An Herbal Lecture by Victor Hugo

 "One day he saw some country people very busy pulling up nettles; he looked at the heap of plants, uprooted, and already wilted, and said: 'This is dead; but it would be well if we knew how to put it to some use. When the nettle is young, the leaves make excellent greens; when it grows old it has filaments and fibres like hemp and flax. Cloth made from the nettle is worth as much as that made from hemp. Chopped up, the nettle is good for poultry; pounded, it is good for horned cattle. The seed of the nettle mixed with the fodder of animals gives a lustre to their skin; the root, mixed with salt, produces a beautiful yellow dye. It makes, however, excellent hay, as it can be cut twice in a season. And what does the nettle need? very little soil, no care, no culture; except that the seeds fall as fast as they ripen, and it is difficult to gather them; that is all. If we would take a little pains, the nettle would be useful; we neglect it, and it becomes harmful. Then we kill it. How much men are like the nettle!' After a short silence, he added: 'My friends, remember this, that there are no bad herbs, and no bad men, there are only bad cultivators.'" 

 Monsieur Madeleine (Jean Valjean), "Fantine" Ch III, from Les Miserables

Photo by Learningherbs.com

The novel is full of these eloquent passages, these profound, teachable moments. I'm continually surprised by how enjoyable Les Miserables is to read, often slowing myself down to take it in to really let it steep, or, quite frankly, putting off making dinner because I can't put the book down. I am too busy savoring to be busy!

It's delightful to find Monsieur Madeleine's attention to detail; his deep thinking being directed at a common and rather annoying weed- which also happens to be extremely nutrient dense and useful in numerous ways. 

But here he brings out a deeper truth about MEN! Humankind! It, like the weed/herb/poison/medicine is capable of a broad spectrum of experience, is a walking contradiction of possibilities. 

I recently heard on a podcast about the penitentiary system in the United States, and how so many people from challenging backgrounds never receive any attention for mental illness, never get a mentor, never have anyone encourage them or show them a better way to live. They are uncultivated, cast away, and forgotten. It is bizarre to think that we dispose of badly behaved people like we do our trash. Just like our trash, people get moved and dumped.

In our society, if something is broken, we throw it away. If an institution has problems, we de-fund it. We don't reform it, fix it, or upgrade it. We toss it into the perceived abyss, just like we do "the trash."

This idea of tossing things away and, at least on some level believing that they have ceased to exist, is fascinating to me. What else can we toss? Our marriages? Our pregnancies? Our relationships? Our families? Our talents? Do they really cease to exist? Where do they go? 

It's interesting to me that for most of my life, I've believed that my "trash" just magically disappeared into thin air. 

Consider this: the root of so many of our environmental issues happens to be greed- a very human (or inhumane) vice. We do not care about the environment we depend on. But we depend on it! We do not care about that which is essential for our survival. We use weed-killers to both poison our environment and kill the plants that contain the medicine we need.

All of this has me wondering if there are things in my life that, rather than "tossing out", simply need a little more attention, connection, and cultivation. 

Are there people in your life that you have written off? Have they disappeared from your sense of responsibility to cultivate, to serve, to be curious about, to find connection with? What if they are not actually in "the abyss" at all, but are in your ecosystem, and are utterly essential to your own survival? 

In our culture, we're pressured to choose a side: Environment or People? The thing is, though, that both were created by God, for purpose, and to co-depend on one another. The more selfish and greedy we are, the more we trash our environment. The more selfish and greedy we are, the more we hurt ourselves and use one another- which, again, just hurts ourselves (spiritually, if nothing else). 

There is so much history even in America of "throwing away" people in the margins: criminals, those with mental health challenges, homeless people, drug addicts, those people who just can't seem to get it together. The thing is, to regard someone as a modern-day leper might be even easier than you think. Who do you put into the "them" category? Who is unworthy of your compassion, sympathy, resources, attention? Who is beyond the pale for you? 

