A Masterclass in Healing: Plant and Planetary Vulneraries
part one / yarrow & venus / kindred skin
When you and I, in the herb-scented shade of my meadow office, speak of vulneraries, we are invoking the presence of ancient healers - our elders in the craft and the first to rebind the flesh and tame the blood, the ones who taught us how to mend and knit and repair our fleshly land-bodies. It is a word tacked-on to the alphabetical end of the list of a plant’s actions, a hint of aid derived from the Latin word “vulnus”, meaning “wound”.
These are the Plants which are wise in the ways of wounds. They know which ones must be tended to slowly, and which must be sealed immediately, which ones carry the sting of poison and which must be whispered to and coaxed into healing. My first teachers were these plants which reached out to me when my knowing of them was still young and they became a part of my story long before I threw myself into herb school and my tongue learned the right way to untie their Latin names. These are plants with a predestined relationship with the flesh of us that will return to them, through the Earth, in time. Perhaps they heal so well because we belong to them, we are theirs to tend, they know what to do. Anyone who has ever placed the bruised leaves of Yarrow {Achillea millefolium, Tlalquequetzal*} on a cut and stood in awe of the way they command the blood to cease, has felt what it is to be Known by a Plant. In my years of teaching, it is always the ones who have first felt seen and known by the plants who actually go on to have a gifted way of working with them. We are often initiated this way - by wounds, the split in our seams where our blood mixes with theirs and kinship is established.
From an astrological perspective, this is also one of the most mundane ways the planets interact with us. Plant folk reverberate with planetary energetics which interact with our earthly bodies. Nothing is lost in translation - nothing is wasted. Our human existence is flooded with universal energies; bits of Mars rush in our veins, we hold the Sun in a healing balm, the Moon bends near to soothe a sting. Venus blooms on the roadsides, Jupiter sinks its rooting fingertips in the garden compost pile, and when We die, we will become everything once again.
I find that the action of Vulnerary is clearly manifested in the planetary influence department and feels like a great place to start when someone is first trying on the 3D lens of astroherbalism. What better way to learn than to feel, to let your body do the remembering?
Obviously, this is a subjective and lived-experience perspective not to be used diagnostically. I’m not a doctor - I don’t even play one on TV. While I focus on the vulnerary qualities of these plant folks, that is not the only action at play. Please consult with a practitioner {like me} before working with herbs internally.
YARROW / VENUS
It’s no accident that Yarrow has already made an appearance as it is, in my opinion, one of the most crucial and human-relative plant folk we have the pleasure of knowing - and being known by. For generations this ‘thousand-leafed’ wonder has been mixing our blood with theirs and weaving a kinship that has spanned continents and eons. Yarrow’s scent is sharp, blade-like, acrid. Some folks love it - some absolutely hate it. In cool, damp years, the fragrance sweetens and becomes more daisy like, but then you know the medicine has dimmed. Yarrow likes the heat of the field and roadway, soaking up the Sun and condensing its constituents into a potent blend of sky-colored volatile oils, tannins, and flavonoids, among other chemical magicks. As someone who has been burning Yarrow on their altar of adoration for years, I find its acridity engaging, like a kiss with a little bite at the end. Yarrow is all kiss and bite, being a plant with many of Venus’ hard-edged traits, it works efficiently and reliably but underneath its ‘down to business’ exterior there is a well-like capacity for compassion. We turn to Yarrow when blood has spilled, hot and glistening red- nosebleeds, cuts with straight lines, and crimson menstrual flow. It heals from the outside, working to stop the blood and seal the wound. It works quickly - almost instantly in my experience, and allows the wound beneath the protective boundary to repair at its own pace. The tannins in the plant draw together, which is part of why it works so well on slices and cuts notoriously difficult for the body to mend.
Men have given many loving pet names to this Healer, claiming it as a singular ally of their profession {Soldierwort, Carpenter Weed, etc.} and that gives me a little thrill of pleasure. Bloody professions need the aid of nurses, and it reminds me of how often ships are named after women. Not that I consider Venus - or Yarrow - to be strictly female, but the way Yarrow expresses its vulnerary action is incredibly Venusian. As a skin healer, toner and beautifier {through its antibacterial and antiinflammatory qualities}, we are reminded of Venus’ rule over the skin - the boundary between us and all things. Our skin isn’t merely a way to keep us ‘unto ourselves’, it is the point where we are able to meet with everything else. As an influencer of the blood, we see Venus’ dynamic collaboration with Mars - the eternal tension of their partnership. The remedy to war wounds, the balm to work wounds, relied upon by midwives, mothers, and wielders of the sword alike - Yarrow embodies Venus’ skin-to-skin relationship with the participants of existence in this life; everyone believes that they possess a secret bond with this weedy godling.
