Tending the creative spirit

& medicine of the marsh

I was so touched by all of the comments and replies so many of you sent after my newsletter a couple of weeks ago about “discovering I’m not an herbalist”. I hadn’t realized so many folks were working through such similar feelings, reminding me how important it is to continue to share and reach out to the world (despite the desire sometimes to disappear like a hermit into my own little corner).

I’ve been thinking since the response to that newsletter about how I can dive even deeper into the creative spirit and how that too can be medicine to people, land, and beyond. Even after I switched my focus to herbalism I always kept an art practice, but I would like to share a bit more of that here. 

I haven’t found a way of connecting with the natural world on a more intimate level than I do when I’m channeling every curve of a petal, shape of a stalk, buzz of a bee onto paper through words or color and form.

It’s like translating that intangible language of the land into something physical that we can experience and understand in our own way.

In these moments of observation and curiosity I can almost feel the land perk up, lean in, look over my shoulder as I work. How often in our modern world of extraction do fields and forests and deserts receive such undivided devotion and attention? And who wouldn’t love a portrait drawn or poems written about them?

As creatives we become mediums, record keepers, spirit tenders, story weavers, and magicians in our own right.

This sort of medicine isn’t tangible or measurable, which is what I think we struggle with the most when deciding if our work is “useful”. Rather, we are embodiments of anima mundi, the Latin term for “the spirit of the world”. We keep our ear to the pulse of creation and weave these whispers into something the rest of the world can decipher.

To simply make a person feel something or think about the world or themselves in a slightly different way is good medicine whose ripple effects just can’t be quantified.

There is proof of this everywhere.

In Ukraine there is a woman growing beautiful varieties of clematis in her garden until the bomb sirens go off. It is a sanctuary even when safety is not a guarantee. Across the country there was a soldier writing poetry in the barracks about violets, providing an escape to his fellow officers when he would read his work aloud. He was killed in the crossfire, but his words live on, a beacon to those still fighting. In Palestine there is an artist painting beautiful orange groves and women with baskets collecting the bounty. A joy found in these paintings is its own form of resistance.

These acts of creativity in communion with the natural world, even in the most dire circumstances, are keys to survival of the heart. They are ties to our humanity when hope seems lost. They are tethers that can keep us grounded to shore even when we are tossed among the waves. They are signs of spirits not yet broken.

The bottom line is, creativity, art, poetry, is not frivolous. It is an essential part of our existence.

---

A daily sketching practice has helped me to give up control. It's better if its imperfect, open ended, a little wild.

With that being said, this week I wanted to share a little snippet of my own practice. One of the things I love to reflect the most in my words and art is how the land weaves such unique tapestries of color, form, scent and sound. Within these tapestries I also find deeper stories there.

I’ll often stumble across certain places, usually just little corners of the world that often go unnoticed, that speak directly to my own creative spirit. One of these spots I discovered recently was a little boardwalk overlooking Lake Huron. There was nothing else there, no trails, shops or people, just this little overgrown plank jutting out into the water.

Around the boardwalk grows a beautiful tapestry of cattail, nettle, thistle, and the most vigorous and healthy blue vervain I had ever seen. But what made this landscape so magical was how the element of wind added to the weaving. The blades of cattail endlessly wove in and out of each other like a basket constantly in the process of being made by some sky god. The stiff stalks of blue vervain and nettle waved back and forth within this sea of green threads, a gentle “tick tock” of time keeping.

Within it all, red-winged blackbirds sat on branches and beached trees, watching it all play out. Then finally, at the end of the boardwalk, the expanse of Lake Huron moves gently in the bay, a place to rest your eyes amidst the roiling sea of plants.

All of these pieces came together to create a landscape that wasn’t just beautiful to the eye, but felt beautiful to the heart and soul. These are the places and relationships I try to capture. Not just through pencil and paper, but by learning the names of plants, working with their medicine, listening to what places like these have to say.

Blue vervain happens to be one of my most beloved plant medicines. A tincture of the fresh plant material is an instant tension reliever in my head, neck and shoulders and mood lifter for a sluggish mind. While I can’t take it currently while pregnant, I’m infusing a batch now so it will be ready when baby comes. To find such a healthy stand (these were about six feet tall!) felt like such a gift.

The beautiful thing about medicine that isn’t measurable is that it has no bounds, no rules. It extends past our human hearts and into the heart of the land and the cosmos beyond. When I devote myself to the act of creation and connection, the universe bows in to meet me.

Much love,

Val