Folk Herbalism
This is an excerpt from The Witch’s Kin: Deepening Your Relationship with Nature, Spirits, and Humankind, by Asa West. It can be ordered for 20% off with code MAY2024.
Like many witches, I tend a garden of medicinal and magical plants. My garden isn’t fancy — just a small collection of potted herbs on my back porch — and in the volatile weather of Los Angeles, it has good days and bad days. On bad days, usually during one of our increasingly frequent heat waves, I might go out to find half my herbs wilting — the yarrow limp and doubled over, the comfrey’s leaves curled into sickly pipes. I might find my mint destroyed overnight by caterpillars or my tulsi engulfed in whiteflies, victims of my urban neighborhood’s lack of predators. In all my years of gardening, growing herbs in the heart of the city has never gotten any easier, and with climate change driving up the temperature every year, I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to tend these plants at all. My home is turning into a desert all around me.
But the good days make it all worth it. I might walk out to find that the calendula has exploded with blossoms, which I can harvest to infuse into first-aid salves and digestive teas. I might admire the comfrey’s blossoms and smell the heavenly scent of the tulsi. For a long time, I grew California sagebrush and Cleveland sage in the alley behind my building, and whenever I pruned their branches back from the walkway, I’d come away with an armful of aromatic stems to burn as incense at my altar. Thanks to my pruning, the plants always grew back healthier and more vigorous. My relationship with my herbs is one of friendship and reciprocity: I tend them and feed them and make sure they’re well, and in return they give me medicine. We talk to each other in the language of gardener and garden.
Witchcraft and herbalism have always been closely intertwined. The Greek word pharmakeia, from which we get the words “pharmacy” and “pharmaceutical,” means both sorcery and medicine. Before the advent of modern medicine, healing was exclusively the realm of plants and those who knew how to work with them, and there was often no clear distinction between physical and magical healing methods. For example, St. John’s Wort has traditionally been worn as an amulet to ward off evil and ingested as a remedy for melancholia. More recently, St. John’s Wort has been found to contain hypericin and hyperforin, chemicals that help the brain build up the “feel good” chemicals serotonin and dopamine. Considering that unexplained depression has long been interpreted as a symptom of malicious magic, it only makes sense that the medicinal effects of St. John’s Wort would complement the plant’s magical effects. Magic and medicine, to the witch, are often one and the same.
With this history in mind, it’s no surprise that many modern witches are drawn to medicinal and magical herbalism. However, thanks to our alienation from the land and our reliance on industrial capitalism for all our needs, plant magic and medicine have become, for many practitioners, synonymous with buying things from a store. We buy capsules, tinctures, teas, incense, and oils made from plants we would never recognize in the wild. Too often, with little training or knowledge of how to actually work with herbs, we don’t get the effects we expected and eventually throw them away. There’s nothing wrong with buying herbs, so long as they’re ethically grown and harvested, but working with at least a few herbs as whole plants — learning to identify them, learning about their life cycles and habitats, and seeing if you can grow them yourself — will foster a kinship with herbs that you’ll never achieve if you only ever buy mass-produced products.
If you don’t already grow your own herbs and you have a bit of space — even just a shelf in your home by a sunny window — why not begin with plantain? I don’t mean the fruit. I’m talking about the unassuming little weed, which has a rich history as a healer and companion to humans. Plantain is an ingredient in many herbal remedies, soothing scrapes and insect bites, lowering fevers, healing urinary tract infections, and more. I once conducted an experiment with a salve I’d made from plantain, yarrow, and calendula, treating one half of my daughter’s diaper rash with both my salve and zinc diaper cream, and the other side with the diaper cream alone. I didn’t tell my husband about the experiment, hoping to keep him unbiased, and I was delighted when he noticed that the side I’d treated with the salve was healing much more quickly than the side treated only with zinc.
Plantain also has a long history of magical associations. Because they thrive even when they’re trampled, plantain is associated with resilience and resurrection. Astrologically, they’re ruled by Venus, and the ancient Greeks associated them with the goddess Persephone (again, notice the connection with death and rebirth). To me, plantain is a powerful partner in the work of resisting the capitalist machine, surviving and keeping beauty alive in a trampled world.
In the writings on naturalization that I mentioned previously, Robin Kimmerer notes that, although plantain is one of the plants who followed Europeans to the Americas, plantain became naturalized by nestling themselves into our ecosystems without becoming invasive or destructive. “[Plantain’s] strategy was to be useful,” she writes, “to fit into small places, to coexist with others around the dooryard, to heal wounds.” Plantain isn’t as flashy as some of the plants witches like to work with. Plantain doesn’t have a heavenly scent, psychoactive properties, or eye-popping flowers. However, I can’t think of many other plants who have so much to teach us, and who enjoy our company so much.
