Audrey T. Carroll

We forgot the old ways. Gran always said that was the problem with getting too comfortable.

Alyssum. Cornflower. Chamomile. Bay laurel. 

The world relied too much on lightning contained in metal boxes. There was no use for the old ways. We had a phrase, then: too big to fail. 

Chicory. Passionflower. Mugwort. Dandelion. 

As children, we would complain that we had to learn, taken out to fields by those who still remembered. There were days a century ago, well before my time, when no coin could be spared for honey nor pills, and so they gathered what grew on the lands around them. We thought this old-fashioned; I only complied to stop complaints, or else I would have swam or climbed trees or done just about anything else on a summer’s day. 

Meadow clover. Raccoonberry. Goat weed. Witch grass. 

The lightning machines are gone now, of course. But some still remember the old ways. There are those who dismiss the land’s remedies, those who perhaps can afford to. But not everyone can afford to. Not everyone is so free from a body’s troubles. Pain comes for us all. My bones grew sore by middle age, and yours might do so, too. My sight is fading daily, and yours might do so too. Do not think your own skin impenetrable. We are not made of stone. 

Mother’s-heart. Thoroughstem. Milkweed. Queen Anne’s Lace. 

When you hear this old voice telling you the names and your young mind begins to wander, remember this is a gift, this knowledge. Those who thought all answers could be found later, are lost. We have found, and we must continue to find. As these names were given to me, I give them to you, and you will return the gesture someday. That is the heart of survival.

Mad apple. Bitter nightshade. Marsh marigold. Rattlesnake root. 

This is how we pass down knowledge: repeat it, like a song. Books can burn. Minds can falter. But words continue, if enough tongues repeat them.