Land Medicine

Although I have to remember he is a passionate carpenter, I'll never forget balling my fists when my husband wanted to talk about all of the things we could build on our 20 acres. The little me somewhere in the basement of my heart wanted to bark at him like a rabid dog, feeling those possibilities were some kind of great injustice to this land I felt wrapped me in a tight maternal and accepting hug every day. I wanted it as is, I wanted it to show me in chapters what it had in store for us. I wanted it to teach me how to slow down, listen, and feel like I had mutual trust with something in my life. That I wouldn’t dare erase anything about it, or take credit for slapping something on top of its broken stems to take in a view that I’ll never truly own, because it’s been here long before me. Looking at the land like some kind of usable or profitable entity made my stomach turn. “Yet another source of healing magic, completely overlooked and taken advantage of… as if we’re entitled to exploit it!” I can’t help but laugh as I picture little me screaming of the injustice atop the big rock in my grandmother’s yard, clad in a cowgirl costume my mom sewed from scraps, covered in dirt yielding a stick I’d tie my collected arrowheads to with a rubber band. She’s the mascot I picture in my head when I discuss the regular injustices innocent animals and nature continually face despite their honest existence.

The simplicity of being somewhere far away, with nothing someone can tie their name to as a reason for its origin, that is where I feel the deepest sense of safety and peace. Where earth and life are free to just be. There is a quality I struggle with - that I have - and I think it's my greatest weakness, although on some days I try to convince myself its a strength when I'm feeling sure of myself. I take getting to know someone, human or animal, too far. I get too invested, I want to know where their broken parts are, and if I can glue them together in efforts to make them feel safe, hoping they’ll see how wonderful I believe they truly are - I can see that little dirt-covered cowgirl crouched saying “you’re safe with me”, cutting ropes to free them of the heavy words, actions - like weights - voices of the past piled on their backs. I blame little me for trying to make injustices of the heart that aren’t mine to fix, just.

Subconsciously I think I chose my land because I feel so tormented and broken when that behavior gets me into trouble with tricky situations, and the people that half to offload harm they’ve held onto to heal. Part of me thought I was putting myself in isolation, in time-out to sort through what I need to improve in myself in efforts to be a stronger, more prepared person for the wild currents and rip tides of life and the people out there I wish I could understand. Despite all I've encountered, I always feel pink and squishy, like a freshly molted crab, too exposed to be out in the world most days. That does her best to fix a tiny arrowhead to a stick with a rubber band just in case, knowing she’ll never use it.

But when I'm home alone, I stay in deep conversation and let who I am flow freely. I often joke that the windy hill I live on is a tumultuous hell-scape - but it gives me stories, lessons, and homework to research. Through this learning I feel as thought I have no need for a calendar in the summer. I know mountain crocus blooms in May, mountain tobacco in June, by late June the lupines paint our hill purple, July I see the wild garlic and harebells dance in the hot wind, mixing with the smell of blooming bergamot at its peak before being diluted by soft rain and muted, distant thunder. That soil is my teacher, my almanac, my unpredictable yet most predictable friend. I feel like we donate love to one another in small gestures every day. I always think of how wild it is that such hidden abundance can thrive and continually offer medicine despite the harshest and most unforgiving conditions. The harsh storms come like clockwork every year, but it’s still stubbornly pushing medicine up through its earth. So I guess it’s telling me I might as well try to do the same myself, not in spite of my bruises, but despite them.

Maybe these shortcomings of a soft heart are not failures, because it’s better to be a vessel of ever-flowing love in a world of empathetic draught. It may not save a field of grass, but it could help a few things bloom along its way down. And with luck, the flower that blooms will be one that lowers fevers, soothes coughs, and promotes healing for some other organism. They’re all hidden among the grass if you pay close attention. We've grown as a society to lack appreciation and gratitude with the fast pace and production of all we have in our lives, and we're learning to speed past the moment of holding onto something for an extra beat in pure gratitude - a memory, a lesson, the feeling of having someone show up while you’ve felt trapped in your lonesome, and even a glimmer of hope following a loss in what was left behind.

I feel like I've been running around trying to find a way to thank everyone that helped heal me by passing it on to others that appear to need it like I did. Because how incredible is it we can help someone help themselves, see themselves, forgive themselves?

I’m a part of an ongoing conversation with my land, where I am the last to get a word in. It tells me to give, give, give, and offer love and healing to even the darkest, coldest, and most misunderstood of the human and animal world. Every being deserves medicine, every being deserves to heal. I've weathered storms and have still held my medicine tight with enough to share, and I think that's what my mountain and I talk about when I harvest its bergamot and wild garlic, and can’t help but giggle and squeal about the generous abundance that shows up when I need it most.