By Sarah Williams
When people ask what drew me to herbalism, there are two stories that I tell. One is of my time working in the Mojave desert, where my boss—a botanist by training—would point out various native plants and tell me snippets of how the indigenous people of the area used them for food or medicine (he always spoke of this in the past tense). For him, it was an interesting tidbit of information, but I thought, “couldn’t we still?” This story is true, but the deeper truth goes back many years, to my childhood.
Unlike some herbalists, I didn’t grow up roaming the woods and fields, learning plant medicine at my grandmother’s knee. We lived in a modest city neighborhood, and while my parents gardened and took us to the parks, the plants that surrounded us remained largely an anonymous green backdrop of our daily lives. Tomatoes and tulips were about the extent of our botanical knowledge or interest.
But in the evenings, as we settled in for bed, my dad would tell us stories. Most often, he would read to us from the great fantasy epics of the time: The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings, and The Chronicles of Narnia. I would listen, enthralled, as he described dryads dancing in the moonlight, journeys through strange lands, navigating by rivers and ancient ruins, kings curing a deadly affliction with a wild-growing plant, animals that spoke words of wisdom or warning, elves that sang to the stars and remembered the making of mountains. I couldn’t have said, at the time, why these images exerted such a strong pull on my young psyche. I only knew that they warmed my heart and made me feel both hopeful and fearless.
The years passed, and I outgrew bedtime stories. I earned my degree, started a career, and bought a house. I was a proper adult—life was perhaps less whimsical than it had been, but I was secure and reasonably content. And then one day, I picked up a copy of Herb Quarterly that someone had left lying on a table. It didn’t take long for me to be drawn in. I had always loved nature, and studied it scientifically, but this was something different. It was somehow familiar—this easy, practical intimacy with plants and the natural world. As I read, immersing myself in each article, I felt the awakening of an old feeling: joy and hope and courage and a powerful curiosity. It was the feeling of magic that those stories had stirred in me years ago—the feeling that I had thought must be left behind with the innocence of childhood.
Looking back, I can see why the characters in those tales fascinated me so. They held great power and seemingly limitless possibility, drawn not from their own cleverness or strength (though they had those too), but from their deep understanding of—and relationship with—the natural world. In respectful partnership with the earth itself, the plants and animals, they could never be truly lost or defeated, nor were they ever alone. Now, here was that same magic in real life, available to each of us so long as we are willing to listen and learn. This, I believe, is a large part of the healing that herbal medicine offers us, as individuals and as a people—the power of connection, the power of belonging in the world.
Of course, there are strictly physical, biochemical aspects as well that are quite important and worth knowing. As conventional medicine becomes less accessible for many, not to mention fraught with errors, knowing how to tend to our own health is a valuable skill. However, the practice of herbalism encompasses so much more. The root of much of what plagues us is loneliness, helplessness, and fear. The reasons that these are so prevalent in our society are many and varied, and beyond the scope of this essay, but we are now, it seems, at the turning of the tide.
We have grown weary of separation, and discovered the limitations of rationalism. While we appreciate the lessons of the age of enlightenment, our souls long for the wonder and wild knowing that somehow got left along the way. Herbalism is one path by which we may find this again. The same part of us that remembers the magic of moonlight and stories around campfires, remembers the plants as food and medicine, yes, as well as companions and caretakers for uncounted generations. The old traditions of healing not only soothe our bodies and minds, they connect us to our ecosystems, to our ancestors, and not least, to each other. Our community, though growing, is still small, and we know how precious each kindred spirit is. We cherish the culture of integrity and care and are grateful to be among healers. As together we rediscover the magic of our world, and our own innate potential within it, we are finding our way toward completeness. As the elders now say, the plants are calling us home.
Sarah Williams has been studying and practicing plant medicine for the past 15 years. She is a wildcrafter, gardener, clinician, teacher, potion-maker and—always—a student. She is the herbalist behind Willow Moon Botanicals in Toledo, OH and a founding organizer of the Great Lakes Herb Faire. Find more information about the Great Lakes Herb Fair at greatlakesherbfaire.org. Visit Williams online at willowmoonbotanicals.weebly.com or email her at sarah17.williams@gmail.com.
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