Defiant Wisdom

Category: Herbal Allies

Plant-centred writing that explores herbs as teachers, protectors, disruptors, and companions in personal transformation.

  • Yarrow | The Forging of a Shield

    Yarrow | The Forging of a Shield

    I’m afraid this story isn’t logical.
    How could it be, when it’s about how a herb—
    Yarrow, to be exact—initiated me?

    She barged into my psychic sphere and unpacked her bags.
    I didn’t invite her, but I didn’t stop her either.
    She guides you through transformation.
    Then slaps you if you get cocky.

    She’s not here for laughs or snacks.
    She demands attention.
    Commitment.

    If Valerian splits the ground to the underworld,
    Yarrow cracks the sky to insight.

    —

    When I began training as a herbalist, I started with an apprenticeship on the Isle of Arran.
    This wasn’t some cute wellness gig—
    it was survival.

    My body had gone rogue,
    serving up a cocktail of autoimmune chaos I couldn’t soothe.
    My mind? Gone.
    Packed a bag.
    Left a note:
    On vacay. Back… maybe never.

    I wasn’t on a journey to find myself.
    I was trying to stitch myself back together.

    There were two immersions on the island.
    Each time, we were asked to choose a herb to walk with.
    The first time, I chose Dandelion.
    The second time, I walked with Yarrow.

    Actually, let’s be honest—I’m pretty sure the herb chose me.
    I’d never even heard of Yarrow.
    I’d wanted to walk with Valerian, but she ghosted me.
    Instead, Yarrow stepped in.

    I didn’t know it then, but Yarrow is the herb that moves you forward.
    Most people think the hard part is making a decision—
    but the real transformation begins when you act on it.
    That’s where Yarrow thrives.

    When I met her, I was at the end of my apprenticeship.
    My mind had already left the building.

    I can’t package my experience into something tidy.
    That’s not how it works for me—
    or, I suspect, for anyone who walks with herbs.

    I know, I sound like a barn pot, don’t I?

    So I’m going to share it here—raw.
    These are my notes.
    No logic.
    Just sensation, memory, and myth,
    woven together into what I learned about Yarrow during our time together on the island.

    It started with a tea tasting.
    I closed my eyes.
    And here’s what came to me
    as the tea settled in.

    —

    A thousand yellow trumpets morph into a million brains,
    skulls and faces.
    This is war.

    Breathing dragon fire,
    licking.
    Barbed claws.

    Power. Strength.
    Brain,
    nerves,
    blood,
    lungs.

    A thousand hands.
    Gripping.

    Mythical creature—multiple heads.
    Is it Medusa, or Cerberus?

    Transformation through trauma.
    Owning one’s fate.
    Reclaiming power and narrative.

    Absorbing external energies without being consumed by them.
    Protection from those outside forces.
    Transcendence from trauma—sexual trauma.

    Love incantations—guide me.
    Flowers are sweet—
    notes like valerian and basil.

    Yarrow essential oil:
    lifts up, up, and away.
    Cutting through.

    Tastes like butter—Werther’s Original.
    Then green, floral, soapy.
    Astringent aftertaste.
    Draws down.

    —

    Medusa had claimed her place as an ally,
    and from what I gathered from the other herbalists,
    she was a formidable force to have on your side.

    —

    The next time yarrow appeared, it was in a dream.
    I rarely remember my dreams—only the ones that matter.

    It was the final weekend at my new herb school.
    I’d made the difficult decision to leave,
    the result of a slow-burning misalignment.
    Unfortunate, but necessary.

    That weekend, I felt it again:
    the soft creak of one door closing behind me,
    and the aching pull of another not yet open.

    With nothing more than a vague recollection of her presence,
    I knew: when I got home, I would need to walk with her again.

    So I did.

    I brewed a cup of Yarrow tea—this batch, foraged from the Holy Isle,
    still held its vibrant colour and sharp scent.
    I scorched the feather-like leaves with hot water,
    steam unfurling from the cup as I waited.

    When I poured the pale liquid, her scent hit me:
    that familiar buttery sweetness—her herbal trickery that draws you in,
    right before she cuts you with bitterness at the back of your throat.

    That night, as I settled down, I felt a weight lift as I exhaled.
    The past few months had been exhausting, unrelenting.
    I was finally ready to leave them behind.

    For the first time in a long while, I was looking forward to what came next.

    That night and over the following weeks, I walked with Yarrow each night before bed.
    She initiated me into a series of dreams—
    dense with symbols, saturated with meaning. (you can read the first one here).

    And Yarrow?
    She came back, night after night.
    A guide from the threshold.

    I dreamed of Yarrow sticks drying on a large, circular rack inside an old hut.
    The room was dark, filled with smoke; a fire glowed in the shadows.
    And yet, I felt relaxed—welcome, even.

    I remembered that Yarrow had once been used for divination,
    though I’d never looked deeper.
    That dream nudged me forward.
    Curiosity took root.

