🌿 Herbal Notes: On “Herbs of Grace” and the Magic of the Everyday
History has a way of surprising me, especially when it echoes something I already know in my bones. I was flipping through an old herbal text the other night—one of those deliciously dense books that smells like time—and I stumbled on a phrase I hadn’t thought about in years: herbs of grace.
I'd heard that phrase before in a TV show called "The Tudors." King Henry was using "herbs of grace to heal a wound because he "didn't trust doctors." (I went back and rewatched that episode and ended up binge watching 5 episodes I must have seen a hundred times. Thank the Goddess for ADHD. Ooh Shiny, Henry Cavill.)
Back to Herbs of Grace. The phrase was made popular during the reign of Henry VIII, of all people—the same infamous king who chopped off wives and broke with the Church of Rome. But behind the headlines of history, he was also deeply interested in medicine and plant lore. In fact, he passed a law—the “Herbalists’ Charter” of 1542—that protected the practice of herbal healing by laypeople. In that document, he referred to common medicinal plants as herbs of grace, recognizing their healing potential as not just medicinal but divinely given. That phrase stopped me in my tracks. Divinely given.
There’s something about it. Herbs of grace. It holds a kind of reverence that we don’t often see in today’s conversations around plants. It suggests that these humble weeds, these scrappy survivors growing in roadside ditches and cottage gardens, aren’t just useful—they’re sacred. Gifts. Companions. Allies.
Out here in Washington State, where the earth is finally waking up after its long winter nap, I see these herbs of grace every day. Yarrow, nettle, mullein, mugwort, cleavers—ancient names carried on the wind. They grow wild and unassuming, often overlooked unless you’re someone who knows how to see. And to me, they aren’t just flora. They’re messages. They’re medicine. They’re memory.
Yarrow, especially, (you know how crazy I am about Yarrow) feels like an old friend. Known for staunching blood and protecting the body, it was once tucked into the helmets of warriors before battle. That’s not just folklore—that’s lived wisdom passed down through hands and heart. And it’s the same plant that now brushes against my boots when I’m out on the range, whispering reminders that strength and softness can coexist.
I think a lot about the people who came before us—our ancestors who didn't have labs and pharmaceuticals, who relied on what the earth gave them. They knew something we’ve forgotten: healing doesn't have to come from a bottle. Sometimes, it comes from a stalk of mugwort in your pocket. From the bitter leaf of dandelion. From the tender bloom of violet after a hard rain. These are the herbs of grace—and their grace is in their persistence, their generosity, and their quiet magic.
And in a world that often feels graceless, I think we could use more of that.
So I carry this phrase with me now, like a charm in my palm. When I harvest, I say thank you. When I brew tea, I listen. When I lay down in wild grasses and feel the buzz of bees working the clover, I remember that there is power in the small, the gentle, the green.
There is grace, still. All around us. Waiting to be gathered.
🌿✨
In the weeds and wonder. I remain yours
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