Herbal Salves for the Skin

I haven't written in this healing blog for a few months. I think in part it's because we herbalists are like our plants: we go dormant in the winter. But as the days lengthen and the sun comes out, as we watch eagerly for the first signs of spring, as we see our beloved herbs breaking dormancy, we too come back to life and that green energy runs through us once again.

I've been playing with vulnerary plants. Vulneraries are herbs that provide deep topical healing for skin. The word comes from the Latin vulnerarius which refers to a plaster or dressing for healing wounds. This is exactly what an herbal vulnerary does.

Typically you make an infused oil first, then blend your different plant oils together, then add beeswax to make a salve. (Check the blog on dandelion oil for infused oil instructions.) In this photo you can see the infused oil with beeswax, now cooling off and setting up. It's easy and fun to make!

My first foray into vulnerary salves was one summer day in July. I went to get my Herbal Ed's (a commercial version of a wound salve) and scoured the house, unable to find one. I was still a novice herbalist, so I gathered up my courage and marched outdoors to the backyard. I sent out a mental call to the plants that could help me with this purpose and was astounded by how many answered me. As I wandered around the yard, collecting the plants that presented themselves (and there were several), the thought came to me: all the vulneraries known to the Goddess. And that's how I developed my own herbal vulnerary salve.

I will pass on to you what I put in my salve recipe. There are some people might caution against this, saying this is proprietary information that should not be shared.

Herbalism is not like that. Herbalists know down to our bones that we all live in a village and we all have responsibility for each other. We have a deep understanding that all of us are born into this world of nature, with a relationship to plants that is ours by birthright. Herbal elders taught me what they know and in return, it is my commitment to pass what we learn on to the next generation.

So here is my recipe:
Make infused oil from as many of the herbs below as you wish. I recommend olive, almond or jojoba oil as the base. Many of the herbs can be found right in your own garden, but are also sold as bulk products in herb stores. Strain out the oils and use equal parts of each, putting into a double boiler, warming over low heat. For every two cups of oil, add 3-5 tablespoons of beeswax. Let the wax melt in the warm oil, then dip a metal spoon into the oil/wax solution and put in the freezer. Wait five minutes and test your sample: is it too firm or too runny, or just right? Add more oil or beeswax as needed. Pour while still warm into a clean jar with a good lid and let cool. Store in the frig for longer shelf life.


Herbs in Janet's Nine-Vulnerary Topical Healing Salve
=St. John's Wort: If I could only choose one herb, this would be the one. It is profoundly effective in healing wounds, soothing the itchies and offering pain relief for burns or other topical nerve pain. A good quality oil is a deep ruby red; look for this in oils you make or buy.
=Cottonwood: This would be my second choice. It is an excellent antibacterial, and its resins keep the salve from going rancid over time. It is also excellent for reducing pain.
=Comfrey: Another topic choice, it is a premier wound healer. It pulls wound edges together, and dramatically speeds up wound closure.
=Calendula: this is an excellent antifungal and antibacterial herb. Used early on scraped skin, it can help prevent an infection from getting established. More advanced infections may need a doctor's attention.
=Chickweed: this weed is often despised by gardeners, but herbalists know that it is full of nutritious, healing green medicine that soothes and moisturizes.
=Chamomile; there are two kinds of chamomile: German and Roman. I like both for their anti-inflammatory, pain relief qualities. Both are easily grown in the garden.
=Mullein: in the world of herbalists, there is a very old concept called the Doctrine of Signatures. Basically it means that often plants look like the things they do. So for example, mullein looks like a beautiful warm fuzzy healing green blanket. That's exactly what it does on skin.
=Helichrysum italicum: I've used this plant for years for its wonderful ability to relieve pain. It is also said to be very effective in reducing scars, but I haven't tried this yet.
=Plantain: another yard weed, this homely plant is a master at soothing inflamed, irritated tissues. It has long historical use as an on the spot remedy for nettle stings.

As always, this herbal preparation is not meant to replace medical care. Be sure to get any persistent skin issues diagnosed. Once diagnosed, herbs can then be used to supplement any treatment.

Janet
Resources:
•
Complete Illustrated Holistic Herbal by David Hoffman
• Many thanks to Glen my gardener, who helps me grow and harvest the herbs!

Phlox gifts to me a seed

Over the many years I have been an herbalist (about fourteen, as far as I can figure) people have asked me how it was I found this path. There are many answers: there were many seeds, many influences that came to me, and over the years, began to sprout, set root and prosper. Here is the story of one of those key seeds.

