Viriditas: the Green Mist

I love this time of year, when the land is stirring again and plants, insects and birds return in a rush of colour and music. Yes, autumn is enchanting with its mists and ambers, but it is a time for farewells. Spring is full of greetings. I go out each morning to meet plant-friends I haven’t seen since the year before. I drink water of cleavers, nibble hawthorn leaves, cook nettle soup and begin the process of medicine making, renewing an apothecary depleted by winter’s ills. More than anything, I love to stand in the sun and breath in the rich cocktail of phytochemicals released by the unfurling leaves and blossoms, enveloped in the rising green mist.

‘The Green Mist‘ is a tale collected by 19th century folklorist Marie Clothilde Balfour in the Lincolnshire Carrs. It describes the healing powers of the returning vegetation in the spring. The green mist is awaited by the rural folk and greeted with offerings of bread, salt and ‘strange words’. A young girl in poor health wishes to her mother that she might survive until the green mist rises, to ‘wake the spring with thee’ – believing the green mist will make her strong again. The idea that there is healing, not just in the consumption of medicinal plants with specific constituents, but in the verdant power of vegetal growth is widespread in pre-modern culture.

Viriditas, a Latin word with the classical definition of ‘greenness, verdure, viridity’ and ‘freshness, briskness, vigor’ was adopted by the 12th century abbess, Hildegard von Bingen, to express the divine in nature. The saint and sibyl of the Rhine used the term frequently, extending it from the realm of plants to the human body to describe our ability to heal, grow and thrive. To Hildegard, viriditas, the very breath of God, imbued all living things. In choosing a word belonging to the vegetal realm to express spirit, rather than more traditional metaphors of breath, fire, or light, she may have been inspired by her homeland. The lush surroundings of her first monastic house at Disibodenberg are located between two rivers and the ruins of the monastery are still full of verdant life, so green you can almost taste it on the air.

The ruins of Disibodenberg

In a temperate regions, the greening of the land brings with it a great rush of energy that can be experienced with all the senses. Hildegard would have been familiar with the burbling sound of rising sap, the fresh, raw scent of blossom and volatile compounds, the taste of green shoots and pot herbs, the delicate softness of young beech leaves and of course, the colour green. Green so intense, after the greys and browns of winter, that it leaves an after-image on the retinas. The still-transparent green of new leaves that filter the light beneath the canopy, turning the woods into an underwater world imbued with shades of a single colour. In these bio-regions, green seems to be the source of life itself.

Foragers and gardeners, whose eyes are trained not only to differences in species of plants, but the varying states of individuals, will have a whole internal palette of greens: the green that indicates the right time to gather young bramble leaves or nettle, the green that suggests lime or hawthorn leaves are still tasty and tender, the green that differentiates a flourishing plant from a dying one. This attention to colour helps herbalists to select those plants which have the greatest medical potency. Why do we pluck one leaf and not another? Because it expresses a greater viriditas.

On an esoteric level, those who work deeply with plants may experience a sense of euphoria or even ecstacy during the rising of the green. The licentious traditions surrounding May Day in Britain encourage humanity to imitate the fecundity of the green folk, to engage with and embody this surge of life-energy in the plant kingdom. We dress as flower queens and jack-in-the-green and dance around tree trunks (may poles) bedecked with greenery. Even the dew is held to have rejuvenating properties at this time of year.

In astrology Mars, and Aries which has its ingress at the Spring equinox, represent the potency and drive of human life, the red of blood and passion. Venus demonstrates the equivalent force in the vegetal. Her sacred month in the Roman calendar was April and she rules Taurus, into whom the sun enters as the temperate North blossoms. To the philosopher Lucretius, Venus was a personification of the creative force itself. At Pompeii she was worshipped as Venus Physica, Venus of nature (physis), from the root φυίω – to grow. Hildegard von Bingen’s treatise on natural philosophy was entitled Physica and as the middle ages progressed this term became fysike (physick) – the healing arts. Our very concept of medicine is bound up with Venusian generation.

