Mugwort. Illustration by Vanessa Chakour

MUGWORT  Artemisia vulgaris Bitter describes difficult experiences and also a taste that most despise. Much like difficult experiences, bitter herbs like mugwort can increase our resilience and make us stronger. They can protect us from harmful microbes while creating a sympathetic nervous system response that increases blood flow to our abdominal organs, awakening our instinct. Ninety percent of our serotonin—a chemical that impacts our mood, memory, sleep, and stress—is created in our digestive system, so it is clear that psychosocial factors are impacted by the physiology of the gut. Mugwort’s unique bitterness also relaxes the nerves, calms fires of inflammation, and eases anxiety, bringing us into states of presence and receptivity, and, as tension is reduced and blood flows, we enter into a relaxed state, and our innate wisdom—or what Jungians might call the unconscious—is more accessible.

The botanical name for mugwort, Artemisia vulgaris, honors the Greek goddess Artemis, the huntress who sought vengeance on those unkind to animals or women and who preferred the company of forest creatures and plants to that of humans. Mugwort’s rhizomes are relentless, continuously growing underground stems that allow this perennial to spread in dense, protective armies, creating a threshold. They thrive around forests and provide protective thickets for creatures like rabbits, who calm themselves on the bitter leaves. Mugwort has spread far and wide, at forest edges and seasides, in vacant lots and city parks, even through cracks in concrete, and in rural farmland, thriving along the boundary between wild and domesticated spaces.

Mugwort is a bitter, a nervine, an emmenagogue, and a potent oneirogen. As a bitter, mugwort moves the bile in our digestive system, helping us process food and emotions and experiences to absorb their nourishment and release what doesn’t serve us. As a nervine, mugwort repairs overstimulated nerves—frayed wiring within our bodies—helping us respond to stress with increased calm and presence. As an emmenagogue, mugwort eases the pain of childbirth and brings on delayed menstruation. And as a potent oneirogen, an herb that enhances dreaming, mugwort helps the subconscious emerge as we dream so we can see what it is we need to heal. One of my first plant allies on the road to becoming an herbalist, Artemisia vulgaris has helped me maintain boundaries and digest bitter experiences while I release deep wounds.

MULLEIN  Verbascum thapsus Like the cilia in our respiratory system, the hairs that cover mullein leaves protect them from cold, harsh, and drying winds, allowing them to stay moist and green when many of the other plants are bare and brown. They are some of the first medicines I harvest in springtime and the last I harvest in autumn. The first-year rosettes of this biennial plant often remain green through the winter. Also known as blanket-leaf, feltwort, lady’s flannel, velvet dock, velvet plant, and lungwort, this multifaceted healer, a native to Eurasia and now naturalized in Canada and the Americas, provides soothing and comfort. Though I rarely need treatment for asthma now, mullein is one of the first plants I turn to when I do.

Mullein seeds are incredibly resilient and can maintain their germinative powers for up to one hundred years, sprouting from bare, overgrazed ground or after the scorch of a forest fire. The plant’s subsequent growth can heal the worst of soil problems, breaking up dry, compacted soil to bring minerals to the surface. Harsh conditions in our bodies can benefit from this medicine, too. Tincture and tea made from the dried herb, and even smoking it, can help expel mucus by loosening it from the walls of the lungs to be coughed up. I also turn to mullein to unlodge unshed tears and soften sorrow.

This altruistic plant is rarely found in undisturbed communities. Sunny, open sites created by heavy grazing, severe storms, logging, fire, or other devastation are ideal for the plant’s growth and reproductive success. Mullein heals the worst soil problems and arrives on the scene as an early pioneer plant. Once the soil is rich again, mullein moves on. In a similar way, this healer can shift and transform wounded spaces in our bodies, so we can also move through, and move on.

DANDELION  Taraxacum officinale Dandelion is a fighter whose fiery medicine breaks through cracks in pavement and relentlessly returns to carpet-like lawns, despite being sprayed. The plant’s taproot has work to do; it brings minerals from the subsoil to grasses and other plants that can’t reach deeply. In our bodies, dandelion roots and flowers ignite digestion and activate the power in our solar plexus, while the jagged, bitter leaves—dent de lion, French for “tooth of the lion”—flush, clean, and clear the kidneys. Beyond the bitterness in the leaves, you can taste the salty, mineral-rich properties responsible for cleansing and clearing our internal waterways.