Around 1990, I developed a passion to learn about butterflies. I did some research, found some good local books, all written by our amazing local lepidopterist Bob Pyle. With a little more digging, I found out he was teaching one of his only workshops that year, at Chinook Learning Center on Whidbey Island. This workshop was many months away; I promptly signed up, and held my soul in patience (mostly impatience) waiting for the weekend to come.

So finally one sunny Friday morning in June, full of excitement and enthusiasm, I drove up to Chinook. The workshop began at noon; I settled in a comfortable chair and listened, enthralled, as Bob began to speak his magic about butterflies.

Unfortunately, in the middle of his introductory workshop, I developed the ominous signs of one of my frequent, debilitating migraines. These were monthly events; despite explorations into all kinds of medications, I had learned that the only sure cure was to go and hide out in dark room, stick my head under a pillow and wait 18 hours for the pain to pass.

I was heartsick. Here I had this rare opportunity to sit with one of the foremost naturalists of our time, and I would be too incapacitated to enjoy it. Depressed and morose, I retreated outside to the garden at Chinook to consider my options.

Chinook was and is a remarkable piece of land, a place of mystery, beauty and magic. The gardens had been planted with a fine mix of herbs and other plants to attract pollinators. I wandered around briefly and finally flung myself on the edge of a bench. Flowers were planted quite close to where I was sitting, including a tall shrub of pink Flox. I glanced at it briefly and retreated back into my bad mood, and back into the pain of the migraine, which was rapidly progressing.

As I sat there, a remarkable thing occurred. I heard the pink Phlox speak to me: "Smell me". This was long before my days as a woo-woo healer, and this event was both spooky and unprecedented. I did my best to ignore the flower, and put the experience down to a weird auditory hallucination triggered by the migraine. But the Phlox did not give up; it actually leaned closer to me and said again: "Smell me". Rattled, sure I was losing my mind, I leaned over and stuck my nose in the flower, taking a deep breath of its beautiful pink carnation-like smell.

With that, the Phlox backed off and I returned to ordinary reality, not sure what had just happened. And as I sat on the bench over the next hour, I started to notice: my migraine was clearing. I couldn't believe it - that never happened with my migraines. As that Friday afternoon wore on, my migraine went away. I returned to the workshop; I tramped in the woods with Bob and his students, I saw many beautiful butterflies, and even had a hands on experience with a Satyr Anglewing. It was a wonderful workshop, and it started me down a long and rewarding relationship with butterflies.

But I never forgot about the gift from the Phlox. It taught me that there was much more to the world of healing that ever I learned in my physician assistant training. And so it was, a few years later, the seed it gave me sprouted, and I started down the path of the herbalist.

Janet
Resources: Satyr Anglewing butterfly photo from Stockphoto

On Being Broken

I mentioned in a previous blog a recent hip replacement surgery. As part of my healing , I visit the physical therapists regularly. I have seen several different people. It has been very illuminating.

One person I saw did my initial assessment. She was very skilled, very knowledgeable and no doubt arrived at an accurate assessment of my physical issues and limitations, related as much to fifteen years of damage from rheumatoid arthritis, as from the replaced hip.

And all she could see in me was how broken I was, and that's all she wanted to talk about. Not me, not my spirit, not who I am and who I came here to be - only how broken I was. I left her presence feeling bad about myself, struggling with self-worth, and it took several days and conversations with loving and supportive friends before I could pull myself out of that abyss.

Then on a later occasion I saw Dennis. He was bursting with energy and enthusiasm. He, too, put me through my paces. There were things I was not able to do, but he brushed these aside and had me try all kinds of things I'd never done before. He could see in me, I think, my commitment to try anything, to grow, to get stronger. And I was able to do many new things! I was so surprised at how much more I could do. His attitude, his energy and support helped me to feel great about myself and about my progress. I did not feel at all broken in his presence. I left his office feeling hopeful, positive and full of renewed enthusiasm about the road ahead.

This is, I believe, the mark of a great healer.

We all have our broken places. And we live in a culture where we are all supposed to look good, have perfect families, dress perfectly, no inconvenient limps or disabilities to mar the presentation. And yet, we all have broken places.

Maybe it's emotional: struggles with recurrent depression, anxiety attacks, panic, recurrent trauma. Maybe it's physical: like the arthritis I have, like recurrent back issues, like chronic pain, like a run-in with cancer. Or maybe we are stuck in life issues: struggles with forming relationships, finding our right livelihood, dealing with profound family of origin issues. We are all broken. It is the nature of being human.