In our own century, researchers in east Asia have begun to demonstrate that human health is improved by exposure to landscapes dominated by plant life, such as forests. One Korean study looked at the anti-inflammatory, anti-tumorigenic and neuroprotective properties of terpenes absorbed from forest air. Studies from Japan have demonstrated that shinrin-yoku (forest bathing) can increase the body’s immune response and help to prevent cancer. Although there has, as yet, been little interest among orthodox medicine in the West, as these studies provide explanations that satisfy a materialistic world view the concept of ‘ecotherapy’ may gain wider acceptance.

In healing we seek the power to regenerate ourselves. What more potent source of the regenerative power can we access than that of the plant world as it comes back from the death of winter? Our bodies are not walled off from the natural world, we are permeable, and as the green mist rises we inhale, absorb and imbibe viriditas.

The Urge to Gather

Spring is finally arriving in the Northern Hemisphere and with it, the first green shoots of our early edibles and medicinal herbs. After several months consuming dried and prepared herbs, I’m eager to go out foraging and drink Hedgerow tea again. As I do not have a garden of my own just now, I rely on the wild spaces around me to provide the plants I use, for both magic and medicine. I’m fortunate to have access to a range of bio-regions, from water meadows to coppiced woodlands and enjoy making trips up to the Yorkshire dales and the North York Moors to gather herbs that are abundant there but rare in my locale.

However, as I have herbs gathered last year that I still have not used I have been thinking about responsible foraging practises and the urge to gather. This is a compulsion shared by herbalists and foragers alike and one that can be difficult to resist. I recently listened to Howie Brounstein’s podcast on ‘Herb Lust’ over at Herb Rally and it stirred my own thoughts on the subject of violence towards plants. I believe that our desire to pick every new herb we encounter comes from a scarcity mindset bred by our capitalist culture. This lust, if uncontrolled, is ultimately harmful to both the bio-region and ourselves.

While many recognise that eating meat involves violence towards animals, few seem to extend this compassion to the green folk, despite growing evidence that plants have their own social networks and intelligence, and that they respond, individually and collectively, to animal or human grazing. Our ignorance of the violence we do to plants is a product of a system of thought in the west that privileges certain types of life over others, a hierarchy of being that can be traced back to Aristotle. This philosophy, deeply ingrained in our culture, says it is ok to harm plants because they are closer to non-living ‘objects’ than to sentient beings. It is built entirely on false premises and assumptions about a form of life that is ‘other’ and difficult to relate to compared with our animal companions whose moods and emotions we can more easily interpret.

The practise of herbal medicine, like gardening, foraging for food and agriculture, involves violence against plants. I feel it is better to accept and acknowledge this than pretend that what we are doing harms none. If we accept that the plants we work with are independent entities, not put here to feed or heal us, but to live their own lives, we can at least try to limit unnecessary violence and over-harvesting. As a practical animist, this is even more vital, because respecting plant-life is part of developing a healthy relationship with the land spirits of one’s locale. To esoteric herbalists, plants are not only medicines but allies and we must keep on good terms with them if we hope to receive their most potent gifts.

When we buy pre-packaged herbs we can only hope they, and the land they grow on has been treated with the care and respect we would accord it. Picking our own herbs means that we experience this violence directly, it is our hands that do the damage. To put a high value on the life of plants counters our own desire to consume, to take and to possess. A shelf full of herbs in nicely labelled jars is very satisfying, but plant remains are not props, they are dead things we have taken from the bodies of others, they are a different sort of sacrifice.

I use this emotive language in an attempt to elicit the same strong feelings people express towards animals and am aware that many who lack connection to the plant world will simply shrug their shoulders. To them, I offer the concept of sustainability and thrift. If we over-harvest we leave less for wildlife and other foragers, we can also exhaust a patch of a certain herb so that there is less to gather the following year. For ourselves, ending up with a surplus of herbs offers no benefits as most are best used within a year of drying. To have old herbs sitting around is a waste of space and empty jars. To this end, I offer some suggested guidelines which I try to follow myself.