As a liver cleanser, dandelion root helps move anger and frustration out of the body while feeding and supporting beneficial bacteria. One of the constituents of taproots like burdock and dandelion is inulin, a prebiotic and rich food source for the diverse microbial ecology of the gut. By consuming foods and herbs rich in inulin, we feed these tiny creatures inside us so that their populations remain strong and they can assist in the breakdown of our foods to provide optimal absorption. And for those who deplete themselves trying to please people, dandelion is an excellent ally.

ST JOHN’S WORT  Hypericum perforatum St. John’s wort works to restore and repair overstimulated and burnt-out nervous systems. The infused oil alleviates pain and can be rubbed into the skin to help with sore muscles, sciatica, and damaged nerves, while the tincture or tea can ease and enliven us from the inside out. The bright yellow flowers bloom at the peak of summer, when the days are longest, and, as treatment for seasonal affective disorder and depression, this plant literally lets more sunshine in. If we were to take one of the plant’s leaves and hold it up to the sunlight, we could see small window-like holes that let light shine through, and if we were to crush a blossom between our fingers, the yellow flower would exude a bloodred stain.

St. John’s wort is a healing ally for those who have fought too hard and too long and are mentally, physically, or emotionally bruised. John Gerard, author of The Herball, or Generall historie of plantes, wrote in 1597 that St. John’s wort is “a most precious remedy for deep wounds,” as the plant’s antimicrobial properties help to disinfect wounds, reduce inflammation, and promote healing, from the deepest part and out toward the periphery.¹ This usage led to the English nickname “balm of the warrior’s wound.” St. John’s wort was, and still is, seen as a wise choice (along with plants like plantain and yarrow) for the treatment of puncture wounds, as suggested by the second part of the plant’s botanical name, perforatum. Gerard recommended that the leaves, flowers, and seeds be stamped or pressed, immersed in olive oil, and set in the hot sun until the extract becomes the color of blood, a pigment due to the bioactive compound hypericin, where much of the medicine resides. Topically, the oil helps ease conditions ranging from pinched nerves like sciatica to overall damage to the nervous system, whether through injury or viral infection, while easing the pain of overused muscles.

With a photosensitizing effect, St. John’s wort opens up our own light receptors and lets more sunshine into our bodies, a poetic connection, as the plant is among the most recommended herbs for seasonal affective disorder, when we are longing for light in the dark days of winter. Taking the tincture internally has even been reported to make some people more susceptible to burns, though this is debated. But if taking the plant does attract too much sun, a simple infused oil made from the flowers can be applied to a burn to draw out heat, reduce inflammation, and rapidly promote the healing process. And when that same oil is used topically, prior to sun exposure, the protective elements of the plant act as a natural sunscreen. There is a balance of opposites in this plant. Some herbalists classify St. John’s wort as a warming and drying remedy that initiates healing in damp, dark spaces, while others classify the plant as a cooling remedy that calms fires of inflammation. But like all living beings, plants and their actions on our unique bodies—that are always in a state of flux—are complex.

JAPANESE KNOTWEED  Polygonum cuspidatum Japanese knotweed is a tall herbaceous perennial with the ability to thrive in toxic soils, drawing out heavy metals and poisons to detoxify damaged land. With an extensive woody rhizome system, the plant can set up whole underground systems that can grow inches a day, moving beneath highways and around obstacles to set up colonies on the other side. Though the plant flowers in the fall, she doesn’t rely on pollination to reproduce; the extensive underground roots are responsible for her spread.

This pervasive plant learned to thrive in the harsh environment of Japanese volcanoes, amid extreme changeability, and grows successfully on the lava fields lining the slopes of Japan’s active volcanoes. She developed the ability to store explosive energy deep underground and to spring forth through feet of ash and volcanic rock, breaking through seemingly firm foundations to create a feral instability. But as this plant dismantles, she creates soil that is fertile and new.