In the end, Hugo points to a better way. If we love people, we have to (first notice, then) love nature, too. If we love nature, we have to (first notice, then) love people. Nature was meant to be tended and stewarded- gardens need gardeners! God created us in a context: planet Earth. It is His, just as we are His. 

If we love ourselves, we have to love outside ourselves. We need each other, and we need the world God created for us to thrive in. 

Both Victor Hugo's herbal lecture, and the Orthodox Church have taught me to broaden my scope of who and what qualifies as treasure. If I just pay attention, and strive to be more present to those around me, treasure (and nettle!) abounds. 

What could happen if we do less tossing and more cultivating? Who knows? We just might discover ourselves to be rich, indeed. 

Sincerely,

Natasha

Slow Rise: A Poem

Somebody once asked me, “What is

the eternal value of baking bread?”

Where is the longevity of the briefest moment?

What is the profit of a moving breath?

The flavors interwoven like delicate threads

Refreshing the air like white eyelet curtains

We close our eyes, we fold our hands

and knead out the anxiety as we lift our heads.

Here, now,

Waving in the sun-bathed scent of tall grass

And the pastures murmuring with bovine contentment;

The hills clustered together and sprawling apart,

White puff clouds peeling back like a tea towel

To let in sun heat, letting our souls rise,

Slowly, pulling together the flavors of childhood,

Breathing in the aroma of dreams and hope 

Here, now,

We sit together and break bread, 

Pulling apart at the oneness, stretching out

Empty hands, and filling hungry spirit-bellies

For a taste of salvation, a taste of new life again.

Cloud Watcher

 

The sorghum plants are broken stalks,

dried, brown the color of sack lunches, 

and trampled in the yard like pick-up sticks. 

The wooden fence stained with pool water

-green now, overtaken, algae-conquered:

What was crystal is now made mysterious…

The plans we had, the vision laid out

like clouds are now misted over, rolled plum off the porch,

or rearranged themselves, perpetually shifting 

(storms a'brewin', coffee cold, kitchen a mess).

But the Cloud Watcher lies still, inured to empty threats.

And wind tosses pool-dried hair, quilt stained and rumpled, 

air-dried. The chimes clang a broken melody,

thunder rolls in the distance, a subtle warning

-or a roll call for cowards. 

She closes her eyes and hums, content.

Knowing that somewhere, light will break through again.

...

Sometimes I need to be reminded that the world will warm up again. I wrote the above poem, initially entitled, "Summer's End" in late August of last year. Of course, there was actually quite a bit more summer weather to come for Austin, Texas. But school was about to start, and we were luxuriating in those last days of freedom, of bliss, watching the natural beauty of summer age before our eyes, stretching out those last hours even further by moving eyes upward to sky, to cloud, to abyss. 

Identifying as a Cloud Watcher is a way of choosing to embrace the moment, refusing to fear the future, refusing to be bogged down by the incessant demands of life's so-called Important Busyness. The clouds, the clouds! I will look to the clouds! 

Sincerely,

Natasha

Partaking

In my own way, I partake; 

not like Lawrence of Arabia, 

not in the swirling sands, the blinding wind, 

not crossing a white expanse, 

caked in suffering and fortitude. 

I pull my sick body out of the house.

I sit down in the Adirondack, face South,

feeling the sun's magnetic warmth in January,

the cold biting at numb fingers as I crochet stitches,

counting into the silence, stopping to recount.

But then the sun ducks behind the telephone pole;

the cardinal noisily knocks the birdseed onto the logs.

And as the sun descends, the cold raises its voice

decibel by decibel, sun sinking by degrees, by stitches,

until I'm done counting, and I must go back inside again. 

It isn't much, not impressive. But important

in its own way. And at least I had my one small dose. 

Herb Fever

Every so often, my family gets slammed with a particularly bad illness. One Sunday morning, about a year ago, I happened to click on a YouTube video recommended by my friend. She insisted I would swoon at this video, and she was absolutely correct. More than creating an emotional response, though, the video changed my life.

