose!)…one of the main reasons I use so much of it in my Wellness Syrup.
Mushrooms are best extracted in water, so enjoy your tea, broth, or soup with some reishi, turkey tail, or shitakes and know that your own little personal ecosystem is as important to take care of as our great grand earth...we are all part of the whole.
love is health
Out in the garden here, everybody is finally, completely, spent. the frost took every last standing lettuce, fennel stalk, and comfrey leaf trying for one last hoorah.
persimmon gift
Out in the garden here, everybody is finally, completely, spent. the frost took every last standing lettuce, fennel stalk, and comfrey leaf trying for one last hoorah. the 8 foot tall tobacco - who up till now has been unimpressed by the cold - took her leave back into the earth, no longer available to send prayers up to the ethers. her perennial roots have taken her attention, and her leaves and stalk are left like an old coat hung on a hook after the body has gone inside. I wonder at the depth of her departure, it's such a stark contrast to the aliveness I felt every time I passed by. no holding on, no trying to resurrect, just decisively empty. a beautiful husk of what was.
what if letting go could be like that for each of us, wholly complete? simply turning towards the black earth to absorb whatever grief is trapped in the heart, and taking refuge in the dark quiet. and with the turning inward, our root grows deeper into the depths, offering the promise of more stability and ease in growing again one day. I know we humans living in this part of the world like to celebrate with holiday after holiday this time of year, but the garden shows a different wisdom and rhythm...one I wonder about as I watch her dive under and drink in the nutrients of winter.
of course, there's gifts, left for us and the birds: persimmons hang like christmas balls, rose hips jump out of an otherwise grey landscape, acorns and bay nuts wait patiently for passersby. maybe that's why we celebrate this season with gift-giving, our mimicry of the plant world silently influencing each day. as martîn prechtel says, "the eloquence of our own affection for one another keeps the world healthy. Praise and the depth of our grief expressed for one another keeps the world in love. Love is health." May the love you give and receive this season feel as simple and exquisite as a persimmon glowing in the moonlight.
and some news...
Homestead Apothecary is now selling taproot medicine online, which means if you no longer live in the area they will ship it to you! They are brave, and have an ambitious team of folks ready to wrap the hell out of your bottles and make sure it gets to you. thank you nic!
Scarlet Sage Herb Shop in SF is now carrying all the Taproot Syrups. They have a knowledgable team of herbalistas working there to make sure you don't buy what you don't need. Pass the word if you are a city dweller or know others who cross the bay to get this medicine.
recipes for winter:
apple crisp
I've been making lots of apple crisps lately for my family, spiked with wellness syrup;) as a general guideline, I add 1T Wellness Syrup per apple (or pear) that's used. It sweetens it up a bit while giving each serving a good dose of reishi, elderberry, rose hips, nettles, the list goes on….I also like to sprinkle with reishi mycelium and cinnamon on top. give it a try and enjoy telling your kids it's "medicinal";)
stabilizing chai
heat up 1 cup of any kind of milk. when it starts to simmer/bubble, take it off the flame and add 2-3T stabilizing syrup. if you have a french press you can pour it in and pump the whisk part up and down until you get frothy goodness. stir with a cinnamon stick, and if you need to, add a touch of maple syrup. grounding dessert, yum!
medicinal baths
If you are going to take the time, energy, and water to make a bath, please put some herbs in with you! Usually I tell people to look and see what they have around them growing. Pine? Oak? Lavender? Rose? Go with your gut, and pick something that calls out to you. If it has a smell, chances are it's got anti-bacterial properties and will help to open your lungs. Plantain, nettle, oats, seaweed; all super nutritive and grounding, and anything you get in warm water with will release it's gifts and take up yours. enjoy the communion.
the littlest alchemist
it's not often that we as a culture choose to venerate an insect, but as the only food producing 'bug', the honeybee has a special place in all our hearts
apis mellifera
it's not often that we as a culture choose to venerate an insect, but as the only food producing 'bug', the honeybee has a special place in all our hearts. This year, we finally got our first hive, and have been blessed with the gifts of watching another species up close. Through this watching, the garden comes alive in a different light. The sound of tiny wings as they make their way from fennel one week, yarrow the next, guides me to the flowering stands faster than my wandering eyes. Watching them sip water from the little pond, and gently escorting out of the herb kitchen have given me such a deep respect for these littlest alchemists. Whispering "thank you" when our paths cross just feels right.
I'm now infusing honey with my most favorite plant of the season: lemon verbena (Aloysia citrodora). Her dry papery leaves that are still green and growing offset the incredibly delicious scent as you crush them in your hands. and the tea, made with a few fresh leaves and a drip of the bee's honey: divine. transformative. deeply inspiring and peace-making. really.
And to be perfectly honest, I'm not one who often makes time to sit around and drink tea slowly. But this one, I highly recommend. Her medicine is in the moment, and has a lasting effect on the state of one's nervous system. There's some confusion about what's blue vervain and what's lemon verbena, so be sure you are picking the right plant if you go for tea. Blue vervain is a lovely nervine too, but bitter as all hell. Verbena tastes like bees dancing in the sunshine on a bright summer's day.
frieda
cottonwood clarity
Let’s pretend we are sitting under the cottonwood tree together. She’s the tallest tree for miles around, with 4 big trunks opening like a flower.
Let’s pretend we are sitting under the cottonwood tree together. She’s the tallest tree for miles around, with 4 big trunks opening like a flower. Her leaves are just starting to let go. It's nice to imagine doing so, with so many of you that I know...
I woke from a dream this morning with a start. I was in a busy place, trying to help a frantic woman who asked me to give her some herbs for her ailments. We kept having to move to find a spot to sit and hear each other, there was so much commotion everywhere. I went to my apothecary to get the herbal formula i’d written down, but it listed herbs i’d never heard of. “I have to give her something” I kept thinking, and then I saw some eggs sitting in a pile of hay near the chicken coop. I grabbed three and gave them to her, knowing they were just what she needed somehow. While drinking my tea this morning I started to ponder, what’s the medicine of 3 fresh eggs? At first I thought about the nutrients, the protein and iron and such, but that didn’t seem right. Then I remembered they were fresh, and fertile. If she waited with the eggs, kept them warm, she’d have chicks to grow up and give her more eggs. ‘Waiting’, I thought...just being, that’s the medicine she needed. To have to sit and watch – pay attention to the embodied present – it’s the medicine that so many of us need in this day and age. But can we even still do it? No tea or tincture can actually make us slow down, but any plant that we choose to notice can make us stop completely. What have you noticed in your neck of the woods?
hops. wormwood. tobacco. echinacea. mugwort. elderberry. cattail.
from my side of the great web to yours,
frieda kipar bay