Defiant Wisdom

Tag: herbal initiation

Stories of transformational relationships with plants — not as remedies, but as teachers, guides, or provocateurs.

  • Smudging with Mugwort

    Smudging with Mugwort

    They say mugwort is the ancestral herb, used for centuries to open portals between this world and those that came before it.
    I didn’t know that when I started smudging my room with it.

    I’d never even heard of smudging until I got to Arran. The farm was welcoming, but the house was strange. At night, I’d hear the front door open and close. Once, I heard a bedroom door handle turn. I lay frozen in bed, wide awake.
    The place felt off. I couldn’t rest.

    One night, while I was out with a housemate, the others smudged the house with sage. When we returned, the energy was different. Calmer. Like something heavy had finally left the building.

    Eighteen months later, that same housemate mentioned she’d been smudging her bedroom, in an effort to sleep, without knowing why she couldn’t. Her words brought it all back. I’d been walking with mugwort, drinking tea made from it, and something in me stirred.

    I bound a small bundle of mugwort with cotton thread. Smudged carefully. Let in some air. Went to sleep.

    I woke crying.
    The dream was Misunderstanding and Violence.
    Something had been released—shoved violently out of me in tears.

    A few months later, while cleaning, I smudged again. I hadn’t planned to. I didn’t prepare. That night, I woke at midnight—completely alert. I paced the house.
    Hours later, I dreamed again: The Break-In.
    Only this time, it didn’t feel like my dream.

    Both dreams were laced with fear, instinct and attack. Both came after smudging with mugwort. Both now felt like warnings.
    I had just been writing about my maternal great-grandmother, Catherine. The woman who gave too much, who overextended past safety.

    What if those dreams weren’t mine at all?
    What if mugwort didn’t just facilitate dreams, but opened up the dreams of the dead?
    What if I didn’t dream about Catherine—
    but through her?

  • Seeds in the Attic

    Seeds in the Attic

    The Dream

    The attic.
    Dark,
    cold.
    I lift
    the corner
    of a rug.

    Seed trays
    underneath.
    I look at
    the seedlings—
    struggling.

    Belladonna
    I think.
    But no.

    On closer
    inspection
    they’re ribes
    afterall.

    The Meaning

    attic
    A higher space of insight and memory.

    seed trays
    Hidden, forgotten growth. At first I mistake it for poison, but on closer look—it’s food. What I feared was dangerous is simply misunderstood.

    What Lingers…

    What if fear clouds what’s simply waiting to nourish?

    What if curiosity is all it takes to turn poison into fruit?

    Marginalia

    In The Attic, the Shite, and the Kettle, I’m desperate to get into the attic. It’s painful work. In How the Fuck Do I Water This Fig? I tend to what’s growing out of the ceiling, regardless.

    Now, with access to the attic, I’m reassured: not everything is as frightful as I expected. The attic might even have something useful to share.
    It reminds me how often people who’ve lived through torrid experience become lanterns for others in that same place. Trauma can be a site — not to remain trapped in, but to guide others through.

  • How the F*@k Do I Water This Fig?

    How the F*@k Do I Water This Fig?

    The Dream

    My back,
    arched.
    I look
    up.

    How the f*@k
    do I water
    this fig?

    Growing down,
    from the
    ceiling–
    no less.

    Awkward,
    and yet–
    requiring
    my care.

    The Meaning

    ceiling
    The higher self, the divine — dropped into the everyday.

    fig tree
    A symbol of knowledge, shame, fertility, protection. Here it hangs awkwardly from above, still demanding care.

    growing
    Not rooted in the ground, but descending from the top down. Inconvenient, unconventional — and I’m still trying to nurture it.

    What Lingers…

    What if grounding doesn’t always rise from below, but descends from somewhere less expected—and more true?

    What if all knowledge isn’t learned, but nurtured into being?

    Marginalia

    My fig tree, dried to a crisp. Still alive but very sick. In waking life, I bring it inside to keep my eye on it. Perhaps it has more to teach me than I’ve yet allowed myself to learn?