Spring stock-take

At the end of winter I like to do a stock take of all the herbs I have in storage. It can be helpful to make a list and record the dates the herbs were gathered so that you know when they will be available again (if you’re not writing the month/year gathered on your labels I encourage you to do so.) Look over the list and see what you have been using the most, draw up a list of herbs you are nearly out of and make these your gathering priorities. If there are plants you have not used, consider why and whether you could potentially gather less or none of that herb this year. If the herb is used infrequently, a tincture may be better as it will last longer than dried material (2-4 years). It is more valuable to have a small apothecary of herbs you know intimately and use regularly than a vast collection of untouched and aged plant matter on dusty shelves.

Non-picking Days

We don’t need to gather herbs every time we venture out. Sometimes, we can simply enjoy their company instead. To have a day, now and then, to observe plants but take nothing and return home empty handed helps counteract the desire to take. If this feels fruitless, there are ways of ‘gathering’ information that leaves the plants themselves untouched: photography, keeping a field journal or sketching are all wonderful practices that build up our plant knowledge. This practice fosters a relationship with plants that is not always about picking and allows them to experience us as something other than a threat.

Mindful gathering

Some people follow the practice of asking every plant they take for permission before picking. I applaud the sentiment behind this but feel it is self-defeating. How often do you hear the plant say ‘no’? Does a nettle or a bramble ever really consent to you taking its leaves? The stings and scratches would suggest otherwise. Unfortunately I think this is one of those situations in which our lust for the plant is likely to overcome any real communication coming through. Instead I would recommend simply paying attention and being in the moment while you are picking, focus on the action and express gratitude in some way, whether this is by offerings, prayers, songs or simply heartfelt words.

Taking less

How much of a herb do you really need? Who will it serve? Your community, your family or just yourself? How much did you go through last year? I try to think of this while gathering. When faced with abundance, a field or tree full of flowers, it takes humility to say ‘that’s enough.’ Knowing when to stop picking takes restraint, but is a sign of respect towards the plants you’re taking from. Likewise, taking less from individual plants or from ‘patches’ will minimise the violence to some degree. Taking one or two leaves from different plants, rather than pulling a whole plant gives the individuals a chance to recover and flourish despite picking.

Pulling roots with respect

Most plants will recover from a certain level of grazing or picking. However, if you dig up a plant to harvest its root you are killing it. There is no way around this unless you’re able to keep some of the root and regrow it (which does not work with all plants.) Root magic and medicine is powerful and this is why we have legends around plants like the mandrake that scream and curse those who uproot them. I treat the pulling of roots with more ceremony and respect than the picking of aerial parts and always try to make some offering or gesture – this can be as practical as distributing the seeds of the plant more widely or as symbolic as offering a drop of your own blood in thanks.

Use what you have

Finally, and perhaps self-evidently, use the herbs you have gathered. Many of us hate to waste food, and wasting herbs should also play on our conscience. Make the sacrifice of life worthwhile by using the results to heal, to enchant and to create. If you absolutely have to get rid of old herbs, return them as compost and think about whether you will gather that herb again next year.

I write this as much to inspire myself as others, for I am not immune to herb lust and the urge to gather. My work in herbal medicine and magic comes into conflict with my heart-felt animism and it is sometimes difficult to reconcile the two. That is why I offer these as guidelines and not rules and recognise that your relationship with wild plants may differ greatly from my own. I do not think it is ‘wrong’ to gather herbs or roots, any more than I think it is ‘wrong’ to eat vegetables. However, I feel passionately that we need to acknowledge the rights plants have to live and flourish and that it makes us better herbalists and foragers if we know when to stay our hand.

Drink the Land: Hedgerow Tea

As a change from philosophical musings, I would like to share a simple practice of mine that helps me connect with the land, plant medicine and the seasons. Now is an ideal time to discuss this, as spring has arrived in the Northern Hemisphere and the greensward is alive with herbs and flowers once more.

I make hedgerow tea at least once a week during the spring to autumn months. In winter I substitute this practice with herbs I have dried myself. The brew is ever changing and reflects the ephemeral nature and life cycles of most medicinal plants that grow here. It is always made fresh, within an hour of picking the herbs, when they are still very much alive. Because I only make enough for one or two cups, very little plant material is needed and over harvesting of rarer species is avoided. The tea is as much an energetic as a physical medicine, its drinking is an act of gratitude and communion, and its effects are subtle.

