Tending to the Bones

This article was originally featured in the Winter 2021/22 Edition of The Pearle Vine Quarterly.

As I laid the medicinal herb gardens I tend to rest this November, I asked a question of myself: Do I trim down the tall, bare herb stalks now prominent through the land, or leave them be, in all their bone bearing glory, to remain in the gardens throughout the winter?

I wondered if people used to ask this question of themselves, way back when. When people understood that there was a unique beauty in all natural things, whether they were blooming or not. I like to think they didn’t. I like to think this is a modern question, a symptom of the times. I also like to think that by merely asking it, a healing has occurred.

Herb stalks undoubtedly have their own unique beauty, one that is emblematic of humility, resilience, and ultimate surrender. The beauty they carry is that of an elder. The kind that exudes from wolf-silver hair, and folds of skin which seem to be scripture across the body, telling the tale of a life fully lived, with all of its peaks and valleys. Taller herb stalks, like that of boneset and yarrow, often can be seen standing at a soft attention across the blanket of snow covering the gardens each winter, which act as a platform for the humble beauty of the herb stalks to be more known. Similar to how the neutral backdrop of a still life painting showcases the effortless, unadulterated magnificence of a simple apple, or a pear. Small herb stalks, like that of self heal and thyme, sometimes peak their noses above the snow, reminding us that there is much more than what we can see from our end of things. On top of their unconventional beauty, herb stalk tops often store seeds, which disperse potential new life throughout the land with the help of passing winds. Even if they wind up toppling over themselves and onto the ground, stacked and fallen herb stalks provide tiny shelters for small creatures that would otherwise go without. So why, aware of all of these things, did I have such an impulse to get rid of them?

I continued to contemplate this question as I cut down some areas, which provided me with immediate satisfaction infused with a hue of regret. Then it hit me: My temptation to trim these stalks was not just about maintaining a sense of tidiness throughout the gardens, but also had to do with my subconscious offense to anything that signifies death.

Being someone who is actively in the process of embracing the awareness of my own mortality, I’m now nurturing the realization that the bare bones of herb stalks, as well as that of trees and grasses of all kinds across the land, provide a unique comfort in the winter, which may be key in the process of accepting death for those who are re-wilding themselves. That is, those moving from the comfortable, unconscious mono-scape of mundane life into a life of texture, complexity, and rawness. I like to think of myself as one of those people. Searching, longing. Although I know myself as such, I can’t deny that I am also a part of a culture which so blatantly overlooks death, and promotes erasure of the precious teachings for all living beings that exist within the dying process. It’s a culture that mistakes crone for senile, and transforms gorgeous wrinkles into odd plasticity with a shot of botox. I imagine that within this culture, the question of whether or not to cut down herb stalks once green turns brown is not even a passing thought in the minds of most modern gardeners. I’m certain most would jump at the opportunity to clip tall, dried out stalks in order to maintain the neatness of the sleeping grounds they live amidst. “A necessary demolishing”; a thought I imagine most subscribe to without knowing it. But in this culture where beauty is over-archingly symbolized by a full rose blossom in the peak of summer, and not a grey hued stalk in the dead of winter, who could blame them?

My nuanced noticing (also known as a noticia, or a subtle noticing of the soul), leads me to the thought that in this growing movement of death awareness, and dare I say acceptance that I find myself a part of, can I, and all who claim to be a part, flip the switch to speak of the beauty and preciousness of all of it, both tender bloom and dried out stalk?

I believe the death aspect of our cyclical life-death nature lives in winter. It’s that time of year when the ancestral realm seems much closer than other times, and when it seems to my un-capitalized soul that there is nothing much to do but dream, reserve my energy as best as I can, and deeply rest: much like what I imagine may be asked of me at the end of my life. I think that this season can teach me a lot about rest, by taking the opportunity to let go a little more with every winter, evening, and exhale. As if death were truly just a part of life, and that I may even welcome it, when it greets me in its wholeness on that inevitable future day.

When I observe winter and all of its parts, it seems to me to also be the season of the bone. When so much of the natural world sheds its fluff and shows what resilience truly means. Bones are, of course, synonymous with death. I think of the dancing cartoon skeletons of my childhood that would show up around Halloween, which was, I now believe, a way of lightly introducing me to the other realm. Bones are that part of each human which remains long after the heart stops beating and the flesh withers. I think of bones as the part of us that will endure.

Herb stalks are more than just what they seem. Winter and it’s muse, lady death, are reflected in dried out herb stalks beneath winter sunsets, and in our bones as we allow for the type of surrender our souls are longing for. I believe that herbs stalks are showing us how to embrace our bones, tap into our essential nature, and shed fully, which is bound to ignite some kind of rebirth, whatever shape it may take, however unknown it may be. The invitation stands each winter to weep: to acknowledge that loss is a part of life, and that embracing grief can transform one's life into a life affirmed.

And so, to nourish the bones this winter by tending to like with like, here is a recipe for a chicken bone broth I have made for years, which has become a staple in my circle. Friends have said they are “changed” from drinking it. May this broth nourish you to the bones, as you let go, grieve, and heal this winter.

Herbal Chicken Broth

Ensure all ingredients are organic, or locally produced with practices that help heal the earth. If you’re having trouble finding the ingredients for this recipe, try inquiring with growers and

tenders via your local food network or farmers market.

1 chicken back

2 chicken feet

spring water

2 TBSP apple cider vinegar

1 onion

1 carrot

1 celery stalk

1 pint shiitake mushrooms

1 TBSP dried burdock root

2 pieces kombu seaweed

1 TBSP dried calendula flowers

1 TBSP dried nettle leaf

Place the chicken back and feet in a stockpot. Add the vinegar and enough spring water to cover the bones. Let sit for 30-60 minutes. Place over medium heat, uncovered. Bring to a bare simmer. Carefully spoon off the scum that rises to the top. Cook at a bare simmer with the lid slightly askew for 3 hours, occasionally skimming off scum as needed. Check periodically to ensure the bones remain covered with water, adding more water as needed. Add seaweed, burdock root, mushrooms and vegetables, and cook for another 3 hours. Ensure all the while that the ingredients remain covered with water. Add more water if needed. Turn off and remove from heat. Add nettle leaf and calendula flowers. Let cool until easy to handle.

Strain the broth through a fine mesh strainer into quart size containers. I like to reserve the vegetables, herbs, meat and soft bones (make sure they are not splintery) along with some of the broth to have as soup, and reserve the remaining broth for other recipes. Either bury the tough bones, or place them in the woods to break down naturally.

Store the broth in the fridge for up to 5 days or the freezer for many months.