Oxalis pes-cerpae
Bermuda buttercup, sour grass, African wood sorrel- these are some names you may know the abundant oxalis by.
In winter the coast gets dusted with these florescent yellow flowers. They paint hillsides and yards. Like speckles of paint thrown at a canvas. Maybe as a kid you picked these in the spring and summer, sucking the stem for its sour burst. With that, sour grass- a first herb for many. And possibly without even realizing- an early plant memory & even more so, a plant relationship.
For me, the bond with oxalis began quite literally when I was in the womb. And I didn’t connect these dots until recently, during my winter love affair with oxalis.
For years my mom would tell me stories of how when she was pregnant with me- the sight of those yellow flowers would make her sick. Every time those yellow flowers would pop up, my mom would remind me of this story, “okayyyyyyy, mom” I thought and I’m sure vocalized.
In fact; I never held disdain for those little yellow flowers. I quite liked them.
Fast forward to my life now as a botanist and herbalist and I actually quite love those little friends. You hear all this buzz about how invasive they are and how they are never ending.
I’m sure- an annoyance to many a gardener. But did you know this is actually considered a native and endangered species in Africa?
Perspective is everything my friends.
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Among oxalis reflections…
I can’t help but feel like, the reaction my mother would get from seeing sourgrass while pregnant with me- was in my own way ME showing her how connected to the plants I was. Bursting with excitement inside of my mothers womb, bringing about an uproar of nausea and stimulation.
After all, I am an extension of my mother. Made of her cells, and of the cells of my grandmother before her.
I wonder what my grandmother thought of oxalis flowers. I wonder if they elicited any reaction within her.
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So this year I found myself getting quite creative with the medicinal weeds surrounding me. Including oxalis pes-cerpae.
While weeding I would harvest the flowers- a stem in my mouth for a mouth watering treat. I would then sing songs while harvesting, taking my basket of flowers to the workshop to process and dry.
Layering trays of oxalis into the dehydrator to preserve the lot of them.
When complete I would give thanks. In awe of just how many flowers can turn into seemingly such little, upon drying.
This is a humbling part of herbalism that keeps us honest. You can truly understand your impact vividly when you are a part of the harvest.
In this, its impossible not to think of the rows and rows of flowers wrapped in plastic at markets. Or the essential oil market and just how many roses are really, truly harvested to make merely a drop of oil.
Once harvested I reverently transfer them to a jar. They become welcome toppings on homemade sourdough toast. I mingle them with the flowers of borage. Also dried.
They mix in a symphonic melody.
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Plant memory is inherent. Plant connection is innate. And when we begin to listen enough for these memories and emotions to come through. A sort of magic happens.
It’s like a clear exchange of information from the plants, from our ancestry- to us. It does not obey time and operates with the base of this wisdom- noticing and listening.
So to oxalis, I whisper in reciprocity.
Thank you- for reminding me. Thank you for connecting me. Thank you for teaching me.