The video was, Juliette of the Herbs. 

The old video of Juliette de Bairacli Levy changed my life in a way that felt something like an enchantment. There is something centering, grounding, and deeply moving about watching this little, wise old woman. I love hearing her talk about rosemary and southernwood, watching her eat nasturtiums (a plant particularly dear to my heart)... I love the way she loved gypsies, animals, and plants. I love the way she saw the world, through a truly unique lens that was founded on learning from others with compassion and openness.  

How often are you inspired by someone else's life? How often does that introduction spur you toward better life choices? 

With any luck, Juliette has made me a better, more tenderhearted person. My relationship with nature has changed. I have started to see the natural world with more gentleness and more sensitivity. She awakened me to something...to seeing, hearing...to loving that same world. Children are naturally fascinated by and drawn to the natural world. But our adult selves are often too busy, too hurried, doing "important" stuff. Juliette didn't fall into that trap, that delusion.

The world was always there for me- it never went anywhere. The world never grew up or became cynical. The natural world, created by God, has always been full of marvelous things, of enchantment and wonder, of secrets and the power to heal. 

When I was a child, I would look up at the underbellies of trees and marvel at the way sunlight filtered through the leaves, creating moving patterns, different shades of green. I collected bean pods and fanned them about, showing off my wealth. That magical world of textures and smells, of layers and constant movement...that world didn't grow up and leave. It is still there, waiting for us to return. And yet, it is always changing. Today's world won't be the same tomorrow. Tomorrow's sunrise won't be the same as today's.  

When my household gets hit with an illness, I am immediately reawakened to the joy of necessity, the calm and necessary art of seeking healing from the elements. I roll up my sleeves and go to my reserves. I inventory my herbs, my teas, and my essential oils. I "touch base" anew with the old healing arts, though my own experience and knowledge remain woefully shallow. I am at the beginning of something yet. I'm at the brink, the precipice, still. But I am marveling at my view of the path ahead. 

Now that resolutions are delightfully out of vogue, I feel more invigorated than ever to take this quiet month to reevaluate and re-calibrate my focus and energy, to re-center. No stranger to failing to achieve my own goals, I delight in setting in view new ideals, summoning new energy for a challenging task. After all, missing the mark usually means making progress- and that is always the real goal, isn't it? Even slow progress is progress. Even disappointed hopes involve learning something new. 

This year, I've set for myself the intention (dare I say "goal"?) of completing an herbal course each month, growing something, and trying out new remedies. 

Rather than waiting for the next medical event to occur before spurring into action, I'd like to make herbalism a more constant part of my lifestyle. Rather than getting sudden bouts of “herb fever” and wishing I’d learned more throughout the year, I’m planning to cure myself with slow and steady herbal education.

It's my delight to share with you Juliette's video below. 

Swoon away.

Sincerely,

Natasha 

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL3AB9CB55FC33B536

Poetry in Perpetuity

One gray-skied October morning, I sat outside on my back porch alone in a rare moment of solitude. I was feeling a lot of feelings, experiencing a lot of sensations, about finally being gloriously alone, and instantly missing my four children. 

I looked up into that gray, wet-blanketed sky and saw to my right, a few crows. 

"The crows above the forest call;

tomorrow they may form and go.

O hushed October morning mild,

Begin the hours of this day slow,"

Bits and pieces of one of my favorite poem by Robert Frost came back to me like an old friend sidling up to hold my hand. I wasn't alone in that moment. Robert Frost had known his own October mornings, good or bad, and he had feelings, too. 

A smile dawned on my face as my mind was taken away from my loneliness and ushered instead into what felt like a hug. When you memorize someone's poem, you connect with that person in a profound and beautiful way. Poetry truly is a gift that keeps on giving. 