Most of the herbs we buy are grown overseas, as is our tea and coffee and a good deal of our food. We no longer consume the products of the earth beneath our feet and are disconnected from the seasons and local biosphere. Making hedgerow tea is a small, simple way of getting back in touch with your locality. The aphorism ‘you are what you eat’ may be over used, but it is no less true. By eating and drinking the land, you become a more integral part of it.

I call this ‘hedgerow tea’ because most of the plants I work with grow in the woods and hedgerows, but you could also make it from garden herbs, or those taken from any land you have access to. Obviously, careful identification is essential, which is why I recommend this practice only once you have a decent familiarity with your local plants and have tried them as simples first. If you are new to an area, or to wild crafting herbs, pick up a good local field guide. Roger Phillips’ (shown in the photo) is my favourite for the UK. All you really need to know to begin is which plants are toxic and which are consumable.

How to brew Hedgerow tea:

1. Go for a walk. This is an integral part of the practice. The walk itself is pilgrimage and offering. It is meditation and communication. Listen and observe and be present.
2. Gather your plants. This is an intuitive process and the greater familiarity you have with the local plant life, the easier it becomes. I like to take a flower, berry or a few leaves from any plant newly in season, any plant that calls to me or grabs my attention. Sometimes, if I am suffering some disease or symptoms, I keep this in mind and ask the land guardians to guide me to the medicine I need. My hedgerow teas vary in number of plants, from three to twelve different types. The more variety, the smaller amount you need of each. Magical numbers like seven and nine are always suitable.
3. Give thanks. Whether this is in a physical form, with an offering or libation, or simply with words, music and heartfelt expression.
4. Check your herbs for insects, carefully remove these, then give them a quick wash to remove any dirt and dust.
5. Brew your tea. Use fresh water, or spring water if you can and always use a tea pot, as the volatile oils in the fresh herbs will be lost unless there is a lid to condense them.
6. Take the time to sit and drink. Notice the tastes and scent, the colour of the water (violets will turn it a vibrant blue!) and any sensations or messages you receive as you drink it.
7. Return the used herbs to the earth (not the bin!) with gratitude.

 

You do not need to be a herbalist to try this, but please do make sure to identify your plants accurately and don’t consume any you are unsure of. I hope you will enjoy your own hedgerow tea and would love to hear about your experiences with this practice.

 

Practical Animism

In my last essay on working with the land I discussed the importance of access and solitude to establishing a relationship with your locality. In the next part of this series I want to look at a few simple practices you can begin once you have this sort of access. But first I’d like to examine the concepts behind them a little more closely, particularly that of ‘practical’ animism.

Animism is a popular topic at the moment, at the innovative edge of the academy and in the occult world. It’s also getting attention at the more radical end of herbalism. I am very pleased to see books coming out like Nathaniel Hughes’ Weeds in the Heart, which approach plant medicine from an animist perspective. I believe this interest is driven by a move away from materialism and a growing awareness of ecology and eco-criticism. In the occult world, it is also a feature of increased syncretism and sharing between different esoteric traditions, especially those outside of Western Europe which have retained more of their spirit-work elements.

But the problem with the term animism is its novelty. It was coined by 19th century anthropologists and originally applied, derisively, to the beliefs of tribal cultures. Edward Burnett Taylor defined animism in 1871 as the ‘theory of the universal animation of nature,’ from Latin anima ‘life, breath, soul.’ This is still a useful definition for us, although it is important to keep in mind that Taylor saw animism as the most ‘primitive’ form of religion and a state of great ignorance, as opposed to scientific materialism. Animism has been applied as an umbrella term to a diverse range of beliefs, belonging to peoples who may or may not accept this definition.

