Nettle was my Gateway plant into earth stewardship over 30 years ago, the one whose call I heard clearly and have heeded ever since. The one who froze me in my tracks with her touch. The one who opened up my eyes to the abundant world of edible, medicinal wild plants. The one who would become a part of my daily life.
And so it is, with great devotion, to the nettle patch I return, again and again,
for all sorts of communion.
I go down to the nettle patch to stare at the green-gold stems and let my soul catch up with my multi-tasking, overly active body. Nettles, you give me rest.
I go down to the nettle patch to pick the new tender growth for eating, steamed, with some tahini-lemon dressing drizzled on top. Nettles, you give me nourishment.
I go down to the nettle patch to attend my holy heart, and to reflect upon yours. All of our holy, precious hearts. Nettles, you open me up.
I go down to the nettle patch to watch the Shaconge1 blue mist rising, the breath of these mountains, greeting us with yet another day. Nettles, you call me to attention.
I go down to the nettle patch and sing, “As I went down to the nettles to pray, I was studying about that good old way…” Nettles, you bring a song to my heart.
I go down to the nettle patch and take in both the old and the new living together—last year’s bent, spent, gray stalks leaning over this year’s erect emergence of growth. Nettles, you help me understand the bigger picture.
I go down to the nettle patch and let the hairs sting me on the outside-my fingers, legs and third eye- to distract me from the sting I have going on in the inside. Nettles, you divide my pain.
I go down to the nettle patch to reap my share, before the aphids have made their annual arrival. Nettles, you teach me to co-exist.
I go down to the nettle patch and receive its gifts both when it’s warm- sun blazing on my back, and when it’s cold, fingers nipped by frost before the plant sting. Nettles, you are not a fair-weather friend.
I go down to the nettle patch to harvest as much as I can now, since you will crystalize and become unsafe to ingest later. Nettles, you remind me to seize the day.
I go down to the nettle patch to weed you back, to try and cultivate your route, and find your creeping roots are shallow and easy to pull. Nettles, you show me that not everything has to be so intensely deep in order to stand strong and spread far.
I leave my computer and phone and walls of my home and go down to the nettle patch to laugh and cry, pray and sway, and feel more alive to show up for this day. Nettles, you rewild me.
Mary Morgaine Squire
3/29/24
Waning Moon
Invitations:
~Miss Wondersmith has a delicious Nettle Crepe recipe here that might inspire you to pick some fresh nettles to blanch, puree and freeze for later use!
~I really can’t put into words how
and Our Lady of Nettles short story gets inside my mind and heart. Have you read any of her work? She’s a phenomenal writer and is on Substack!~Love Letters to our Plant Allies~
Stinging Nettle
Urtica dioica
Urticaceae
Mary Plantwalker reading her Love Letter to Nettle
Dear Nettle,
Thank you for being the one who turned me on to my lifelong relationship with the plant nation. I was wandering around Sehome Hill in Bellingham Washington, a student at Fairhaven College in the 90’s, and walked straight into a patch of you and will never forget that moment. Ouch! What’s going on? I froze in your midst and let the sting sink in, and heard you say, “Take me home with you, eat me.” And I listened. Still am, Nettle. To you and all of your green kin.
Wherever I have lived since then, I made sure to have a “nettle base.” The patch down by the river. The patch up on the edge of the pasture. The patch at the abandoned homesite. I must have you in my life, you dear, dear friend!
Right now, late March, your early leaf tips are drying both around our woodstove and in the dehydrator, and it makes the house smell like cat piss. We must really, really love you to tolerate that smell for weeks in early spring. Perhaps it’s the off gassing of the ammonia in your make-up- the big medicine inside of you. Yes, on the earthly plane, it is like that- the most potent medicines aren’t usually alluring and often make us turn away.
Your common name- some say it derives from ‘noedl,’ the old Norse word meaning needle, but we don’t know if that origin is from the needle-like sting you so generously give, or the strong thread your stalks make, ready to be sewn. Sting or stitch? The stories tell us you were a popular fiber until flax came along to replace you. An easier fiber to ret and spin, this linen, but oh how I would love a nettle dress!
When I moved to this sanctuary, I noticed immediately that you weren’t here! Your cousin of a differning genus, Laportia canadensis, Wood’s Nettle, lived in the forest and although I appreciate this plant, my kinship with you is much stronger. So I planted a clump of you in rich, damp soil and part shade, on the edge of the property and you never really liked it there. Years later, my dear sistAr2, Cheryl, gave me a pot of you, and I placed you in full sun, on the edge of the Ann Garden and you took off!
Oh Nettles, you are fairly gentle to us here in the Northern Hemisphere. Your siblings in places like Java and India have a sting that can last a year or sometimes be fatal. Your latin genus Urtica comes from the Latin word uro, to burn. Inside your cell walls live that ammonia, plus formic acid, with mineral salts and mucilage, a crazy combo of chemistry! Urtication is a form of therapy some of us have embraced from your compounds- thrashing ourselves with your leaf stalks to encourage blood flow, relieve paralysis, control pain (ironically) and release musculoskeletal tension. In this way, the sting is the medicine you bring.
Once, in an attempt to get to know you better, I asked my late partner Frank Cook to flog me head to toe while we were weeding you out of a garden bed you had completely taken over. I buzzed for a full 24 hours, with very little rest. But afterwards, my body felt renewed and strengthened and blissed out. It was extraordinary!
I notice that when I am stung by you, hot water or air soothes my skin, while cold water or air intensifies the sting. I am tingling right now as I write, and I want to ask you, must we sting so to have such clear boundaries? No one else tries to grow with you except wild onion, I have noticed. It does make you a powerful herb, one that I call in as the base of pretty much every tea blend I make. Every part of you holds medicine- root, leaf and seed- and calls us to a different time of the year for gathering each part. Thank you for helping us pay attention to the seasons, Nettle.
A potherb, blood purifier you are, and rich in protein for a green, and, like Rosemary, you support healthy hair. Your gifts are so numerous, I will leave the reader of this love letter to personally discover them one by one, or embrace them regularly like they already may be, and close with a prayer that people don’t curse you, or spray you with herbicide, but rather find ways to bring you more into their lives. Gratitude to you for the many ways you show up in mine, and the wonderful way you taste!
Love,
Mary Plantwalker
~Whoever you are, you are welcome here.
Cherokee name for these mountains, meaning “the place of blue smoke,” pronounced Sha-con-o-hey.
SistAr: a female friend who is also a kindred spirit.
I wrote this limerick years ago about a woman I knew that wandered into a patch of nettles. She was one of the most positive people I ever met. Instead of cursing or freaking out she cried, "I'm alive!"
There once was a woman from France
Who went for a walk in short pants,
She screamed, “I’m alive!”
Now she’s covered with hives
And feels like she got bit by ants.
These nettles can be made as a tea,
They’re good for your bones and your pee,
You can flog your arthritis
And treat your bronchitis
It’s food and medicine that’s free!"