    This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to care for herbs in dreamland, despite an inhospitable environment. In The Wind Wasn’t Even That Bad I try planting Rhubarb in a campsite. In The Attic, the Shite, and the Kettle, I’m trying to gain access into the space above. The experience is painful.

  • Sowing Meadowsweet

    Sowing Meadowsweet

    The Dream

    Darkness.
    Soil.
    Meadowsweet
    seeds.
    I scatter them
    lightly
    across
    the mound.

    A flowerbed
    prepared,
    or is this
    a fresh new
    grave?
    I never
    could
    tell.

    The Meaning

    sowing seeds
    The intention is growth—something new taking root.

    grave/flowerbed
    But the ground is uncertain.
    Am I planting into rich compost,
    or laying life into rot?

    What Lingers…

    What if growth and grief share the same soil—and the only difference is what’s acknowledged?

    What if the act of planting is enough, even if the ground only knows loss?

    Marginalia

    This is the second time I’ve dreamed of seeds and graves. In Poppy Seeds in a Rush of Yes, I was eager to buy seeds. In The Body in the Greenhouse, I drew attention to the secret buried in foundations meant for nourishment.

    Here, I’ don’t know’m unaware of what I’m planting into — but I seed with the intention that my efforts will bring a positive reward.

    Around this time, I’d gathered some wild Meadowsweet seeds but they never made it to my garden. Instead, they were forgotten in a pocket and sent through the wash. The powdery scent lingered on the clothes as I pulled them from the machine.

    I didn’t know until afterwards that Meadowsweet has been linked with burial rituals since the Bronze Age; its scent is believed to have helped mask the decay of the cadaver.

    But for the moment, it seems Meadowsweet isn’t mine to work with. I missed the blooms and lost the seeds but I trust she’ll return to me to when the time is right.

  • Valerian | The Morrígans tea

    Valerian | The Morrígans tea

    Through the gate—
    leaves rot underfoot.
    Damp roses
    and decay hang.

    Apple pie,
    custard,
    toasted almonds
    and spice.

    This is Samhain—
    liminal space.
    A horse-drawn carriage
    of death
    follows a bountiful
    harvest.

    The crow flies,
    a tinnitus whisper
    at the edge
    of sleep.

    The Morrígan
    invites.

    A predictor of futures,
    an agent of change.
    She lights the lamp.
    Lifts the veil.
    She is fate.

    Fear has left now.
    Only peace remains.

  • Fireweed | A Phoenix from the Ashes

    Fireweed | A Phoenix from the Ashes

    Chamaenerion angustifolium. 

    Familiarity breeds contempt. She’s always been there. Each year she becomes louder, more demanding, and each year, I shut her out. Pull her up and curse her under my breath. But when I tried to grow various herbs in pots and all I got was fireweed, I had to rethink her presence in my life.

    Having spent years in battle, I’d resigned myself to accepting her. She had spunk. And, given the consideration, her tendril-like leaves and fuchsia bonnet weren’t ugly. In fact, she was a damn sight better looking than bare earth.

    Our relationship started with me harvesting her from our garden. She wasn’t even in the back. No, she was cleverly colonising the borders and had even started to take a punt at the lawn.

    Slowly, deliberately, I firmly pulled at the base of her stems, until she gave up the fight and relaxed into my hands. She’s actually quite a shallow weed—much like Yarrow—easy to unearth if needed.

    Sitting at the garden table with the sun at my back, I slowly peeled away a leaf, inspecting it carefully on each side before placing it into a bowl. I continued in a rhythmic meditation until my bowl was full and I was left with a mound of naked stems.

    Was she happy now? I pondered.

    For two days I allowed the leaves to ferment before baking them in a low oven. Apparently, this would deepen the flavours.

    I cropped another fist of stems. This bunch would dry on the stem. So I can compare the taste, I thought.