I want to leave aside the issue of animism in anthropology and related disciplines for now, and discuss two expressions of animism you’re likely to encounter in contemporary Western counter-culture. You could call these ‘soft’ and ‘hard’ animism, in the way reconstructionists frequently differentiate ‘soft polytheism’ from ‘hard polytheism.’ But I find this division problematic and inherently judgmental. Instead, I’m going to use the terms theoretical and practical animism.

If contemporary Western animism accepts the central tenet that ‘all of nature is animated’, then two questions immediately arise: what are the metaphysics of this ‘animation’? – and – how do we respond to an animate universe? The first is a fascinating topic of discussion, involving various esoteric and philosophical theories of the soul, spirit, life-force-energy and the boundaries of individuality. I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know the answer, although I have a few ideas and am always keen to engage with the question. Theoretical animists are those willing to accept the idea of an animate universe in theory. I’ve spoken with many people somewhere on the spectrum of theoretical animism, and not all have been pagans or occultists. It is a philosophy that appeals to members of many faiths, and of none.

However, it is the second question that is vital to my interests – how do we respond to an animate universe? If you’re born into a culture where animism is the dominant world-view, you’re likely to find this easier. For those of us brought up to believe that ‘animate’ only applies to moving organisms or, at a stretch, those with biological life signs, it will always be a challenge. Accepting that challenge means placing yourself at odds with the rest of your culture. The good news is that you don’t need to define the metaphysics of animist belief to enjoy practical animism, and yes, I mean enjoy. Practical animism can be full of wonder, connection, community and the sort of magic that makes your heart sing. It can also be terrifying, especially if your relationship with the non-human lacks respect.

Practical animism means living in a the world that is not divided between ‘people’ and ‘things.’ If everything is animate, then humans and animals are not exceptional. If a river or a car or a pebble is a person, in the same way your brother or mother is, how does that change the way you live? It should revolutionise it. If you truly acknowledge this world-view, then everything you do becomes part of a relationship. You take your place in a wider society of beings beyond your species. You become at once less exceptional and more connected.

How do we move from theoretical to practical animism? First, we have to decide what sort of relationship we want to have with non-humans. Just like our human interactions, these will be complex. Do we want to develop relationships in which we have power or in which we share mutual respect and co-operation? Can we conceive of a world in which our species is not at the top of the hierarchy of being? Do we even get to decide how these interactions will develop if the other party is uninterested or antipathetic to us?

To begin to with, we need to learn from others. Contemporary cultures with a living animist tradition and those of pre-modern Europe. Imagine, for example, that you are attending a formal event – a wedding or a dinner party, in which you are completely unfamiliar with the forms and manners expected of you as a participant. You do not wish to make a fool of yourself, or offend your hosts – so you watch carefully, listen and observe. If the person next to you knows how to behave, then you follow their example. This is not cultural appropriation – it’s simply learning from those with a better understanding of how to act in an animate world.

The second guide we have, inferior to the first, is our intuition. It is inferior only because it is subject to our own ego-desires and wishful imagination. If we are not careful, we can fool ourselves. The intuition is the only sense we all have that recognises the spirit-world. When we come to a place where we are not welcome, it will fill us with dread. When we are being watched, we will feel that presence. Learning to listen to our intuition is a survival skill, as much as a means of communication. With intuition we can learn how to practice animism directly from the non-human parties we seek to engage with.

Finally, I will add that even though I extol the virtues of direct, solitary engagement with the land – you do not need to have such access to practice animism. The animate universe does not begin where human civilization ends. The chair you are sitting on and the room you are in are just as alive and spirit-haunted as the wildest forest grove. Begin to recognise this and work with your household and urban spirits, and you will be in a good place to engage with those who inhabit wilder spaces.

Theoretical animism is not a weaker form of practical animism, it is a step towards it. We have to rearrange our minds before we can change our relationship with the non-human. However, accepting that the world is animate and treating it as inanimate will not make you any friends beyond the human. The practical animist does not just believe that the mountain is alive, they bow to it.

Working with the Land

The heart of my magical practice is working with the land. When we talk about working with the land we often imagine a deeply rooted connection based on a life-time of living and working in the same region. Such connections are invaluable, however they are increasingly rare. Many modern witches and magicians live in urban environments far from their ancestral roots and move several times over the course of their lives.

