making medicine

My mother always told me that making medicine was a sacred act.

Ive been reading her books religiously, the ones she wrote, the notes she took from her beloved teachers, the notes she took from the ones she couldn't stand but knew they had a message for her, the travel books, the oh so personal ones she wrote, the ones hidden amongst the chose few herbal books to live in her work space, the ones she wanted to share with the world, the ones she never intended anyone to see, the ones i half close my eyes, and then weep, and then close and put away... all of them i have poured over, scouring, trying to soak it all in.

Again and again she wrote that when making medicine you need to be aware of the space that you hold, your intention, your love, your patience and the care for not only the ingredients but for the people who will take the medicine. The people you want to heal. For it is not only the medicine, but the love and kindness, the caring, the spirit you cultivate and infuse into the medicine that works the magic.
(She was not the only one i have heard say this, in my nutrition course there was so much talk about putting love into the food you prepare, and to slow down and not rush, for that intention with which you make the food, which is also our medicine, will transfer to those who eat it.)

I have been procrastinating making these things, these wonderful teas, tinctures, liqueurs, syrups and the like for the last few weeks.
I can see now why i was procrastinating.... i have been so worried about the bruises and the broken heart residing deep within me that i hardly ever let rear their painful heads. Because it hurts. I miss her terribly.
Making these medicines brings me so close to her.
There were so many of them that she started and then left unfinished. And i know it probably wasn't on purpose, but she was so fucking smart! half of me bets that she left these things unfinished knowing that i would have to finish them and then i would figure out the steps i could never remember, the measurements, the time, the details she kept stored in that complicated brain.

So i lit candles and changed my music and started talking to the medicines as i make them (in my head, lest my elder house-mate think i have absolutely lost my mind, which is highly probable anyway)

This might be one of the hardest things i have done to date. There is no one holding my hand, there is no one to let me talk it out to who will hold no judgement and then talk it all in a circle back to me. There is no one who can tell me it will be ok, that things are fine, and shes just gone for a short while.
There is just me and her shadow and the flitting memories


So this space we create when making medicines. it is a sacred space, there is human emotion, there is life, there is healing, there is the will to live and to prosper and to connect with the plants and their intense ability to heal the depths of our soul, our hearts, and our bodies... all infused into each drop of medicine made. 

It is with this, that i shall go check on my Solomon's Seal oil that i will later combine with a St. John'swort oil my mom made last year, a massage oil for tightening ligaments and tendons, muscle aches, arthritis, gout, burns, bruises, and lots of other like inflammation.

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