Grief & Death: reflection, plants for mind/body/spirit

Grief is an unending river raging out to stormy sea. In my humble rowboat, I’ve been thrashed upon the craggy rocks. I’ve capsized. The storm rages on before momentary eerie stillness. Through the silence I reflect on what I’ve lost and who I’ve become, who I am becoming still. I consider the tools I have at my disposal as I try to navigate this new timeline I’ve been thrust into without my consent.

Early this winter I experienced a traumatic, profound loss: the death of my soulmate, my favorite person on earth. The ripple of shock and grief has completely obliterated life as I knew it and left me questioning all beliefs I once held. In the very early days following his death, I entered what I can only describe as a liminal space. That, I suppose, is a psychological trauma response. That, I suppose, might also be known as “dissociating.” But it is not dissociating I have experienced before. The trauma jolted me into a shift in time/space/reality on a spirit level. Part of my spirit died with him, and in turn, part of his spirit has integrated into me. In a way I feel more intimately connected than ever, yet I can never be held in his arms again. Fumbling I weave these bewildering polarities into the time/space fabric of my life: beautiful transcendental love and intolerable despair, the devastation of his death.

Still in the trenches, I am no expert in understanding the mystery of death and depths of grief. I have been lost through this loss. I seek comfort researching ancestral traditions and rituals around death and mourning, called to Celtic practices like keening, building altars, writing letters and poems, and playing music - all for him. Turning to ancestors and spirit is the only way I can possibly survive. Being in liminal space has made it easy to drop into otherworld journeys, meeting with my guides, ancestors, and even his spirit. I felt him everywhere for weeks, with or without dropping in. Each night I lit a candle at his altar. Tending to his newly departed soul has been a deep honor for me and has, I hope, assisted him in crossing the threshold. I am not formally trained in this kind of work, but have trusted my intuition, my connection to my Celtic ancestors and guides, and the soul level bond we share. I am reminded by the reverence of tending-to that this is the work our ancestors did for their newly departed. This is how one does not completely lose their mind.

Outside of my spiritual experience, the grief has taken a toll on my mind and my body. I am a soul having a human experience after all. For weeks following his death I spiraled deep into the mystery: why had he left me, how could this have happened, what could I have done to prevent it, where he was now? I lost track of time. Hours bled into days into weeks. I became a ghost in my own life. I was not sleeping, or sleeping too much, not eating, and generally unable to do anything I used to do. When I was finally able to remember to tend to myself, I turned to trusted plant allies: hawthorn, rose, kava, tulsi, linden, drop doses of sacred ghost pipe, and lots of homeopathic arnica. Though I have still not fully come back into my body, the plants provide deep medicine in helping me slowly step into this new reality.

First and foremost, I tend to my broken heart. For the first eight weeks following his passing, the pain in my chest was unrelenting. I felt a constant crushing sensation in my heart. Hawthorn and rose are a classic duo for the heart, which has been shown to have impaired function during periods of grief. Hawthorn feels nutritive while energetically holding my heart and protecting me from my pain. I simmer the berries on the stovetop, creating a potent decoction, or sometimes I simply cover them with boiling water and let them infuse overnight. When I am feeling adventurous, I add leaf, flower, and a thorn for extra protection. Sometimes I add rose petals, or drops of a rose elixir made with petals harvested last summer by the seaside, from a special place he and I shared many dates.

Rose holds the highest vibrational frequency of any flower. I’ve always found that rugosa by the sea has a special salty element. Perhaps this specific remedy offers an extra layer of energetic medicine. I consider rose for the energetic heart, to invite a little softness around edges crusted over with salt and generally worn down (I think of the waves pummeling the craggy rocks again and again, eventually making them smooth). Drops of rose elixir provide immediate relief to the layers of salt weighing down my heart. And I find it interesting to note that botanically, these plants share that they flower, fruit, and have thorns. I am reminded once more of the polarity of the beauty and the pain.

