Wild Medicine

Clay is my favorite medium. When I want to feel connected to myself, I work with clay; when I want something new for my kitchen, I use clay; when I need to work with an experience that I don’t have words for…when I want to feel the creative life force flowing with me, it's clay.

For last month’s grief group, we used clay. Well, first we wandered the neighborhood, picking up things that called to us: moss, rocks, feathers, a hummingbird’s nest empty on the sidewalk. And then we used clay. We spent time sharing the grief we’re experiencing, what we’re learning to let go of, and the thresholds of transition we find ourselves at. We formed small clay vessels to hold what we had gathered on our walk. And then, at the end of the circle, we destroyed what we’d made and returned them to the clay balls from which we had started.

Destruction feels hard, even when we’re destroying something we just made. We like to keep, expand, and ascend, but letting go, making things smaller, descending... it makes us uneasy.

Many of my teachers, from various wisdom traditions, have taught me that the Earth can more than hold our grief…that swimming in wild water, or sinking our hands into the soil, or forming vessels with clay is a way we can move the energy through us, asking for nourishment and medicine from strength outside ourselves.

Alex and I were both stung by bees this summer. If you’ve been stung, you know the burning, swelling, and itching that takes place over the next few days; you know how much you want it to stop, and how often it pulls your attention. We talked about this…the Wild Medicine life offers us…our resistance to discomfort…always looking for a quick fix, and how to sink into presence in the midst of pain.

Where has Wild Medicine visited you this summer? How is pain waking you up? How are the stings you can’t control inviting you into deeper awareness, forcing you to pay closer attention?