I have been feeling completely unhinged the past few weeks. On June 1st I lost someone very close to me, and I have never known a pain like this before. 

To be clear, I am not fishing for sympathy or digital condolences. I simply want to a) let you all to know where I’m coming from as I present some herbs to support your mental/emotional health and b) normalize, support, and honor the grieving process, something that I feel Western culture is lacking. 

Since this loss I have no interest in chit chat, small talk, or opining about the weather. I want to talk about real shit. Right now, that means the fact that I know I am not the only one going through the waves of despair and loss. That I am still committed to my health and wellbeing, and that of my community. That I am humbled by the nurturance of the plant world. That I am a total mess right now, and that’s ok. 

Whenever I have faced a tragedy in my life, my despair is met equally with immense gratitude for the incredible support system that surrounds me. Not only do I have several friends and family, my ride or dies, but I also have the support of the plants. While there really isn’t much a human can say to someone who’s grieving, the plants have a way of communicating exactly what you need to hear. A few days after I heard the news, I went to my friend’s garden (I’m an apartment dweller, so I live vicariously through other people’s gardens) and collapsed in between St. John’s wort, valerian, fennel, and elder. St. John’s wort has seen me in crisis several times. With seemingly no effort, the plants held me and comforted me in that space for hours. 

The following week, oats and mimosa were ready to be harvested in Jan’s garden. As if the universe was trying to throw me a bone, I was working at the apothecary the day they needed to be processed. I spent all day removing the immature oat tops (milky oats) from their stem (oatstraw), humming as I triple checked the ratio of herb to alcohol for maceration, and tearing up at the bewitching smell of the mimosa flowers. Neither of these plants are strangers to my suffering either. 

Oats (avena sativa) are the epitome of nourishment. The smell and soft sweetness of hot oatmeal (ground, mature oat seeds) in the winter is so comforting to me. Even more magical is milky oat seed tincture, the elixir made from the milky latex that exudes from the immature oat seeds. For about one precious week of their growth cycle, the oat seeds produce a latex with alkaloids that are trophorestorative to the nervous system, meaning they can actually help rebuild, repair, and rejuvenate nervous tissue in a big way. Milky oat tincture is indicated in those who are experiencing nervous system depletion, whose brains are fried from exhaustion. It can support people experiencing anxiety, depression, high stress/burnout, trouble focussing, substance withdrawal, and other chronic nervous system conditions. Taking milky oat tincture is like giving your nerves a nice steaming hot bowl of oatmeal. A couple of weeks on milky oat tincture will turn even the oatmeal haters (“It’s the texture for me…”) into believers. 

Milky oat tincture is very safe, just know that it is energetically moistening. It’s a mild, tonic herb that you can take over a long period of time. Once the seeds dry or mature, the magic alkaloids responsible for the trophorestorative properties are no longer active, so you’ll need to make/acquire a tincture made with the fresh oat tops in their milky stage to reap the benefits. Use caution if you’re sensitive to oats.

Oatstraw doesn’t contain the alkaloids that milky oat tincture does, but that doesn’t make them any less desirable to your nervous system. Oatstraw is very high in minerals and silica, aka brain food. Energetically the are fairly neutral, although minerals in general have a cooling effect. I much prefer tea to tincture, but you can use either. 

Oatmeal is well tolerated by most, though some people who are sensitive to gluten are also sensitive to the avenin in oats (try buckwheat porridge instead!). I recommend it with tahini, collagen powder, chia seeds, and local honey. Yum. 

Mimosa (albizia julibrissin) trees are blooming right now in Virginia, showing off their bright pink, pom-pom like flowers as if to say, “I dare you to feel sad around me”. Albizia is “invasive,” and I’m not mad about it. Dubbed the “tree of collective happiness” in Traditional Chinese Medicine, mimosa is a nervine (an herb that acts upon the nervous system, usually with calming effects), that has a profound ability to lift the spirits. The flowers and the bark of the mimosa tree are used for medicine. For all of you science nerds wondering about its mechanism of action, apparently certain compounds in albizia bind to 5-HT and GABA receptors. The flowers have a more uplifting energy, while the bark is more grounding. They can be used together or separately, though I prefer the bark when working with insomnia. While no herb is a replacement for therapy and/or trauma work, I like to use mimosa to support those with depression, low motivation, grief, and insomnia. You can work with the flower essence or a tincture made from fresh plant material. Mimosa is very safe, but physical doses are not recommended for pregnant/nursing people (try flower essence instead).

A couple weeks ago I went to visit the mimosa tree I harvested from last year. I kept walking past the spot where I remembered it lived, but I couldn’t find it. I realized it was evading me because it was completely bare – no green leaves, no pink pom poms wafting through the air – it was dead. 

Contrary to the winter solstice, which honestly feels like 2 weeks ago, summer solstice is associated with full expression: ripe fruits, high activity, abundant sun…But falling on the heels of this year’s second Saturn – Uranus square, it feels like we’re being asked to express ourselves in an entirely new way. 

I have been seeing a lot of death and devastation around me, not only of lovers, friends and acquaintances, but also of paradigms, belief systems, and structures. I feel like in addition to grieving a beloved, I’m also being asked to give death to, and eventually grieve, so many aspects of my life that are shedding like snake skin. My perception of work, of power, of resource, of social contracts, they’re all being turned on their heads. 

When I passed by the mimosa tree, I was brought to tears as I fixated on its dead limbs. What was simultaneously true though, was that it was sitting in the midst of so much verdant life. It’s difficult to see beyond my tunneled vision of my current circumstance and into the periphery, but I’m taking my milky oats and trying to occasionally take a bird’s eye view of what’s happening. All of this emptying is making room for something transformative that I can’t even fathom right now.