    Honestly, I wasn’t impressed. The notes—too high. The taste—too astringent. I came, I smelt, I tasted, and I went. I felt no alignment with this weed. We remained strangers, even if now we were in acceptance of each other’s proximity.

    But by now, I know not to ignore my herbal allies when they call for me. And usually, I get a lot from them energetically—but this one… well, she didn’t say much, considering she was so bloody loud in every other way.

    Rosebay Willowherb (another of her common names, though I prefer fireweed) has virtues including demulcent, tonic, and astringent properties, with historical use in treating intestinal affections. Modern uses include treatment for seborrheic dermatitis and ulcerative colitis, among others.

    And there I wobbled my head and lol’d. Having been diagnosed with UC a few years back, and only recently with seborrheic dermatitis—after suffering for over twenty years—my head did a little high-five for ‘yay herbs’.

    And then I went back to ignoring her again.

    Every time I opened the door, a few more crusty leaves would drop to the floor. And I’d vacuum them up without a second thought—whilst scratching my ears… like I’ve done for years.

    When I know something is good or bad for me, sometimes, just knowing isn’t enough for me to change. I don’t know what it is inside that finally causes me to snap out of inertia and change behaviour.

    Often I wonder if it’s when something becomes so unbearable, or the downsides far outweigh the good. When the payoff to do different is rewarding enough.

    And it’s in self-reflection here that I started to wonder if I’d become married to my conditions. Why would I be holding onto these afflictions like a scabby old blanket? Did I think I was special? Or did I think, deep down, I didn’t deserve to be well?

    Or maybe fireweed just wasn’t tasty enough to endure on a daily basis—stripping the enamel off my teeth with every sip.

    A few weeks later I dreamed… guess who?
    Yeah, there she was, on my ‘to-do’ list like a herbal calling card.

    Fireweed was now basically saying: For fuck’s sake, Lee. I colonised your garden, your seed trays, and now your dreams, you daft bitch. Sort yourself out!

    That morning, I made myself a cup of fireweed tea.
    Okay okay, I said. I’m listening.

    And I gave her the space she’d been demanding from me. I sat down as I do, glass cup in hand, and we walked.

    Nothing dark.
    All the high notes:
    Lemon.
    Astringent.
    Drying.
    Bitter.
    Floral.
    Green apple.
    Fruit… cherry?
    Drying my teeth.
    Squeak squeak.

    Why aren’t we vibing? I thought.

    “Never mind we don’t vibe.
    Drink your medicine.    “

    Fireweed wasn’t here to vibe.
    She was here as the medicine I so obviously needed but was reluctant to accept. And she, just like me wasn’t about to give up on her opinion that she was right and I should get my big girl pants on and do the work instead of nodding in agreement only half convinced about the way forward.

    Sometimes you don’t have to be convinced of the way, you just have to take the information you have on hand and make a judgment call based on facts, not feelings.

    The path might be boring and uneventful but necessary nevertheless.

    Bottoms up.

  • Fireweed and Bunny Munro

    Fireweed and Bunny Munro

    The Dream

    Herb school.
    I was struggling to learn.

    My teacher asked me:
    “Do you know the route of Bunny Munro?
    The low road along the river?
    The one he took to go fishing?”

    I nodded, uncertainly.

    “Then you know where I live.
    Come round at 7:00,
    and I’ll take you through it.
    A list.
    Of things to do.”

    Fireweed.

    It’s the only entry I can recall.

    The Meaning

    school
    The new path forward.
    But I’m struggling.
    And I need help.

    teacher
    She’s willing to guide me—
    but she expects me to take the path Bunny didn’t take.

    river
    The emotional low road.
    Inward.
    Following the bank of my inner landscape.

    The river = emotion.
    Fishing = delving.
    Go deep. Go slow.

    7
    The number of the divine.
    A cosmic nudge:
    Take the hard, boring, muddy path through your emotions.
    Fish out what’s true.
    Show up at my place at 7—and everything will become clear.

    fireweed
    She grows from ashes. We’re going to need her.