I enjoy hearing my children recite poems like, "The Little Turtle" by Vachel Lindsay or "Jabberwocky" by Lewis Carroll. It's fun and delightful. But even more than that, I enjoy encountering poems that were memorized long ago, and summoning them back to this present moment. It is looking at them from a new angle, relating to them in a new way. That poem is now a part of me in a way it wasn't before. 

Memorizing a poem with someone else brings an even greater fullness to the pleasure.

On a particularly pleasant, mild day in December (think: September/October weather in Oklahoma), my youngest child and I walked home from church alone together. We didn't walk in a hurry. We stopped several times to pick up and admire "nature treasures": a red leaf here, a yellow one there. We admired acorns and wildflowers, too. When his little six-year-old hands were both so full of leaves that he insisted I take home and save forever, I gently reminded him of our most recent Robert Frost poem we memorized together. 

We prompted one another until we'd gotten through the whole thing, "Nothing Gold Can Stay."

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

If you're new to memorizing poetry, this one would be a great place to start. It's a reminder that the best things in life- the most real, the most precious- are also fleeting. It speaks to me, too, because I've never been one to take lots of pictures of my kids' childhood. Sometimes I feel the urge to do the "dutiful" parent thing, to try to preserve a moment for them and myself in the future, so that we can revisit it again. But there is also that part of me that knows this is delusional. Pictures are nice and fun to revisit, but they don't stop time, and they don't truly preserve anything- at least not the thing we really want to preserve, which is the moment. They don't slow down life by one second. 

In fact, I've often noticed that the very modern (and motherly) American habit of trying to photograph everything often takes up precious time that could be spent in the act of just being present to one another, giving our full attention to that moment in real time. It dulls the gold. Resisting the urge to grab my phone makes those moments even richer and fuller, because I acknowledge that they are but momentary.

These precious moments of motherhood are both golden and fleeting. They cannot stay anymore than the sun can keep from setting. The dawn MUST "go down to day." Springtime cannot be perpetual. We must have our Summers, our Autumns, our barren and sometimes dismal Winters. Good times must give way to hard times. Nature's gold is green and it is her hardest hue to hold. She cannot hold it, but loosely. As a mother, too, I can only hold these precious moments loosely, knowing that many memories will slip my mind, will fade over time. 

I think of the Virgin Mary as well. Luke 2:19 "But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart." 

It always reminds me to stop and silently, quietly, treasure today, with all the gifts that are given to me. In that moment, I know that what I have been given is plenty, is overflowing. I know in that moment that I'm well taken care of. 

Unlike a photograph that cannot truly hold a moment in perpetuity, a memorized, well-loved poem, can offer solace and enchantment year after year, can revisit you when you least expect it, and can be an uplifting friend come to hold your hand anew. 

What poems have you memorized? Are there any that you'd like to brush up on? Any poems that you have long-loved but never memorized? 

Sincerely,

Natasha

Evening Prayer

 

I rediscovered an old, well-loved friend today. 

It's really strange to stumble on an old poem written when I was particularly inflamed with an insatiable desire to write poem after poem. It's surprising that the poem doesn't now ring as naive or dull or embarrassing. Some do; this one doesn't. 

Evening Prayer

2007

And so I pray

to somehow learn to cope someday

with that ever aching flower caught

so that pain sinks away with every distraught pose

in quiet reverent thought

as the gently shining oil stains

in those old gravel service lanes

reflect the risen crimson rose.

And so I pray

to fall and bend and break

as the clouds shift in colors bright

-feel that tinge of orange that flows

in humble glowing light

and as they swiftly fade and pass

my flesh, I know, is merely grass

yet that I may be the patch that grows. 

_______________________________

Is it naive? Is it flawed? I don't know. But I know that it makes me feel echoey and light, breathless and pensive. It's so surprising that it still makes me feel raw and tender and fills me with something like awe and quiet reverence. I love that the poem does that to me even now, and from here, after coming along all this way (18 years), and perhaps, in some ways, remaining in the exact same place.

Have you ever stumbled on work from long ago- some artwork or writing that still surprises you today? 

Sincerely,

Natasha