Green eyes. When did my eyes turn green? Maybe after I bonded with the plants, entering into their slow and generous world.
That day in Ann Drucker's herb class was the taproot. We spent the day on the plains, in the WishGarden Herbs garden. It was an unusually misty, wet day for Colorado. On my way there I'd wondered if I'd end up going home early -- I hate cold wetness to my bone. Yet as we entered into the plant world by singing and opening our awareness, the water and cloudy coolness became nurturing respite from the usual burning Colorado sun.
The plant species each had their own personality. At first I chose Motherwort, wanting some mother wisdom about my children. I sat down next to her. Burying next to her a bit of herb from my garden as an offering. Asking her if I might receive a teaching from her.
As I listened inwardly, she squawked at me like a tired mother, bothered yet again by a thoughtless child. "You don't belong with me. Go to Cronewort with your questions. Leave me alone."
Taken aback, she was true to her prickley seed pods, setting her limits with a bit of a poke. "OK, I hear you. Sorry I bothered you."
I crawled a few yards through the muddy paths around the plants until I found Cronewort. Some know her as Mugwort. She was truly regal. Almost as tall as I was when I stand on my feet. But I kneeled in front of her, offering my herb and my song.
"Sacred Cronewort, hear my song. Make my way sacred, fill me with wisdom.
Sacred Cronewort, hear my song. Make my way sacred, fill me with beauty.
Fill me with wisdom, that I may bring others wisdom.
Fill me with beauty, that I may bring others beauty."
I asked to partake of her leaves and her wisdom. She nodded her head in the moist wind. I beheld her physical form, jagged leaves shadowed with silvery green, watching for the leaves that were offering themselves to me. When I saw them, I gently removed them from her branch and clutched them to my heart in thanks. Then I took them into my mouth, chewing slowly, tasting her leaf juices mingled with my juices. I sat still in the misty rain.
As I sat the rain would change her song, falling with a deeper tone with larger drops, then more staccato, then leaving a misty space of quiet rest between.
The essence of cronewort juice rose to my head. I felt that regal sense agian, now inside of me, and knew yet another name for her-- Crownwort. I felt she had crowned me with the beginning of my cronehood, the sensation of a royal crown on my head. I felt my shushumna, the energetic spine, fill and glow and my crown chakra awaken by her powers, just as I had felt it happen before by chanting sacred words or being in the presence of saints. I sat still in the misty rain.
The honor and peace of Cronewort's initiation of me smoothed my way into my menopausal years.
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