It’s likely that plantain is growing within half a mile of your home, if not a few feet from your door. There are two major varieties you can look for. Both have leaves with large parallel veins on the undersides, growing in rosettes with tall flower spikes in the middle that turn brown when they go to seed. Broadleaf plantain (Plantago major) has leaves that are wide ovals and anywhere from two to ten inches long, while narrowleaf plantain (Plantago lanceolata) has leaves are about an inch wide and up to a foot long. Search overgrown lawns and neglected roadsides in the spring to find a plant who has sprouted their flower stalks and gone to seed. You’ll be gathering some of those seeds to plant in your own garden.
First, though, a note on foraging. An increasingly common belief among witches is that you should ask an individual plant’s permission before taking any of its body, and wait to intuitively sense a yes or no answer. If you’re an experienced forager and you’re knowledgeable about the plant you’re harvesting and the ecosystem you’re working in, this practice can be invaluable. You can use it to show respect for the land, and avoid harming a plant that needs to be left alone. However, if you’re new to the practice, there are some drawbacks to consider.
In particular, this practice is ripe for projection if your connection to the land is shaky. If you feel guilty about foraging because you feel like an intruder, or if you think you’re personally responsible for climate change and all the plants in the world are mad at you, then of course you’ll hear mostly “no.” The idea that plants are resentful of humans and reluctant to share their bodies with us comes from the same mindset that pits humans against the land. It ignores the fact that humans are just as much a part of an ecosystem as any other large mammal.
On the other hand, if you ask for a plant’s permission as a formality when you don’t genuinely care about the answer, you’ll hear the word “yes” until you’ve stripped the land bare. “But the plant told me I could!” may sound like a pathetic excuse on paper for poaching an endangered species, but even those of us with the best intentions are remarkably good at fooling ourselves. I, for one, don’t trust myself to listen for intuitive messages from a plant if I don’t have any practical knowledge about it.
If you’re still learning about your local ecosystems, don’t neglect your plain old physical senses when you’re deciding whether to harvest. For example, you can look for abundance. Are there fifty plantains in one place, all robust and healthy and in seed? If so, you can probably take some seed without harming the plant community. Take it from the middle of the colony, where the plants are more established, instead of the edge, where they may still be negotiating their borders. If you don’t see abundance, move on.
I should also mention that gathering plantain seed is a relatively safe form of foraging. Plantain is hardy and plentiful, so gathering enough seed for one new plant probably won’t make much difference in your ecosystem. Plus, since you won’t be ingesting the seeds themselves, pollution shouldn’t be a major concern. When it comes to gathering leaves, flowers, fruit, roots, or whole plants, the safety and ethics of foraging get trickier. Is the plant on protected land where foraging isn’t allowed? Is there a chance that the plant has absorbed heavy metals and toxins from polluted soil or air? Is the plant at risk or endangered? Are there just not that many of them around? Unfortunately, there isn’t much foraging I can do in overcrowded Los Angeles County, whose lands suffer from constant poaching, development, and abuse. Some herbalists go so far as to say that non-Indigenous people should never forage on colonized land at all, for any part of any plant in any place — but again, divorcing yourself from the land and treating yourself as a permanent tourist is no way to form a relationship. It’s up to you to do your research and determine if foraging is viable.
Once you’ve found a plantain who has seed for you, run your fingers lightly up the stalk to gather some. A dozen seeds or so should be plenty. Plantain seeds are tiny, so you’ll probably want to bring an envelope to carry them in. Give the plant or land something in return: a sprinkle of water, some spit, or a few loose hairs from your head. This offering establishes your harvest as a respectful and reciprocal act. Bring the seeds home and lightly scratch them into the surface of some soil. Keep the soil moist and sunny, and within a few weeks, you’ll hopefully have at least one little plantain companion.
Let your plantain grow until they have a healthy rosette with many leaves. Now, experiment with taking a small bit into your body. This is a common technique among herbalists-in-training. Find a quiet place where you won’t be disturbed for half an hour or so, and use sharp cutters to cut one leaf off your plant at the base. Take one of the newer leaves, as the older leaves have fewer medicinal properties and can taste bitter. Put the leaf in your mouth and slowly chew it. As you do, pay attention to the experience: the taste or smell, the sensations, the way plantain makes you feel. Do any random thoughts or feelings come to you? Do you notice any physical effects? Keep observing your experience as you swallow, and for a few minutes after that. Record your observations. Thank the herb, your friend and companion, before you go back to your daily life.