    What Lingers…

    What if the path to healing runs low, not high— through mud, not sky?

    What if blooming from ashes isn’t a miracle, but a method Fireweed already knows and can teach?

    Marginalia

    I’m waiting to begin a new herbal medicine course, and my dreams are pulling old patterns and fears to the surface. This is the second in a series of herb school dreams.

    In Incense Blocks & Period Costumes, I weigh old ways against new.
    In Competence vs. Compassion, I’m profiled by my tutors.
    In I Was Late, Afterall, I abandon my own needs for accountability.
    In Flawed but Trying, I’m exposed in my mess while defending my son.

    Journaling helps to see the tapestry being woven: the curriculum beneath my surface, the lessons I didn’t know I was studying.

  • Your Chamomile Is Not My Mugwort

    Your Chamomile Is Not My Mugwort

    Matricaria,
    Artemisia,
    the mother—
    and the aunt.

    Auntie Mugwort
    won’t look away
    or roast
    when you’ve been bad.

    “Come, child,
    take a chair.”
    In front of the fire
    she brews.

    She strokes the hair
    out from your eyes
    and makes you feel
    at ease.

    “Rest now,” she says.

    A biscuit
    she will offer.
    Wheaty, sweet—
    it almost tastes
    too good.

    She’s seen things—
    her silver hair,
    burgundy dress,
    moths in her
    wolf-fur coat.

    Holding,
    sighing,
    breathing,
    stroking,
    slowing—
    what
    don’t you know?

    Her sing-song voice—
    in your mind
    you’re drifting,
    drifting now,

    as she slips out—
    for a smoke.

  • Poppy Seeds in a Rush of Yes

    Poppy Seeds in a Rush of Yes

    The Dream

    I dropped everything
    I went
    to the garden centre
    I bought poppy seeds.

    I was
    so excited.

    The Meaning

    dropping everything
    Freedom. Urgency. Joy taking precedence.

    the garden centre
    The source of potential. A sanctum place of future beauty.

    poppy seeds
    Poppies symbolise: Sleep and dreams, remembrance (grief, history, ancestors), wild beauty and literal psychoactive transformation. I’m not planting daisies. I’m planting something deep, something ancient. And I’m thrilled at the idea of cultivating something that could change me.

    What Lingers…

    What if joy doesn’t need justification to be sacred?

    What if the deepest transformations begin with the tiniest seeds—planted in a rush of yes?

    Marginalia

    I’d written the story of my ancestry research: It Began with a Name. This is the dream I was rewarded with. Clearly, the ancestors are delighted with the progress I’ve made. There is celebration and the joy of planting something new, so unlike the heaviness of The Body in the Greenhouse.

    In waking life, I did go and buy poppy seeds. It seemed only fitting to add some to my herb garden. I didn’t press them neatly into the soil—I just threw them across the bed. Now I’ll wait, and see what rises next season.

  • Valerian | Descent with the Morrígan

    Valerian | Descent with the Morrígan

    Valerian showed up in shadows—
    of sleepless nights, dark woods,
    and quiet omens.

    She shapeshifts—
    like her effects:
    soothing one dreamer; haunting the next.

    This is how she arrived—
    not with clarity,
    but dripping in contradiction.

    I tried to choose her.
    She doesn’t explain.
    But I kept showing up.
    And then, so did she.

    Valerian is not for comfort.
    She’ll take your hand,
    walk you to the edge—
    and show you the dark sea
    beyond your waking mind’s eye.

    If it suits.

    This is the story of that descent—
    and what I found, where she led me.

    Perhaps you’ve met her too?

    —

    The First Descent

    I was desperate to sleep.
    I tried magnesium, sleep hygiene,
    all the usual rituals.

    Then I tried her.

    She didn’t soothe—
    she stalked.
    Her scent was feral.
    Fermented.
    Strangely beguiling.

    She unfolded herself
    in layers of ambivalence.