Yarrow was my first teacher, calling to me when I was just a soft-skinned teen living on the flattened edge of the prairie. Before I knew their name, I knew their startling scent and marked how they thrived on the roadsides in the brutal Summer heat. I remember when I first got my hands on a well-worn copy of “Rodale’s Encyclopedia of Herbs” from the local library and scanned through the pages, recognizing my wayward friend on one of the last. Among the slim bits of generic information, I read that Yarrow was a woundwort and “good for stopping blood”. I read in another book that Achilles had pressed Yarrow leaves into the sword wounds of his soldiers on the battlefield, and that where their blood fell to the earth, more Yarrow sprung up. I made my first herbal salve from Yarrow-infused olive oil and the wax from a candle stub I’d found at Goodwill. I experimented with Yarrow washes and poultices as well as grinding it to a fine powder and using it as a styptic.
One morning, while I was cutting slices of our sturdy homemade bread, the knife slipped in my hand and the serrated edge bit into my finger. I felt the small ridges as they rubbed across bone and immediately needed to throw up. It didn’t bleed at first, didn’t feel at first, and I stood there staring at it in horror. I really, really, really, REALLY hate injuries. I can’t even tell you how much I wanted to just slip back in time and NOT do that. The flesh parted along the clean slice, it took the blood a moment to begin to flow - and then it poured. Brilliant, crimson blood. I could tell it needed stitches and, being ridiculously stubborn about such things {you’ll read about my broken ankle in an upcoming post}, I just took a hefty amount of Yarrow salve and smeared it half an inch thick on my finger, pressed the sides of the wound together and then wrapped it up in gauze and tape.
Then I didn’t look at it for three days. Like Christ in a tomb.
On the third day, my stomach had settled enough for me to consider unwrapping it and having a look. I thought, “Didn’t Achilles DIE from a sword wound? Wasn’t that the whole point of the story? I’m going to lose this finger.” Panic sat on my breastbone and my palms began to sweat, but as I unwound the layers of oily gauze there was a remarkable lack of blood. Then I saw my finger. Over the cut, a translucent layer of pale skin had grown. I could see that the meat beneath was still severed, and even the slimmest bit of nauseating white lay at the bottom, but the wound was Covered. I burst into tears, reapplied the salve and mummified my digit once more. In a week it was completely healed with a milky-pink scar.
Sharing blood, sharing skin, Yarrow and I have been kin ever since.
Yarrow’s floral essence resonates with those who are ‘sliced’ ~ cut to the quick. Their energetic skin is thin and vulnerable, not the responsive yet protective boundary needed to move about the world with ease. Perhaps a single event or trauma carved into their being and left a gaping wound through which the bones show, or maybe years of constant battering has left their shield with dents, cuts and missing pieces; they are unable to adequately protect or defend themselves and thus unable to meaningfully relate to others and Life itself. Yarrow calls to those who often find themselves in situations that demand more than just a pound of flesh, people who can’t lock themselves away in fortresses of stone, their energetic skin must be able to respond in the midst of crisis even though it makes them bleed. Called “The Healer’s Healer”, Yarrow neatly stops the hemorrhage of energy and patches up the boundary in such a way that no feeling is lost, preserving elasticity and response. We are contained once more in a living, breathing, energetic skin that is healthy and well.
I really love this essence for my clients with Venus and/or Mars in exile. Balancing the tendency to either bury oneself behind cement walls OR have no firm lines around the Self whatsoever. Mars calls to Yarrow as sweet remediation and Venus finds a willing reflection of its own desire to tend to the space between all things - the kindred skin of the world.
*Tlalquequetzal, the plant we know as Yarrow’s original Aztec name. The Aztec and other Indigenous Peoples of what is called Mexico and the Southwestern United States, called Yarrow the “plume of the earth” and used the crushed leaves to heal wounds and tone the skin on the face. Ref: Achillea millefolium - ficha informativa