It is in the plant’s native Japan—where knotweed is known as itadori, whose translation is “remove pain”—that people have been living in harmony with this plant for thousands of years. The roots and shoots have become an integral part of food culture and traditional medicine. The young stems are eaten as a spring vegetable, with a flavor similar to incredibly sour rhubarb. The roots are used to treat a variety of ailments ranging from fungal infections and skin inflammation to cardiovascular diseases and pain, as the Japanese name suggests. Japanese knotweed has a strong immune-enhancing capacity that benefits the cardiovascular system and that has been shown to have anti-cancer, “anti-aging” (I take issue with that term), and estrogen-regulating effects. A recent study by Harvard Medical School showed that resveratrol taken from knotweed rhizomes stimulates in humans the production of a serum that blocks diseases by speeding up the cell’s energy production centers, affecting the activity of enzymes called sirtuins that control several biological pathways and are involved in the aging process.² Tincture and decoction of the root have been shown to kill the spirochetes (spiral-shaped bacteria) of Lyme disease that are found in difficult-to-reach areas by enhancing blood flow throughout the body.³

Red Clover. Illustration by Vanessa Chakour

RED CLOVER  Trifolium pratense
Red clover appears to be one flower, but when we look closely, we find that the flower head is actually a collection of up to 100 tiny purple-pink flowers whose petals look like wings. Often found growing in sunny fields, this plant in the legume family, with three-parted white chevron-embossed leaflets, invites other creatures to thrive. Clover works hard to improve soil health, attract pollinators and other beneficial insects, and promote healthy meadows, lawns, woodland edges, and gardens. The magnanimous plant converts nitrogen in the atmosphere into forms that plants can more easily absorb through their root systems, resulting in more diverse soil life and higher capacity to hold nutrients. For our inner ecosystems, red clover is just as generous, a highly nutritive plant with significant amounts of calcium, magnesium, chromium, niacin, phosphorus, potassium, thiamine, and vitamin C. The medicine acts as an antispasmodic, expectorant, and alterative, helping our bodies to remove metabolic waste and experience more vitality. Native to Europe, Western Asia, and northwest Africa, red clover has naturalized in North America and throughout the world, nurturing communities of plants, insects, animals, and people wherever she grows.

GOLDENROD  Solidago
Goldenrod’s small yellow sunflowers bloom late summer and into autumn, when the days become shorter and nights become longer. They contain the energy of the late-summer sun, offering warmth and light to illuminate dark, damp spaces within our bodies. The plant’s botanical name, Solidago, comes from the Latin words solidus, “whole,” and ago, “to make.” Goldenrod is a medicine of transition, balance, wholeness, and integration.

Goldenrod is considered a weed by many in North America and is often blamed for late-summer allergies, because their striking recognizable blossoms appear at the time people begin to sneeze. But goldenrod pollen is too heavy and sticky to be blown far from the flowers that are pollinated by bees, flies, wasps, and butterflies. The inconspicuous culprit for our seasonal allergies is ragweed, with its green camouflaged flowers that bloom at the same time and are pollinated by wind.

Goldenrod tincture and tea is a remedy for the very allergies they often take the blame for, and their showy flowers can be made into a wonderful yellowish-gold dye. This beautiful North American native has naturalized throughout Europe, Asia, and parts of Africa and can help us find our way as we transform and learn to embrace change.

BURDOCK  Arctium lappa
Burdock root is a concentrated taproot that reaches deep into the soil to help us ground. With medicine that nourishes the adrenals, burdock root calms the fight-or-flight response and can ease our worries about the unknown. Burdock roots go deep into the earth to access minerals held in the subsoil, and, like all taproots, have a nourishing quality, as they act as a storehouse for vital nutrients. A powerful yet gentle medicine, burdock acts as a blood cleanser, liver support, and prebiotic for our diverse microbiome. The tincture and tea nourish the skin, lymph, kidneys, liver, and gallbladder and strengthen immunity.

