🔥 The Torchbearers: A Call to the Witches Who Stayed

 

🌸 Herbs: Bitterroot—A Wild Discovery in Bloom

There are moments on the road that don’t just pass—they mark you. They settle into your spirit like seeds, waiting to grow roots of their own. That’s what happened to me this week when I stumbled across a low-slung, star-shaped flower while walking along a dry, gravelly slope out here in wild Washington State. At first glance, it looked almost too delicate to survive in such a place—too pretty, too soft. But as I knelt down and gently traced the edge of its almost succulent leaves, I knew I’d met something special.

Bitterroot.

I’d read about it, sure. But I’d never seen it in the wild until now, and something about the timing, the stillness, the surprise of it—it felt like meeting an ancestor, like shaking hands with the land through one of its oldest voices.

Bitterroot (Lewisia rediviva) is no newcomer to this soil. She’s native to the rocky, unforgiving terrain of the western U.S., and she’s been known to the Indigenous peoples of this land—especially the Salish, Shoshone, and Nez Perce—for centuries. Her roots were harvested not just for food but also for spirit. Bitterroot was honored in ceremony and song, prepared with reverence, and seen as both nourishment and medicine.

And yet here she was, offering herself to me like an old friend I just hadn’t met yet.

She doesn’t look like much at first. The plant itself is small, with no obvious stem or flashy greenery—just a cluster of thick, fleshy roots hidden beneath the surface, a many-leaved-looking plant, and a sudden, glorious bloom that seems to rise from the rock itself. That flower. It’s luminous. The kind of thing you might almost miss if you weren’t paying attention, and I think that’s part of the magic. Bitterroot doesn’t ask to be seen. She waits. She lets you find her when you're ready.

As I sat there with her, I thought about how much that metaphor holds. We sometimes bloom from the hardest places. Something that appears fragile can hold generations of resilience. Bitterness, when honored and not avoided, can still be medicine.

Bitter herbs like —bitterroot—stimulate digestion, bile production, and liver function. When you taste something bitter, it triggers your digestive system to wake up, secrete enzymes, and get to work. It preps the body to receive nourishment. It says: "Be present. Something important is coming." Bitter herbs help clear stagnation, especially in the gut and the liver—the places we often store frustration, anger, and resentment.

So, bitterness teaches the body to let go and move through.

In the spirit, bitterness can be sacred truth.

Bitter experiences—grief, betrayal, disillusionment, anger—aren’t pretty, but they’re often honest. Bitterness arises when there’s been a rupture between expectation and reality, between hope and harm. When we don’t acknowledge that bitterness, it curdles. It festers. But when we sit with it—really honor its roots—it can become a teacher.

Bitterness can say:

• "This hurt you. Let’s not pretend it didn’t."

• "You gave too much, and it wasn’t returned."

• "You were silenced, and it’s time to speak."

When we let bitterness flow through instead of shutting it down, it becomes clarity, boundaries, and the fire that transforms passive pain into empowered action.

Bitter medicine is not about punishment.

It’s about truth-telling. It’s about bringing the parts of us we’d rather ignore into the light and saying, "Even this has value."

Bitter herbs are often used in purification rituals, in shadow work, in hex-breaking and protection magic. Not because they’re sweet or comforting—but because they carry the ability to strip away illusion. They cut through. They’re fierce allies in times of transition, and they remind us that healing doesn’t always taste good—but that doesn’t make it less powerful.

So yes, Ma’am. Bitterness is medicine.
Not just in the way it makes your liver work or your body purge, but in the way it calls you to pay attention. To yourself. To your wounds. To your strength.

And isn’t that just the most witchy, wild kind of grace there is?

And there’s something powerful about how Bitterroot behaves. Once harvested, the root dries and curls in on itself—almost like a clenched fist or a closing heart. But when it’s soaked in water again, it begins to open back up. It reawakens. Rediviva—alive again. Isn’t that just the most beautiful spell you’ve ever heard?

Bitterroot reminds me that survival isn’t always loud or obvious. Sometimes, it’s quiet and deep and patient. Sometimes, it looks like blooming once a year in a place nobody’s looking. Sometimes, it tastes bitter before it heals.

So here’s to new discoveries, even when the road feels long. Here’s to meeting old spirits in new forms. And here’s to honoring what’s been here all along, waiting for us to look closer.

If you ever find yourself walking through dry country and happen upon a pale-pink star rising from stone, take a moment. Sit with her. Introduce yourself. She might just have something to tell you.

🌸 With dirt under my nails and awe in my bones, I'm still here, how about you?