There's a great story Rachel Remen tells in her book Kitchen Table Wisdom. She is a therapist who works with people with chronic health issues. A young man comes to her with two stories: there is the before story where he is 17, a bright and promising high school student who is a gifted athlete, with a full scholarship to the college of his choice, a wonderful girlfriend and a great circle of friends. Then there is the after story: he developed an aggressive bone cancer in his right leg and lost that leg above the knee. The surgery saved his life, but also ended the life he knew. He lost his scholarship, his girlfriend and the life he had. When he comes to see Rachel, he is deeply angry and bitter.

She asks him to do a drawing of himself. He grabs a black crayon and draws a big black vase, and then puts in an ugly gaping open scar of a wound. He goes over the crack with the black crayon, over and over again, ripping the paper in his deep need to express this. This is how he sees himself: profoundly, permanently broken.

A few years pass and he continues to work with Rachel. Slowly he finds his way and as part of his healing, starts to work with other young adults who have had sudden, shocking losses like his. Near the end of his time with Rachel, she pulls out the old drawing he had made, and shows it to him. He looked at it for some time and said, "You know, it's really not finished." He takes a golden-yellow crayon and fills the black vase with golden light and shows how it is spilling out from the crack in the vase, filling up the paper. She watches, puzzled. And then he explains: he puts his finger on the crack and says softly, "This is where the light comes through".

When I first read this story, I broke down and cried and cried. It speaks so clearly of my own struggle to believe I was something bigger than simply a broken body, that I still had something to offer the world. Then and now, it gives me great hope.

This I believe: we are all broken and we have our large cracks. And yet, these broken places often are a place and an opportunity where the brilliant bright white light of our spirit shows through, lighting the path before us and enlightening the world.

Janet
Resources:
Kitchen Table Wisdom by Rachel Naomi Remen "The Container"

The Healing Power of Plants

A few weeks ago I had hip replacement surgery. The surgery itself went well. Afterwards, there were the usual ups and downs of healing.

One problem that I developed was an allergic reaction to the adhesive tape used in bandaging the surgical site. I developed a large blister maybe 2 inches in diameter. My first response was to work out of the world of western medicine, my first training. I tried to keep it clean and covered, a neat trick when I didn't want to use adhesive tape again. The blister was near the surgical opening in my skin; I knew if the blister got infected, I would be a risk of infecting the surgical site as well, and this could be a big risk. So I was quite concerned.

After a few days it was clear that the blister was infected: it was red, swollen, stingingly painful and had a yellow discharge. I went to bed that night pretty stressed. And that night, in my dreams, the plants came to me and spoke: they reminded me that I am an herbalist, that I am a Plant Spirit Medicine practitioner, and that our gardens were full of plants that would love to help me. All I needed to do was ask.

So when I woke the next morning, I sent my gardener spouse out to the garden with instructions on the plants to collect ( I was not yet fully mobile). Glen brought me Calendula flowers, and some Mullein leaves, some Oregano leaves, some Roman Chamomile, and some Plantain. These plants are vulneraries (meaning they heal skin) but they are also very effective at killing bacteria.

I put them in a little pot on the stove with water and simmered them for ten minutes, letting the plant medicine seep out into the hot water. I let this tea cool so I could tolerate it on my skin, then dipped a clean cloth in the tea, and dribbled it on the blister. I held the tea-infused cloth against the blister as well, continuing this process for half an hour.

As I sat there working with the herbal infusion, I spoke to the plants. I spoke of my love and care of them. I spoke of their beauty in our gardens. I spoke about how the bees love these plants, and how the bees, too, find deep healing in them. I spoke of the profound healing relationship we had and how we had worked together before and would do so again.

As we worked together, the angry red color around the blister cleared. The stinging pain eased, and the discharge washed away, along with other debris. I felt a subtle humming sensation throughout me, as if the plants were singing a deep healing to me. I had a powerful sense of connection with my European ancestors, mostly from the Isles of Ireland, Scotland, England and Wales; they too knew these plants, grew them in their herbal gardens and used them for healing.

By that night the blister had sealed itself in a clean crust. The redness, discharge and discomfort were gone. By the next morning, the blister looked like a routine scab; it continued to heal very well and now, several days later, is only a faint red mark on my skin.

