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.