    —

    I learned that Yarrow was used in the I Ching—one of the oldest divination systems in existence.
    The ritual is deliberate: fifty sticks, a careful casting, an almost meditative process.
    Yarrow was chosen for her protection and her ability to reveal what lies beneath.

    I decided to try.
    I didn’t have real Yarrow sticks, so I made do with old prayer sticks from China—
    relics from a time when I was sleep-deprived and stressed
    but with lots of stamps in my passport.

    I asked:
    What do I need to know?
    Nourish yourself. The future is auspicious.

    Then came the knock—Amazon.
    Two books: one about nutrition, one on fermentation.
    Of course.

    Yarrow had whispered, and now she was talking.
    I’d been lost, listless after leaving my school.
    I missed mentorship.
    I was cheering my nine-year-old on,
    but craving someone to do the same for me.

    I almost reached out to an old tutor.
    But the message from the oracle was clear:
    Stop looking outwards. You’ve got what you need. Start there.

    Yarrow had called me,
    and spoken to me in a very specific way.

    It now felt rude not to revel with her in the ridiculousness of it all.
    Here she was—having sprung from a cup of tea,
    haunted my dreams,
    and now taking up a whole conversation through the I Ching.

    And not just some vague interpretation like the Tarot, either.
    Oh no.

    She was even slapping my wrist when I asked stupid, naive questions, like
    “Should I use this gift in service to others?”

    The answer loud and clear:
    Don’t run till you can walk, newbie…
    and ask me anything else dumb and I’ll ignore you altogether.

    I learned that while Yarrow might not let me be frivolous in her company…
    she can be snarky as hell when the situation requires.

    —

    When I dreamt of yarrow again, I was asking a woman:
    “Where can I find yarrow growing wild?”
    “By the river,” she said.

    I thought it best to keep my eyes peeled for a patch near a river—
    large enough to make a full set.
    You know, like you do when a herb is haunting your dreamscape.

    That weekend, I was starting training.
    I’d made the decision to volunteer as a mental health peer supporter—
    another new door about to open.

    I was finding it difficult to park for free,
    so I’d pulled up a few streets away.
    I got out of the car and started walking toward the branch.

    Nice garden, I thought.
    Bet Yarrow is in here, I pondered…

    And with that—she appeared.

    A huge, fat bunch, loosely tied into a bushel.
    Contained, or so someone had hoped.
    But failing—spectacularly.

    Yarrow presented with intent.

    This wasn’t just about Yarrow or the I Ching.
    This was about casting. Properly.
    The old way.

    I did a double take—and laughed out loud.
    The river was metaphorical.

    —

    It took me weeks to build the courage.
    I knocked.
    No answer.
    Classic anticlimax.

    So, a week later, I posted a note to the homeowner.
    It felt like a ridiculous question to ask, but—
    please, could I harvest their Yarrow?

    I left my number on the letter and crossed my fingers.
    A few days later, I received a response:
    Of course you may.

    —

    This story isn’t over.
    I still need to harvest this Yarrow.

    But I already know what she’s teaching me.
    The shield is not something you find.
    It’s something you forge—through rupture and return.

    Being human means living with uncertainty.
    It’s not about having all the answers—
    just a persistent tug to go this way,
    and the courage to trust that pull.

    So I ask.
    I cast.
    And Yarrow walks beside me.
    Shield at the ready.
    Snarling when I get cocky.

  • Dandelion Tears | Reclaiming Resilience in Ruins

    Dandelion Tears | Reclaiming Resilience in Ruins

    Dandelion and I go way back.
    As a council kid in the Liverpool suburbs, I knew that if the juice from her stem touched your skin, you’d wet the bed.

    Too bad for me—and much to my mum’s despair—I was already a well-established piss artist, so couldn’t put her magic to the test.
    (Though I would’ve. Absolutely.)

    Dandelions were everywhere, making their disobedience known like graffiti on a pebble-dashed wall.
    They rooted between paving slabs and piles of white dog shit, barged into playgrounds, loitered in the back alleys I wasn’t meant to be playing in.

    And when their heads exploded, we didn’t need persuasion.
    Cheeks puffed out, we told the time.
    “Should we go home?”
    “Nah, not yet.”

    Back then I didn’t realise she was following me.
    Or was she waiting?

    By the time I truly met her—eye to eye, forty years later—I was on a herbalist’s path not by choice, but by breakdown.
    My body was sulking, my brain a blue screen.

    I’d arrived on the island of Arran, just off the coast of Glasgow.
    It was a three-week immersion, part of a year-long herbal apprenticeship.
    We were tasked with studying a single herb during our stay.

    I chose Dandelion.
    No brainer.
    I wanted to learn why she was a piss-the-bed—
    and maybe why I had been too.

    By now, Taraxacum officinale is the queen of herbs to me.
    She’s transcended her reputation as the annoying gatecrasher at my manicured garden party.
    Now I see her for what she was: a relentless invitation, blooming in every cracked corner of the grey city I grew up in.
    Her persistent presence, a perpetual inconvenience.