Later, you can look up plantain in an herbal (I recommend Maud Grieve’s A Modern Herbal to start with) and see if your experience corresponds to any known medicinal or magical properties. You may be surprised at how accurate your initial impressions of an herb can be if you’re really paying attention. I once tried this exercise with rosemary and was surprised to find my attention suddenly focused on my nose. I wasn’t sure why, until I realized that rosemary’s aromatic properties had subtly opened my sinuses. The amount of herb I was using was small enough that I might never have noticed if I hadn’t been paying attention.
You might have enough land for a colossal herb garden, or access to lands on which you can forage. Or maybe you can make do with learning to recognize plants on hiking trails, so that your visits with them will enrich the work you do with their dried or tinctured counterparts. However you forge these relationships, you can keep track of the knowledge you gain by keeping a personal herbal. An herbal is a reference guide that can also serve as a journal, in which you record an herb’s medicinal and magical properties and any experiences you have with them. Using the insights you gain from observation and research, choose a small handful of herbs and begin recording the following information about each of them:
Common name(s)
Latin name
Region and growing conditions
Medicinal properties
Magical properties and folklore
Personal experiences
Sources you’ve consulted
For example, here’s my herbal’s entry on plantain:
Plantain (Plantago spp.)
Habitat and growing conditions: Adaptable, thrives in disturbed areas
Parts used: Leaves and sometimes seeds
Medicinal properties: Vulnerary, astringent, anti-inflammatory, diuretic, and drawing agent. Applied externally, stops bleeding, draws out impurities, and soothes abrasions, wounds, and venomous bites and stings. Infusions soothe diarrhea, stomach pain, toothaches, hayfever, hemorrhoids, cystitis, and irritable coughs. Seeds have been used to treat thrush (see Grieve 641) and aid digestion (see Kimmerer 214).
Magical properties: Associated with Venus and Persephone. Common name comes from the latin “to step,” since the plant grows on roadsides. Aids in travel, resilience, and endurance.
Personal experience: Used in first-aid salve, along with calendula and yarrow, that healed a diaper rash.
Sources: Cohen and Siegel 177-184, Grieve 640-42, Kimmerer 214, Ody 71, Wood 385-9
If you find that you can combine your herbal with your nature journal, so much the better. Begin with herbs you feel drawn to, especially if they grow in your area, or if you have an ancestral connection to them. You might learn surprising facts about weeds you previously never noticed: that wild lettuce is a safe and effective sedative, or that nettle will help ease premenstrual symptoms. Once you have a little herbal knowledge under your belt, you might be moved to expand your research to other plant uses, like food, dyes, textiles, basketry, woodworking, or any of the other knowledge and crafts of your ancestors. You might come to realize how broad the definition of magic and medicine can be. And with this newfound reverence for the gifts and talents of the plants all around you — plants that have coevolved with human beings, eager to share their lives with us in a spirit of abundance and reciprocity — kinship will blossom.
The Witch’s Kin
Deepening Your Relationship With Nature,
Spirits, and Humankind
by Asa West
Release date: 1 May, 2024
“Kinship, to me, means striving to truly understand the many beings around us — human, plant, animal, and spirit — and building community with all of them.
Not just the ones we feel an immediate affinity with. Not just the ones who are nice to us. All of them. Because they’re part of our communities already, whether we like it or not.”
From Asa West, the author of the wildly-popular Five Principles of Green Witchcraft, comes her exciting second release with RITONA: The Witch’s Kin: Deepening Your Relationship With Nature, Spirit, and Humankind.
In this book, Asa West offers a profoundly radical — yet deeply intuitive — framework for relating to all the others around us. Drawing from the deep wells of animist, scientific, and magical traditions, as well as her own deeply kind insights into human and other-than-human relations, The Witch’s Kin offers practical advice for being in the world with others.
About Asa West:
Asa West is a witch, writer, and artist in Los Angeles, California. Her work stems from Reclaiming Witchcraft, British Traditional Witchcraft, and her Jewish heritage, and she's fascinated by the intersections of nature and civilization. She's also the author of the zine Five Principles of Green Witchcraft.
Specifications:
Hardback: 6.14 inches x 9.21 inches (Royal), 150 black&white pages on 50lb cream paper, matte dust jacket on grey digital cloth.
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The Witch’s Kin, by Asa West
True To The Earth, by Kadmus
The White Deer, by Melinda Reidinger
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The Witch’s Kin, by Asa West
Reclaiming Ourselves, by Emma Kathryn
Being Pagan, by Rhyd Wildermuth
Circling The Star, by Anthony Rella
Five Principles of Green Witchcraft, by Asa West
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