Next I remember my nervous system, which oscillates between totally offline and totally haywire. For this, kava and tulsi. The intensity of pain in my body has blocked me, at times, from feeling the love that still exists. My human ego/mind struggle in coping with the new reality of my love. The body may die, but the energies of love and of his spirit still exist. As much as I may understand that concept, I desperately want the human experience with my love — to hear his laughter, to touch him. When the reality hits me all over again, I am overcome with panic. It is utterly terrifying to know I will never see him again. For that overwhelming feeling, kava kava tincture (2-3 droppers-full, but you won’t find that on any recommended dosage panel), and a warm cup of tulsi tea help me return to my body. I’ve been advised not to compare herbs to pharmaceutical drugs, but kava is the closest thing I can liken to a benzodiazepine. When experiencing panic, kava tincture numbs the nervous system without causing sedation. It allows me to drop back into this plane with a strange sense of clarity. I always dilute it, and currently in the tulsi tea. A squirt from the dropper leaves a hypnotic plume of milky, opalescent medicine slowly swirling on top of whatever liquid it’s been dropped into. I can’t say it “pairs well” with the tulsi, because I don’t think it “pairs well” with anything, but the tulsi is lovely.

Tulsi was one of my first plant allies, gentle and palatable, and invites immediate calm. Tulsi is widely known as an adaptogen, helping to balance the adrenal glands and reduce cortisol. I prefer it to other adaptogens because it’s so easy to grow in my garden, and so fragrant. It contains eugenol, the same compound found in clove, which gives it an aromatic quality. Energetically, aromatic plants tend to be quite helpful in moving dampness from the body. I try to remember to have a cup of tea every afternoon.

Perhaps the most profound remedy has been linden, a gorgeous, fragrant tree. My sweet love and I spent hours on the phone last summer while we were living long distance. During these calls, I would take long walks around the neighborhood during golden hour. One week in June when the linden trees were blooming, I gushed to him about the heavenly fragrance. I could smell a blooming linden tree in someone’s yard from around the block. I told him by next June we’d be sitting together under a blossoming linden tree. Linden has always been an ally to me, but now holds an even deeper resonance with my spirit. In a quart mason jar, I brew a strong infusion of linden tea, both to drink and to bathe in. I learned about ritual baths with linden from Robin Rose Bennett’s blog post about grief. One night I was in such despair I didn’t believe anything could soften the pain. In wild desperation I prepared the linden bath. Submerged in the light sweet linden, I finally felt a moment of relief from that constant crushing pain in my heart, and was able to breathe into my body, opening to receive the love that is still there. Linden is considered remedial to the heart and the nervous system, and is indicated specifically for insomnia. I consider linden to be, perhaps, my all time favorite plant to drink just on its own.

For the trauma, I have gone through multiple tubes of arnica 200ck. Arnica is a homeopathic remedy, working with the etheric body on a cellular level, similar to flower essences. I keep a tube with me at all times, just in case. The dosage is 5 pellets as needed until the feeling stops. Another energetic remedy I have been working with is a ghost pipe tincture, made last summer after spending many days sitting with the plant and asking if it wanted to be made into medicine. Ghost pipe is a drop dose remedy, indicated for pain and post traumatic stress disorder. I drop some into whatever I am drinking, with the intention that it will help rewire my brain’s trauma feedback loop. Only three days of ghost pipe provided significant relief.

I share about these plants because, to put it simply, this is what I do, even when I grieve. When reflecting on why this has happened and what am I supposed to do for the rest of my life without my favorite person, all that is clear to me is that I must help others traverse their own experience with grief and death. But right now I need support, and the plants offer me some. The spiritual practices of journeying, tending to my beloved’s spirit, and writing offer me some. Connecting with groups and going to therapy offer me some. None of it fixes me. There is no “fixing” this. There is only integration, which I assume - but don’t know for certain - will happen eventually. What I do know is that every day feels like un-reality. Nothing feels real. Grief comes in waves and knocks the wind out of me. For that, the plants help. For the rest, only time will tell.

this post was originally written in March of 2025