herbs

Herbal medicine to me is individualized medicine. Medicine formulated specifically for you, medicine that sees you, all of you–all that’s whole, all that’s fractured–, that meets you, all of you, right where you are.

It’s why I tend to prefer the herbal approach to the pharmaceutical one. One pill formulated for the treatment of one symptom, or one set of symptoms, could never be effective for everyone; just as one diet, one exercise routine, one spiritual practice, one way of working, one way of loving will never be.

This isn’t to say that the pharmaceutical route is never the right one (sometimes it clearly is), it’s just to point to the truth that though we’re all pieced together by the same types of molecules, we’re all also deeply and tenderly individual, each endowed with our own particular strengths, our own unique tendencies toward balance, toward wellness, toward light.

All said, it’s funny that my introduction to Western herbalism, to nourishing herbal infusions, came from an herbalist who insistently pushes a sort of one-size-fits-all approach.

You may have heard of her. A dog-eared copy of her book Healing Wise might’ve found its way into your life: peeking out of your hippie friend’s macramé purse or on the shelf of your local food co-op or, more realistically these days, popping up on your instagram feed from that #greenwitch account you follow.

It’s an incredibly approachable introduction to herbalism and an empowering one–no matter what your experience or lack thereof with plants, you start to feel like, hey, this isn’t so hard, hey, maybe I can do this, too. (Pretty incredible! And the reason why I recommend this book in the library of this blog [and IRL, quite often, too].)

As you learn more about her approach, you quickly learn she really loves herbal infusions. She recommends drinking two liters of infusion daily, rotating through nettle, oatstraw, red clover, comfrey and linden each week. And you learn that she recommends this practice to everyone…period. And when I say everyone, period, I mean e-v-e-r-y-o-n-e, period.

If you’ve ever listened to one of her podcasts, you know what I’m talking about. Listeners call in for advice on treating various ailments–from chronic illness to heart dis-ease to eczema–and 10 times out of 10 her first question to them is whether or not they’re drinking nourishing herbal infusions.

No digging into how the ailment is manifesting for them, or whether they tend toward dryness or dampness, or if they even happen to enjoy the taste of nettles (because not everyone does!). No details, no nuance. Just one set of rules for all sorts of folk to follow.

Sound familiar?

#Nodisrespect, nourishing herbal infusions have been a major blessing in my life. But here’s the thing: they’re not for everyone. Or, even, not all of them are for everyone. This herbalist’s emphasis on this one healing practice often ends up mirroring the approach to medicine she is countering, which is too bad.

Because what’s been revealed to me, as I go deeper, is that the strength, the beauty of plant medicine lies in detail, in nuance, in an individualized approach. It’s why seeing an herbalist for the first time can be such a transformative experience. For perhaps the first time ever you’re given medicine that meets you where you are, as you are; medicine made specifically for You, with a capital Y.

This Fall, during a session with herbalist jim mcdonald, I was introduced to violet medicine. At the time, I was drinking nettle infusion daily. I’d been complaining about this stuck feeling in my sinuses, which tended to feel bone-dry and achy most days. “Have you thought about swapping nettle out for something else?”

I’d learned that nettle was drying, but I somehow hadn’t managed to link the two. Because here’s the other thing about one-size-fits-all ethoi: they are damn easy to believe in, whole-hog, because black-and-white is a heck of a lot easier to navigate than slippery grey.

I was drinking nettle because of its nutritive properties, to support myself during my recovery from a tick-borne illness. It didn’t cross my mind that there may be another herb with similar properties better suited to me, with my tendency toward dryness. That’s when jim introduced me to violet leaf.

Viola odorata, or violet, is one of those plants most of us haven’t ever really thought of as medicine. Chances are you can identify one, with its namesake-colored, circular petals and heart-shaped leaves. Maybe you’ve seen them in your aunt’s garden or sprinkled on top of a salad mix at a farmer’s market. It’s one of those plants–like rose–that hasn’t really received the same sort of wellness publicity that others have (looking at you turmeric).

Its leaves are nutritive, cooling, moistening, gently cleansing. The dried leaves look similar to oatstraw; they taste and smell like a milder version of nettle, tangy-sweet.

Violet leaf infusion is nourishing, high in minerals, especially magnesium and calcium. It’s cooling, easing frayed nerves, lubricating a nervous system that’s been running hot, that’s over-tired, burned-out. It’s moving, with an affinity toward the lympathic system, clearing stagnation, easing swollen, achy glands, an affinity toward breast tissues, helping to dissolve malignant and benign lumps. It’s moistening, salve for those with dry constitutions, those with a tendency toward eczema, constipation, sore throat, sore sinuses.

I’ve come to see it as a medicine for learning to be gentle with oneself, to self-soothe, to keep one’s cool.

I share this method of making violet leaf infusion with the hope that it offers one more option to you, as you find the right rituals and practices that see you, all of you, that meet you right where you are.

Violet Leaf Infusion

1 ounce violet leaf, dried

Place violet leaf in sealable glass jar.
Fill jar with boiling water. Let steep over night, or at least for 4 hours.
Strain liquid from jar. Compost violet leaves. Refrigerate and drink within 48 hours.

This week’s post builds on last week’s post on trauma and disease, so if you haven’t already please take a few moments to engage over there.

