From the Hedgewitch's Journal: The Healing Herbs of Late Summer

 

"By late summer, the garden begins to whisper a different language. The flowers fade, the seeds harden, and beneath the green leaves the roots begin gathering their strength."

There is something melancholy about late summer.

The days are still warm, but the light has changed.

The evenings arrive sooner.

Goldenrod glows beside the road. Elderberries darken in the hedges. Seeds cling to dried flower heads, waiting for autumn winds to carry them away.

For the medieval herbalist, this was not simply the end of summer.

It was a time of gathering.

The frantic abundance of spring had passed, and the wise woman began looking for the plants that would carry her household through the darker months.

Some of these herbs are familiar.

Others have almost disappeared from our modern medicine cabinets.

And those forgotten plants are the ones I find most fascinating.

Agrimony — The Little Herb of the Hedgerow

Agrimony (Agrimonia eupatoria) doesn't demand attention.

Its yellow flowers rise on tall, slender spikes, often appearing along roadsides, meadows, and woodland edges.

Medieval herbalists valued it for a variety of complaints, particularly those involving the throat, digestion, and minor wounds. It was often prepared as a tea or decoction.

Its bitter, astringent character made it especially interesting to traditional herbalists.

And there is something wonderfully appropriate about agrimony.

It is a quiet plant.

It doesn't announce itself.

You have to notice it.

Perhaps that is why it feels like such a hedgewitch herb.

Self-Heal — The Herb That Needed No Introduction

Self-heal (Prunella vulgaris) is another little plant easily overlooked.

Its purple flowers appear in lawns, meadows, and grassy places throughout summer.

Its name tells us everything about its reputation.

Traditional European herbalists used self-heal for minor wounds, sore throats, and inflammation. It was prepared as a wash, poultice, or tea.

The plant became associated with healing so strongly that its common names in several European traditions reflected that reputation.

There is something almost poetic about a plant called self-heal growing quietly beneath our feet.

A reminder that the most useful things are not always the most impressive.

Goldenrod — The Gold of August

By late summer, goldenrod (Solidago species) begins lighting up the roadsides with brilliant yellow flowers.

To modern gardeners, it may simply be a wildflower.

To herbal traditions, goldenrod had more to offer.

It was traditionally used in preparations for urinary complaints and as an astringent herb for minor wounds.

Its flowers also attracted bees and other pollinators when many early-summer blooms were beginning to disappear.

Goldenrod is a beautiful example of how the old healer looked at a plant differently.

She saw medicine.

The beekeeper saw nectar.

The storyteller saw the golden color of the fading sun.

One plant.

Many meanings.

Elecampane — The Root Beneath the Flower

By late summer, some of the most interesting medicine was no longer above ground.

It was beneath it.

Elecampane (Inula helenium) produces tall yellow flowers, but its thick aromatic root was the part traditional herbalists prized.

It was used historically for coughs, digestive complaints, and respiratory troubles and was sometimes made into syrups or preparations with honey.

The root's pungent fragrance is unmistakable.

For the medieval healer, it was exactly the kind of plant worth digging before winter.

The flowers might fade.

The root remained.

Lady's Mantle — Dew on the Leaves

Lady's mantle (Alchemilla species) has one of the most enchanting names in the herbal world.

Its scalloped leaves catch drops of water in their folds, creating tiny pools of silver that shimmer in the morning light.

Medieval and early modern herbal traditions valued lady's mantle particularly for its astringent qualities. It was associated with women's health and was used traditionally for various menstrual and reproductive complaints.

Its Latin name, Alchemilla, hints at another layer of folklore.

Alchemists were fascinated by the droplets that collected on its leaves.

To the eye, they seemed almost too perfect to be ordinary rain or dew.

A little silver bowl held by a green leaf.

Alchemy doesn't need much imagination after that.

Burdock — The Root That Waits Underground

Late summer is also the season to begin thinking about roots.

Burdock (Arctium species) is famous today for its enormous leaves and troublesome burrs, but traditional herbalists valued the root.

Burdock was used historically as a "blood purifier" and for various skin complaints and digestive troubles.

The modern concept of a "blood purifier" doesn't correspond neatly to modern medical science, but it tells us something about historical medicine: healers observed recurring patterns in illness and developed their own theories to explain them.

The root was earthy, bitter, and substantial.

A winter herb.

A plant for the darker months.

The Late-Summer Basket

Imagine the hedgewitch's basket at the end of August.

Not overflowing with delicate spring flowers now.

Instead, it holds roots.

Leaves.

Seeds.

Berries.

Golden flowers.

Plants chosen not only for what they can do today, but for what they might be needed for months from now.

The garden is becoming an apothecary for winter.

Some herbs are hung in bundles from the rafters.

Others are spread across linen to dry.

Roots are cleaned and stored.

Seeds are collected.

Jars are labeled.

Nothing is wasted.

This is perhaps the part of historical herbalism I find most beautiful.

The healer wasn't simply gathering plants.

She was preparing for the future.

The Magic of the Changing Season

Late summer has always felt like a threshold.

We are still surrounded by abundance, but we can feel the change coming.

The fields are turning gold.

The first leaves are beginning to fall.

The nights are cooler.

The herbs are setting seed.

And the hedgewitch knows that soon the landscape will offer different medicines.

This is why I love writing about herbs in their seasons.

A plant isn't simply a list of medicinal properties.

It belongs to a particular moment.

A particular landscape.

A particular kind of light.

And perhaps a particular memory.

From the Pages of The Midsummer Women

The women in The Midsummer Women understand this kind of knowledge.

They know that healing isn't simply about knowing the name of a plant.

It is knowing when to gather it.

Where it grows.

Which part to use.

How to preserve it.

And when to leave it alone.

That knowledge is passed from one generation to another—not always through books, but through watching.

Listening.

Remembering.

It is the knowledge of the hedgerow.

And it is disappearing.

Perhaps that's why I keep returning to these forgotten plants in my writing.

Because when we remember the plants, we sometimes remember the people who knew them.

The cunning women.

The wise women.

The gardeners.

The healers.

The women whose names history rarely recorded.

Until Next Time

"Late summer is not the ending of the garden. It is the moment when the garden begins hiding its medicine."

So take a walk before the season turns.

Look closely.

You may find agrimony beneath the hedges.

Self-heal in the grass.

Goldenrod glowing beside the road.

Elecampane reaching toward the sky.

Lady's mantle holding silver droplets in its leaves.

And beneath your feet, the roots are already preparing for winter.

The old apothecary is still there.

You only have to know where to look.