She slowly rocked in the recliner. Her purple dress pressed down between her spread legs and over her full belly and her low-hanging breasts that bounced when she laughed. She pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders as she taught us the difference between sage species—artemisia and salvia—mugwort, wormwood. 

“I helped the native women gather the sage. Women’s Sage, it is called. The women would use the sage in ritual during their moon cycles. The sage in that land is a small, fragile plant with powerful medicinal and spiritual properties.” Sounds quite female.

Another wise woman sat on the couch across the circle. A naturopathic doctor, a gatherer of herbs, a land forager. She chimed in: “When we gather the plants, we always ask before taking from them. May I pick from your branches? May I gather from your stems? Often, while gathering, I have the sense that they are not ready to be gathered. Or that they just want me to leave. Plants can be quite sassy.”

I felt like a child sitting at the feet of the elders. What a gift to be here learning from these amazingly kind and gentle women—women that have experienced the pain and suffering of life—women with lines of joy and sorrow on their faces but whose eyes shown bright with the light of love and healing. And deep wisdom.

I felt like a child just learning to read. My academic pursuits, doctoral research, educational accomplishments meant nothing in their presence. I still have much to learn.

I have never been content with what is observed by the five senses. I am always reaching to what is deeper and what is higher. As a child, I was the “weird” one who made the grove in the cornfield, who gathered herbs and weeds into my little sister’s old baby food jars. That child knew Spirit on a level never taught in Sunday School. I lost her somewhere along the way. I guess I no longer wanted to be “weird.”

But in the last decade, I have been journeying back to her—thanks to the help of Spirit and my ancestors. The healing has been deeper than any therapeutic model. The teaching communicated in a language more complex than any common storyline. It is the language spoken by this circle of wise women. Their smoke flowing over me. Their chants taking me deeper and higher.

And, like a child, I am only beginning to learn a few words, a few small phrases. I stand to walk on shaky, baby legs. I am learning to be silent. I am learning to speak.

And for my children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and on…

I will continue to learn.