Since burdock is a biennial, the root, the most commonly used part of the plant, is generally harvested in autumn at the end of its first year of growth or in the second spring. By fall of the second year, burdock flowers become brown burrs full of seeds that attach to passing animals. The plants seed themselves at the edges of woods, along roadsides, in meadows, and anywhere the earth has been disturbed. The botanical name, Arctium, is derived from the Greek arktos, meaning “bear.”

POISON IVY
Poison ivy is a shape-shifting medicine of attention. Her “leaves of three” and camouflaged climbing vines demand that we watch where we’re going and be mindful. Poison ivy belongs to the Anacardiaceae plant family, which includes mango, pistachios, and cashews. She blossoms in June, and her flowers are followed by clusters of small, globular, berry-like fruits. The root of the plant is reddish and branching, growing into the ground, while inconspicuous winding vines blend up into tree trunks and extend branches and leaves that morph into the tree they intend to protect.

Jewelweed, a soothing natural remedy for poison ivy’s sting, often grows alongside her, ready to help those who are aware. But a lot of the time, people pay very little attention to where they are going or what is happening in the ecosystem, and so see neither poison ivy nor jewelweed. Poison ivy makes us pay with an irritating rash and, for some, an extreme blistering burn. The plant’s message is specific to humans—birds and other creatures eat the berries, and goats, cows, and deer can browse the foliage with no problem.

Today, as more forests and lands are destroyed for agriculture, suburban sprawl, and general consumption, poison ivy’s potency and presence increases. According to the research of Jacqueline Mohan and colleagues from Duke University, this plant will become more widespread and aggressive in the future. As atmospheric carbon levels rise, not only does the amount of urushiol, the toxin in the plant, increase, but poison ivy’s chemical balance changes, meaning that the plant’s potency has doubled since 1960 and will continue to intensify with more atmospheric carbon.⁴ If that isn’t a defensive act from Earth herself, I don’t know what is. The more humans destroy the environment, the more poison ivy becomes a warrior.

YEW  Taxus baccata
Yew trees can live to be thousands of years old, rooting and forming new trunks where their branches touch the ground. In many Earth-centered traditions, this tree represents death, resurrection, and immortality. Native Americans of the Pacific Northwest Coast used Pacific yew, Taxus brevifolia, as medicine and harvested branches and staves for bows and canoe paddles, whenever possible collecting sustainably from living trees. They made spirit poles, death masks, shaman’s wands, and other ceremonial objects from the sacred wood. Some tribes call the yew the “Chief of the Forest.”⁵ The English yew, Taxus baccata, was sacred to the Celts and is said to contain the experiences, knowledge, and understanding of the ancestors. In Ogham, the Celtic writing system, the yew tree is iodhad, the twentieth letter of the alphabet, and in the Gaelic spoken language, the yew is the ninth letter, iogh. Both systems of communication are embedded in the natural world, and each alphabet is based upon trees.⁶ In their natural state, these evergreens, whose power is pruned into long, rectangular hedgerows, might live to be thousands of years old, rooting and forming new trunks where their branches touch the ground. This supernatural power was harnessed in magician’s wands, and the slow-growing, tightly grained wood was made into the infamous longbows of the Middle Ages. Native Americans of the Northwest also prized yew for archery: haida, their name for yew, means “bow tree.”⁷ In both cultures, arrows were tipped with poison made from the tree. The entire tree is poisonous—wood, bark, needles, and seed. The only edible part is the red berry (but the seed in the center must not be consumed), and the poisonous part of the yew, carefully extracted, is most frequently used in hunting and medicine.

There are countless other beneficial healers growing in forests, through cracks in the sidewalk, and in abandoned lots. Intimacy with the inner and outer wild offers us a profound sense of belonging, something that no one—nor any life event, lost job, or missed mark—can ever take away. The faster we come to understand that we are nature and not separate from the web of life, the better off we’ll be as individuals, and the better off our shared home, our planet, will be. The information we need to heal this world is not more statistics and stories of doom but stories about our interconnection, along with practices that slow us down and reinforce symbiosis. When we realize the incredible generosity of Mother Earth and our bodies, and truly see the awe-inspiring creatures that we are related to, I believe we cannot help but fall in love. We don’t have to cultivate a connection to the earth, we only have to acknowledge and remember the connection that already is.