    After ignoring and persecuting her for most of my life, we were finally introduced properly—through tea, made from her fresh roots.

    Despite it being spring—when now I know you’d expect the roots to be bitter—her tea was sweet.
    Sweeter than I expected. Especially when I didn’t know what to expect.
    It made me pause.

    My notes from this meeting are raw.
    Her voice was loud as she started the conversation:

    —

    You underestimate me.
    I am here.
    Persistent.
    Resilient.
    Protector, companion.
    Adaptable.

    Suncatcher.

    Let me blow the cobwebs away.
    I bring life. I bring vitality.
    I’ll grant your wishes.
    I embrace.

    I hold you.

    I nourish.
    I am the magic of intentional and practical transformation.
    I sit at the boundary of water and fire.
    I move.
    I am Brigid.
    I am the May Queen.

    —

    Her taste: oats, milk, and honey.
    Her song: A Sky of Honey by Kate Bush.
    (Of course. Who else sings about the day in forty minutes?)

    As I learned, Dandelion rids the body of toxicity—mostly via the liver.
    Her bitterness reminds us of the sweetness life can hold if we allow it.
    She helps us let go of physical and emotional waste—through tears, urine, faeces.

    She was my first guide.
    Her real name? Defiant wisdom.

    She came to me in the form of Temperance—a tarot card.
    In this deck, she was Brigid at her cauldron, transforming fire and water into spiritual elixir.

    Alchemy.

    Temperance is a card of balance. It urges us to merge our opposing forces, to practice moderation, patience, healing, and growth.
    Brigid is a natural fit—goddess of fire and water, a bridge between darkness and light.

    I was being asked to do the same.
    To reconcile the warring elements in me.
    Fire and water.
    Passion and sensitivity.
    Impulsivity and connection.

    I’d always been a feral child—an emotionally virulent one.
    They used to call me Miss Electric.
    The feral child got locked away, but the emotions?
    Still joyriding.
    Still burning through my guts for fun.

    My meeting with Dandelion was profound.
    Her tincture: bitter.
    I took her home, and she took me on a journey.

    Dandelion didn’t just purge the shit from my body—
    she purged my life.

    —

    Within twelve months, everything had changed.
    I’d set up as a freelancer to make space for herbal study.
    Started volunteering—first as an apiarist, then as a mental health peer supporter.

    But the herbal school?
    The wrong lighthouse.

    The misalignment showed up almost right away.
    I raised concerns.
    I got dismissals.

    By Christmas, my body had started speaking.
    First a cough that gripped me for a month.
    Then my gut joined in—old pain, old patterns.

    And then? A bombshell.
    The school announced it was “going independent.”

    I sat blinking.
    Some cheered.
    I side-eyed.

    I’d chosen this school for its affiliations. That benchmark was gone.
    I felt a culture of compliance around me.
    I walked out—an outlier.
    Confused, but clear.

    Fury bubbled up.
    I fermented like unburped kimchi preparing to explode.

    —

    I continued south to Cornwall.
    A family holiday.
    It should’ve been restful.
    Instead, my body did what my mouth hadn’t.

    I dragged myself through the days.
    Body cold. Face on fire.
    Ears weeping.
    Skin tearing under fingernails at night.
    Mouth full of ulcers.
    Every bite hurt.

    Go see a GP, the herbs said, recoiling at the mess.

    So I made my move.
    Interviewed at a new school.
    Got a place.
    Accepted.

    —

    As my last school days approached, I decided to make a Dandelion root percolation—
    a parting gift for my classmates.

    Percolating herbs is fiddly.
    You grind, soak, pack, then pour.

    Despite having done this many times, my percolation failed.
    I’d packed her too tight.
    She was as constipated as I was.

    I pierced the root with a skewer. Gently.
    Just enough to breathe.
    Not enough to stir up a shitstorm.

    Not everything has to be destroyed when it doesn’t work.
    Sometimes things just need to breathe.

    —

    I named the tincture Dandelion Tears.
    On the label, I inscribed:

    A failed percolation of Dandelion root. Born not of precision but of perseverance, much like the flower herself. Proof that even among ruins, something stubborn can still be reclaimed. Use whenever resilience must answer your call.

    Even in concrete, Dandelion always finds the smallest crack to escape from.
    She always gets through.

    —

    My last day at school arrived.
    The next chapter stared me dead in the eye.

    It wasn’t going to be easy.
    It was further away.
    More demanding.

    But stay where I was? No way.

    I was tempered to this new path.
    But what if I wasn’t ready?

    Then get ready.

    —

    I chose not to finish the school year or sit exams.
    My experience needed time to rest and repair before I walked the path again.

    I took nothing away but the lessons I’d learned—
    and the medicine I’d made in spite of it all.

    I didn’t owe loyalty to any institution.
    I owed it to my body.
    And the herbs.

    I said goodbye.
    Exited the group chat.
    Thanked my tutors.

    And I purged once more—with Dandelion by my side.

    Still bitter.
    Still sweet.
    Still defiant.