    I learned this the hard way—
    through the morning hangover
    she gave me
    when I didn’t respect
    her nocturnal virtues.

    That was my first lesson—
    she demands reverence,
    not assumption.

    Meeting the Morrígan

    By the time of tea tasting,
    I recognised her.

    With my eyes closed.
    Mind open.
    Tea warming my hands.

    She arrived:

    It’s time to hunker down,
    by the fireside.

    With rose petals and decay.
    A wood hut.
    Mulched leaves.
    There’s dankness in the air.

    Apple pie
    and custard,
    laced with toasted almonds
    and spice.

    This is autumn—
    Samhain.

    A pregnant, liminal space.
    A bountiful harvest—
    followed by
    the horse-drawn carriage of death.

    —

    To me, Valerian is the Morrígan—
    not because she told me,
    but because of how I felt her:

    Cloaked, paradoxical,
    full of omen.

    A crow in the shadows.
    A whisper at the edge of sleep.
    The one who lifts the veil
    between this world
    and the next.

    A predictor of futures,
    an agent of death.
    She lights the lamp.
    Opens the gate.
    She is fate.

    The Trickster Herb

    My herbal apprenticeship required
    two immersions on the Isle of Arran.

    Each time, we were asked
    to walk with a herb in flower.

    During my first trip, I chose Dandelion.
    But Valerian’s leaves were spotted—
    always in the shadows,
    on thresholds,
    waiting.

    She’s not like her namesake sisters,
    you know,
    the showy red and ashy blonde
    that root into stone,
    waving from the roadside…
    “Cooie!!!”

    No.
    Valerie is aloof.

    On my second trip—
    I chose her.

    But again, only her leaves appeared.

    Why was I chasing her?
    I can’t be certain.
    Isn’t it nature to want
    what we don’t have?

    Instead Yarrow took my hand.
    And Valerian stalked
    as a hooded crow—
    watching from the edges of the shore.

    Oil & Omen

    Yarrow and Valerian were intertwined by now.
    So on my return, I ordered both as oil.

    Valerian’s scent made me queasy.
    I shelved the idea.

    Maybe she wasn’t mine after all.

    A year on, Yarrow had barged into my life.
    And still—no sign of Valerian in bloom.

    That summer, admiring my parents’ garden,
    a magpie landed on the grass.

    Then another—
    demanding, loud, open-beaked.

    Its mother fed it.
    I’d never seen that before.

    And I knew.
    A message had arrived.

    The Scent, The Descent

    Back home, I opened my plant ID app.
    The notification bell was alight.

    A confirmation of an observation:

    Valeriana officinalis.

    I was bemused.
    How could I have been obsessing over this herb—
    taken a photo of her—
    and not even realised?

    But I had.

    I had an idea.
    I added two drops of Yarrow
    and one drop of Valerian oil
    to my burner.

    I breathed deeply—
    because you can’t quite make out
    what you’re sensing.

    Naturally,
    you take your time.

    Each breath:
    deeper, slower, more deliberate.

    Each one,
    a step down
    into the basement of my dreamland home—
    the staircase which leads directly
    down onto the seashore.

    At high tide, the last few steps:
    beneath the surface.

    But today,
    I hear children playing.
    The tide is low
    and the weather is stunning.

    I’m descending now,
    a single rope around my waist.

    Yarrow—provides Valerian with a boundary.
    Yarrow catches the gate open with her foot.
    So the descent can be made—
    with a safe route back.

    The Message

    The next day,
    my son had found a small bird—
    not moving.

    He’d nurtured it to recovery
    until it flew away.

    He set up his camera in the garden.
    He wanted to see if it returned.

    The next day, he came in.
    “Look what I captured on my cam, Mum…”

    Ah yes, I thought quietly.
    Magpies.

    Valerian was ready—
    to feed me.

    Valerian and Yarrow journeyed me
    to meet my sleeping ancestors.

    The message?
    Seek their eyes.

    They’ve been waiting
    for yours.