This experience made me remember a Mayan healer/shaman I had read about, who lived in Belize. His name was Don Elijio; each morning he went out into the jungle behind his house, collecting plants to use in his healing practice. Before he collected the plants he would pray to them, asking permission to work with them and giving gratitude and thanks. As he collected the plants, he would say a prayer about how he collected them for the people, and he had great faith that they would provide everything that was needed.

This story of Don Elijio has stayed with me. I am an herbalist/healer and I too have great faith.


Janet

Resources:
• Sastun by Rosita Arvigo: the story of Don Elijio
• Spiritual Bathing by Rosita Arvigo
• Healing Herbs in Ireland by Paula O'Regan

High Summer

It is the third week in July. This is high summer: hot days, endless blue sky, green everywhere and fruit coming to season.

In Five Element Chinese medicine, this is the season of Fire.

I learned about this during my time in Plant Spirit Medicine study. This is the season where all plants are pumping in sunshine, and pumping out fruits, seeds and nuts. This is the season where all animals (humans included) need to be taking in the richness of the season, recharging our batteries, and laying down stores for the foodless seasons to come.

I thought of all these things this morning, when I made my yearly pilgrimage to Johnson's Organic Berry Farm off Wiggins road in Thurston county. This morning was still cool, the maritime flow of air coming off the Pacific ocean making the day tolerable. I drove past green fields and deep woods, full of green plants in the prime summer of their lives, soaking in sun from the sky, and their roots deep in the ground, bringing in moisture and dissolved minerals. This is the green time of year.

This is the season where I make a plan to lie down between the strawberry bushes full of ripe fruit, letting the sun warm me up and reaching over lazily to pick a big fat red one and stuff it in my mouth, warm juices trickling down my chin. In this plan there are strawberries and sun forever, and the earth holds me in her cool arms while I feast in summer.

This is the season where we go to bed late, and lie in the cold wash of the fan, trying to get cool enough to sleep. This was how it was for us the other night, lying there at 1:30 am, until Glen made a funny remark, and we started laughing insanely, howling like hyenas for a good ten minutes until we finally hiccuped our way into sleep. This is the season of summer.

In the garden, this is the season where the Yellow-faced Bumblebee finds the pumpkin flowers and spends long hours stuffed deep into the flowers, collecting pollen and nectar for her brood sisters. This is the season where the Hazelnut bush starts pushing out big green nuts; Glen and I strategize each year about ways to protect these nuts so we get a chance to eat them before the jays and the squirrels do. Then there are the creamy cornucopia of lilies in bloom, drinking in the fullness of the light. These are the flowers, the fruits, the nuts of this season.

In this season, everything is green, full of promise, not yet fulfilled. Soon it will turn to Indian summer: the season where everything turns golden and the ocean sends us gray misty mornings.

In my life, I have come to learn that the changes of season occur like a tide, changing in a matter of hours from high tide, to slack tide and then to the long pulling out of the season, until the next year. I saw it happen one summer many years ago, and I have never forgotten it.

My sister and I had gone to a laundromat (now defunct) on the west side of Olympia, overlooking the bay and Mount Rainier. We took several loads of laundry there around noon; in between loads we sat outside and looked out on the bay, enjoying the sun and heat of the day.

When we arrived, the day was full of green promise, the sky summer-blue, and a sunlit blue tide surging south down Budd inlet, filling the estuary with a summer full tide.
As the day progressed, the feel of the day changed: the sun dropped farther south, and the summer-blue sky took on a hint of darker Prussian blue- the color of fall. The heat drained from the day, and the tide, once full, now started pulling strongly north, draining out the summer and the green days of endless sun.
When we arrived, we knew we were in full summer, feeling summer like an incoming tide, filling up all our senses. As the afternoon went on, we saw the tide turn: summer turned away from us, heading south, and I felt it in the marrow of my bones.
The next morning we woke to gray skies and rain. Summer was in retreat.

Janet Partlow

Elderberry Rob

Today I made black elderberry rob. This is a thick, honey-based syrup of black elderberries., used in the winter to prevent and also treat influenza. I am preparing to teach a workshop on herbs for influenza (see right) so I wanted to get some rob ready.

An English herbalist friend Lorraine Wood showed me how to make this years ago, although she made it with cane sugar. I want to follow older traditions from the time before we had cane sugar, so I am using honey.

