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Gaian Rants | ||||||||
The Magical Garden | ||||||||
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Inner forces are as intricate as outer forms, having shape, color, texture, and so on but of finer and richer substance. When you look at plants, you know that what you see has an inner counterpart simply pulsating with life. When you think of the plants as glowing and moving with life, you in fact add to that life. At the same time, it puts you in touch with the Source of all life and generates power and more life all around you.
Everyone should have a garden, even if it’s just a window box of herbs or flowers. For years I lived in an apartment and gardened on my third floor balcony. I grew a variety of herbs and edible flowers as well as lettuce, celery, and tomatoes. That little garden kept me sane. When I moved to Maine the first thing I did, even before the furniture arrived, was start a garden. Years of activism had filled me with a kind of despair that only the Earth could heal and I took to the garden as though my life depended on it. Over the years I’ve come to understand that the prevailing belief that plants are alive but don’t have spirit or consciousness is false. As a child I knew this instinctively. So it was natural to approach my current garden intuitively, to let the space and the plants speak to me. My intent is to learn from the nature spirits, to hear their voices in my heart and feel their energy as I work among them. Each spring before I begin to prepare the soil or to plant, I bless the garden and invite the nature spirits to join me. I promise to do my best to listen and to balance my desire for a productive garden with the free spirits of the plants, insects, worms, snakes, toads, and other creatures that live in a healthy garden. And every time I enter the garden I greet the spirits and devas, the bees and other helpful creatures. This centers me and is my signal to let go of any frustrations or “mood” I may be in. The exceptions are sadness or despair. These I take to the garden because I know they will be transformed into gratitude and hope. I don’t see devas or fairies, at least not as little beings throughout the garden, but at certain times of the day, such as late afternoon or after it rains, I do see tiny sparks of light flitting around certain plants or a glowing aura over parts of the garden. And when I walk through the gate I am often moved to tears by the beauty and fragrance that greet me, and an overwhelming presence of love fills my heart. Always the garden is luminous, especially on cloudy days, and always I am aware that the garden is holy. While I love the delicious vegetables my garden provides, herbs are my passion. I believe herbs that grow where we live are best suited to heal us. It makes sense. We share the same place on Earth, are influenced by the same vibrations. I also believe our relationship with healing plants evolves over time. New uses for old friends may be discovered. Reading books is helpful but nothing compares with getting to know a plant from seed to harvest, year after year. Every year a particular herb attracts my attention. This is my teacher. For example, remember the June we got about a foot of rain? Every day I walked the garden checking for signs of rot. I was not happy. Most of the plants weren’t thrilled either. Then one misty afternoon as I made my rounds I heard, “Look at me!” I ignored it. “Look at me!” it repeated, this time much louder. So I looked. I was standing in front of the bee balm and it blew me away. Not only was it almost as tall as me, it was glowing, vibrating with light as if the sun was shining from within. I was overcome with its beauty. In that moment I fell in love with bee balm. That summer I feasted on its scent and the vibrant color of the blooms, got to know the bees who loved it as much as I did, drank its tea, made bee balm flower essence, and dried the flowers for winter. Now I know bee balm. It is my friend and lives in my heart — as well as the garden. When I first moved here my nerves were shot so I planted valerian, hops, and skullcap. One beautiful July morning it was time to harvest the skullcap for tincture. I entered the garden, approached the skullcap patch, and announced my intention. After I felt I had permission I began cutting, carefully choosing the stalks with the tenderest leaves and freshest flowers. When I had enough I thanked the spirit of the plant. At the potting bench I stripped the leaves and flowers from the stalks keeping in mind that I was making medicine. I filled a quart mason jar, added vodka to the top, and screwed on the cap. Then I closed my eyes and shook. Immediately I saw the skullcap patch. It glowed and tiny creatures of light were flitting about. A sense of joyful relaxation filled me. I held onto this vision and feeling while shaking the tincture and stopped when it felt right. It was great stuff. (I let my tinctures steep for six weeks before straining). Once we are given the gift of knowing a plant, it is with us forever. There are some who believe once this happens we don’t even need the physical herb for healing, the essence or spirit is enough. Plant Spirit Medicine as it is called, may well be the next step in partnership between the plant kingdom and humans. At this point in time I’ll use the physical herbs but an experience I had with elecampagne, my teacher for the past two years, is intriguing. Elecampagne is a very tall, striking perennial with huge fuzzy leaves and yellow flowers. It has been used for hundreds of years by Native Americans to treat lung disorders, including coughs. For years I was plagued by a cough that began in the fall, persisted throughout winter, gradually improving over the summer only to resume in the fall. The year before elecampagne became my teacher was one of the worst. Last-resort-antibiotics only took the edge off. That spring I was drawn to the elecampagne. I hung out with it over the spring and summer, quietly paying attention. I noted that by the time elecampagne had emerged from the ground my cough was gone. That fall I carefully harvested the root for tincture, grateful to have medicine for my yearly cough. But it never came. And this past winter, the same thing. The spirit of elecampagne seems to have worked its magic. Gardening is much more than planting, weeding, watering and harvesting, although it is all these things. Gardening involves us in a personal relationship with the Earth. Our attitude and intentions, our mood when we enter the garden space, and our openness to the wonders that live in a healthy garden all determine the quality of the relationship. Think of it as becoming friends. | ||||||||
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