This is certainly my experience and has led me to develop a series of concepts, methods and practices for initiating and developing relationships with my new locality. Currently I live in a semi-rural part of Northern England, but I have also lived in outback Australia, in leafy suburbia and in a high-rise in the heart of a modern city. Wherever I live, I’ve always found it is possible to establish and maintain relationship with the land.

This will be the first in a series of posts examining the idea of land-work which I hope will offer some practical information. The practices I discuss are rooted in traditions and folklore from various cultures and are respectfully syncretic. However, they have grown and flowered through direct experience. Tradition is a valuable guide, but each land has its own particular ways and if you listen and observe, it will teach you how to work with it.

When we talk about the land from a magical perspective, we are usually interested in the land spirits and the land’s inherent energy or power. From an animist perspective, the land spirits are those resident in a place. In Norse traditions, they are referred to as land wights or Landvættir. In the Roman world, they were honoured as genii loci. They are sometimes referred to as faerie in British folklore, however that term is also used for the dead and the pre-Christian gods. Generally speaking, land spirits are associated with a particular physical place rather than a culture, tribe or family. They are independent of human recognition or interaction and sometimes disinterested or antagonistic to us. That said, they have historically been accorded respect and given offerings. The land also encompasses the spirit-presences of the plants, animals, stones, rivers, springs, mountains and other beings that inhabit it.

Land power is the energetic force present in the land. The English language is rather impoverished when it comes to terms for the life-force, though I’ve heard traditional witches speak of the red serpent, sprowl or the red thread. I believe modern Druids use the word ‘Nwyfre.’ Much like the life-force present in living bodies, the land has its own complex web of energies made up of flora, fauna, funghi and geological phenomena. The land power of chalk downs feels very different to that of iron rich clay. The energy of a forest differs greatly from that of a mountain range or a desert. Connecting to this power is not only useful in one’s own work, but allows us to recognise and respond to changes in the land. It is not difficult to access. As soon as we enter an environment we become a part of it, whether we are conscious of this fact or not. Indeed, the more we immerse ourselves in the land and give up our illusion of separateness, the greater access we have to this power.

Regular and free access to the land is vital to establishing these connections but can be difficult to obtain. Even in rural environments, land access is heavily contested and frequently privatised. Scotland, theoretically, has some of the most extensive rights to roam in the United Kingdom. However, when I first visited I discovered this right was severely hampered by miles of barbed wire. Getting access to the land can be particularly difficult in urban and suburban areas. Sometimes, it is necessary to broaden our idea of what the ‘land’ means. When I lived in the city, the only unpaved land I had easy access to was the river’s edge. I walked along the shore daily and became familiar with the tides, the waterfowl, the moods and currents of the river. The river itself also had a powerful and ancient spirit to whom I made offerings.

In suburbia, I’ve found public parks and undeveloped land offer sites for access. Of course, land doesn’t stop being land because its built over and paved. Cities have their own spirits and energies. Personally, I’m more comfortable with wild or rural landscapes, and most of what I write here concerns working with such environs, but that doesn’t mean that urban land is any less magical. If you likewise need some wildness, then regular journeys to a national park or nature reserve may offer a solution. Returning regularly to the same place, even if it is hours from where you live, is enough to establish a connection, especially if you go alone and give yourself time to fully immerse in the landscape.

Solitude is integral to my work with the land. The reason for this is very simple, when we are with other humans we are enclosed in a bubble of humanity. We filter our experiences through their reactions and the weight of their presence makes it harder to detect more subtle presences. Being alone with the land is itself a deeply magical experience. Even if you don’t have access to remote wild places or live in a city, being unaccompanied will give you a greater awareness of the energies and spirits around you. Gain access to the land, and spend time there alone. This is the cornerstone to all land-based practice.

In future posts I look forward to discussing different types of land spirits, methods for raising land power, eating the land, beating the bounds, the relationship between land and memory, intuitive magic, augury and several methods for developing and deepening a connection with your locality. If you have any questions please leave a comment.