I have wonderful local honey produced by my friend Rain the beewoman and her hives of local bees. These bees live just 3 blocks away as the bee flies and last summer they spent a lot of time in our herb garden. Now their honey is being used to make our medicine, and this seems exactly right.

So using a double boiler pan, I put the dried berries in the pan and cover them with 2-3 inches of honey, stirring to mix well. I bring the water underneath to a quiet simmer, and put a lid on the pan. Over the next several hours, I check the honey-berry mixture; slowly the elder gives up its dark red-brown goodness to the honey. I also use a clean towel to wipe off any water that has condensed on the lid of the pan, repeating this every half hour or so. When the honey is dark and rich, and the pan lid is mostly dry, I strain the honey through a sieve into a clean bottle, label and store in the frig.

Black elderberry (Sambucus nigra) is a shrub native to Europe, with a long historical tradition of medicinal and magical use. In France in 800 AD, the king Charlemagne thought so highly of its medicine that he decreed that each family have elder growing by their house, while in Ireland, people knew that Elder was a Faery shrub, full both of powerful healing, but also, some peril. Elder branches were put by the door to protect evil from entering, and whenever the seasonal flu came around, the elderberry rob came out to fight the illness, reduce the fever and induce a sweat.

Ninety percent of my genetic heritage comes from Scotland, Ireland, England and Wales ( as the family genealogist, I know these things). Recently, I have been exploring the herbal and healing traditions of the Celtic peoples of these lands. Elder is one of those medicines that go back perhaps 9000 years in the history of the Celts who migrated west into these islands.

When I have elderberries in my hand, when they are steeping in the honey on the stove, and the house is filled with the dark, complex flavor of berries and bee honey, there is a sense of coming home. I feel a long line of women herbalist healers behind me, guiding my hand and rejoicing with me in the work. Making elderberry rob connects me to my ancestral herbal traditions, to the lineage of healers, to the deep medicine of my heritage. This is good medicine.

Janet

Precautions: Our local Red Elderberry (Sambucus racemosa) and Blue Elderberries (Sambucus cerelea) are possibly toxic and should not be used for making elderberry rob. Black elderberries can be purchased in bulk at Radiance Herbs & Massage, or bought online from Dandelion Botanicals in Seattle. You can also grow your own Black Elderberry shrub; Horizon Herbs in Oregon sells both seeds and plants.

Resources:
Healing Herbs in Ireland by Paula O’Regan
The Earthwise Herbalist by Matthew Wood

From the Heart of Mullein

This morning was yet another one of these glorious late spring sunny mornings that truly feel like we are in the heart of summer in early July (though it is only May). I can’t wait to get outside each morning and see what is happening in the garden.

Today’s gift was the first blossoms from the herb Mullein. In Plant Spirit Medicine, Mullein is an herb that helps those of us of the Earth element find our ground. This plant has a deep taproot, growing deep into the Earth’s soil, and helping this very tall plant hold itself strong in the world. It provides a good lesson to me: I am always striving to reach high, to touch the sun, to exceed all possibilities. Yet if my feet are not firmly rooted deep in the Great Mother, my reach will exceed my grasp. Or yet another (funny) way to put it: my mind & spirit are very prone to write checks that my body is unable to cash. Mullein helps me balance all three, finding enough resources for all. Only when I am deeply grounded in the Earth am I truly able to reach for the sky.

Mullein has also been providing some other much needed help for me lately. When I started this alternative healing work eight years ago, I had this deluded idea that all my life issues would magically resolve and I would be able to present myself to the world like this bright shiny perfect penny of a healer. Not so. I struggle with life issues just like every one else.

The latest work is to look at a recurring theme about feeling unworthy - a legacy from the alcoholism of my family. At 56, with several years of therapy and other healing under my belt, I like to think I have done all the necessary work I need to do around these themes. Alas, that too is a delusion.

Sometimes, old feelings of low self-worth arise, out of some unseen rat hole, and I feel stupid, worthless, useless; many of you no doubt know this place. In these times, Mullein comes in like a loving mother, wrapping me around in her beautiful herb-green, flannel-leaf blankets. She reminds me that I am a child of this Earth, that I have a place, and some fine taproots, and I am surrounded by all the love I could ever imagine. She affirms to me that I am a worthy and beloved child of Spirit. In those moments, Mullein is my mother, and she brings me home to my authentic self. With her comfort and support, I take a few deep breaths, find my ground once again, and move into the world with confidence and grace.

This is the work of the Plants. And this is the work of the shamanic healer.

Janet