In honor of Lu’s work Black Water Ballad winning the Swiss Photo Awards, I’m posting a few photos from that series here. Same Quebec countryside as last week but in Summer.

As I walk along this spiral path of healing, I sometimes stumble, knock against a tree that’s fallen in my path, trip when some old stone I’ve been carrying around with me for too long falls loose. Maybe I bruise, maybe a section of skin breaks open and I bleed. Maybe I feel discouraged, worn down, blue.

This is not a unique experience, but a collective one, one that everyone experiences at some point along their path and the big question is not if this will happen but instead when this does happen, how do I respond?

Do I cry out and curse the tree, the stone, the path and spit at the ground? Do I press self against earth and curl inward and stay fixed as a tree stump? Do I kiss my bruise, clean my wound, take a deep breath, give myself the time I need to gather myself and continue on?

To be completely real, more times than not I seem to choose the first two reactions, I respond with anger or grief, I feel alone in my suffering, passing this phrase back and forth between palms: why me?

Buddhists say that suffering is caused by two things: wanting to change oneself and wanting to change one’s circumstances. Suffering is inevitable; how we react to our suffering is, however, subject to change, up to us.

For some of us, those who scored higher than a 0 on the ACE test for example, anger or grief can be our instinctual, automatic response; it happens so immediately, comes over us like a wave and can almost feel as if the emotion chooses us, not the other way around. Whatever pain we’re facing can remind us of past pains and can feel far bigger than stubbed toe, scraped knee, bump in road.

For others, the third option, being kind to oneself, recognizing that this stumbling is just part of the path, showing oneself compassion, is the natural response.

Lucky ducks.

I imagine these folk were taught self-compassion at a young age; if a glass of milk were spilled it was just that, a spilled glass of milk, no one’s fault and no big deal. No need for anger, or shame, or guilt, or grief, or worry, or fear or any of the other emotions that can grow wild in prickly households.

Choosing Self-Compassion

If we tend to respond to stress, to obstacles in our path with anger, with grief, if we tend to over-react, if our emotions come flooding out, in blazes, we can recognize that our nervous systems were, in a sense, programmed to respond this way. It’s not our fault.

Most likely this response has affected not only ourselves–our sense of self-worth, our ease with ourselves and engagement with our world–but also those we love, our sweethearts, our best friends; our inner circles.

Maybe it’s pushed them away, maybe it’s pushed us further from our authentic selves, maybe it has even recreated the same prickly environment we thought we’d said goodbye to for good.

The first step to choosing self-compassion is to start to forgive ourselves for being so hard on ourselves and on others. (Much easier said than done, I realize). To start to forgive ourselves for not always responding the way we’d like to respond. To start to accept ourselves–our nervous systems, our response patterns–as we are, in all our messy and lovely humanness.

The second step, which really is what helps us achieve the first, is developing a mindful self-compassion practice–loving self-kindness meditation, metta meditation, even a walking meditation for the folks who can’t sit still. I linked to a few resources to get you started at the bottom of last week’s post. I’m talking about taking 20 or so minutes each day to start untangling some of that programming; to give yourself some of that fundamental love and acceptance that you may have missed out on.

The third step is to choose a ritual, something you can easily find time for at least once a week, a practice that is deeply nourishing, something that makes you feel good, deeply good, safe, at ease, deeply loved because self-compassion is really showing yourself the same care, the same love that you would your best friend or pet or favorite house-plant.

Easing into Self-Compassion w/ an Herbal Bath

Which brings me to a ritual I discovered this past Fall during a particularly blue period.

Bathing in plant medicine, taking a weekly (okay, so maybe more like 3x a week) herbal bath is something that has eased aching body, heavy heart, monkey mind. Herbs have a way of shifting energy, moving what has been stuck, clearing what needs to be cleared, making space for what needs to be sown. Herbs have a way of showing you that you’ve been holding the seeds, those seeds of love, self-love, self-compassion in your own hands all along.

There are a few ways to go about this ritual:

One is to bring a hefty cup of your herb (fresh or dried) of choice to a soft boil and simmer (w/ a lid on) for around 20 or so minutes, then strain into your bath.
Another is to make an herbal infusion, to add a cup of herb to a quart jar and fill w/ boiling water, cover and let infuse for 4-8 hours, then strain into your bath.
Yet another is to wrap some cheesecloth around a cup of your herb, fasten it tightly and toss that in your tub as it fills w/ hot water.
If you don’t mind the mess, you can even just add the herb directly to your tub (but this will get messy).

I’ve written before about the powers of the kava bath, lately I’ve been enjoying rosemary and wild rose baths (I use a cup of each). Two warming, cheering herbs that have a way of moving things for me–circulation, creativity, joy.

Maybe there’s a particular plant that you’re drawn to (white pine, sage, oatstraw, linden), one that has a way of moving things for you, your particular constitution, the emotions you’re working with.

Or maybe a ritual like an herbal bath isn’t the kind of ritual that will nourish you. It’s just one example among many to help ease your way toward more self-compassion.

Here’s to a summer season of being kind to ourselves, accepting ourselves as we are, nourishing ourselves, loving ourselves, and extending all those loving feelings toward others.

The Soaked Bean

Seeking Nourishment, Finding Traditions

Violet Leaf Infusion + an Individualized Approach to Healing

Self-Compassion + the Herbal Bath