St. John's Wort

Cancer: June 20 - July 22.

Where did you find yourself on the solstice? What is growing around you right now, in your garden or on the roadsides? What is fading, in flora or otherwise? What have you been dreaming about?

On June 22nd, we entered Cancer season quite dramatically with both the summer solstice and a full moon, the first time the two coincide in 40 years. Because of its relationship to the solstice, I have chosen St. John's Wort, Hypericum Perforatum, as the herb du jour.

Worked with since medieval times as an antidepressant, St. John's Wort has its bloom time and is believed to be at its most potent on the solstice, the longest and lightest day of the year. In French, St. John's Wort is known as "chasse diable" (devil chaser). Its botanical genus name, Hypericum, is made up of the Greek words "Hyper" (above) and "eikon" (image), in reference to the practice of hanging SJW flowers over icons to ward off evil spirits. Research studies have found SJW to be as effective as standardly prescribed SSRIs (serotonin reuptake inhibitors), and with fewer side effects. That this sunshine filled herb can help to remedy our inner darkness is a logic that I just can't get over.

In mid June, I had a special visit from my parents, all the way from Hong Kong. My father, who is NYC born, wanted to visit his family's gravesite in Woodstock - a trip I sneakily turned into an "herbventure." After paying our respects, I dragged my parents from one Upstate garden center to another. It took about four stops before we finally found an SJW plant in Kingston. It was somewhat too large and expensive for the 32 square foot concrete slab I am trying to turn into a garden... but it was late and we were exhausted, so we bit the bullet and brought the plant home.

That night, I sat, thrilled, with the first plant of my garden. I decided to name him Ezra, and went to bed content. The next day was the first of a weeklong heatwave that has only just begun to abate here in New York City. My excitement quickly turned into despair as Ezra moved towards death despite my best efforts to keep him well watered and shaded.

I moved Ezra to the north facing back of the house, where the sunlight is more subdued. I removed his dead leaves, and transferred him to a larger planter with a 1:1 mixture of soil and peat moss and thin layer of mulch on top. During the repotting process, I found Ezra's root ball to be highly constricted: impossibly knotted tendrils in a bone-dry mould of the old planter. Cutting open Ezra's planter felt like undoing a Victorian lady's rib crushing corset. I worked my hands through the mass, trying to awaken something.

Every morning, I rush to the window hoping for signs of life. Ezra continues to look like a bush in winter, bare and unchanging. I suppose this is the reality of container gardening in times of ecological crisis. My friend and greatest plant consultant, Lake, helped me understand how in container gardening, plants don't have the ability to tap into deep underground water sources. According to Lake, container gardens are essentially "domesticated." As well, like with an adopted pet, when you purchase a plant, you never know its full history - specifically what kind of trauma it might be carrying.

Perhaps I am just trying to make myself feel like less of an incompetent gardener, but judging from how much of an ill fitting squeeze Ezra's old planter was, and how badly he struggled in the heatwave, I'm making the assumption that Ezra had a rough past. I decided to just let him be, and redirected my energies instead to the great outdoors (or rather, urban foraging) - I had a newsletter to write!

Stumbling upon an article on Marie Viljoen's foraging and culinary work in the city gave me some ideas for where to go. Viljoen actually had an early project similar in many ways to mine called 66 Square Feet, which she kept a beautiful blog about. Viljoen's writing contains plant cultivation tips, recommendations for herbventure destinations, and tiny garden inspiration. Early Sunday morning on Pride weekend, I took myself to Highland Park, in search of St. John's Wort.

The night before, I dreamt that I came across St. John's Wort while walking in the darkness. I wonder if the dream space is a channel of communication between us and plants. I remember waking up with such resolve to go - I already had everything I needed for a tincture: 80 proof vodka, a 1 quart mason jar, gas in my car. It was as if I was still dreaming as I pulled into the park and set off on the trail.

A slow meander through Butterfly Milkweed, River Sage, and Wild Carrot, searching for yellow...only to be fooled by False Sunflower. But then, there he was - Hypericum Perforatum, Common St. John's Wort. I gasped, unused to this instant gratification after my experience with Ezra back home. Its dainty blossoms were open despite the grey day, colors extra saturated from morning dew. The Hypericum here was not particularly in abundance, so I harvested just a few flowers. They stained my fingers a surprising purple, and when dropped into the vodka, turned the liquid an even more surprising red.

I didn't want to take more from the little bush in Highland Park, so I decided to check out another spot that Marie Viljoen put on my radar: Greenwood Cemetery, in Sunset Park. I swung by home on the way and picked up my beloved roommate Paula, who was by chance also interested in spending Pride on an herbventure.

We trekked through the humid cemetery, which I quickly learned is an herbalist's paradise. The grass is well mowed but somehow large swathes of herbs grow undisturbed in many areas. Somewhere between the chapel and the pond, my eyes fell upon a burst of yellow. It was indeed St. John's Wort, but the flowers were mammoth compared to the ones I had found earlier that morning. It turned out it was another species of Hypericum. These larger flowers were of Hypericum Prolificum, or Shrubby St. John's Wort. I have not yet been able to confirm whether Shrubby St. John's Wort also possesses the antidepressant properties of its famous relative, Common St. John's Wort. Is it enough that they share the Hypericin compound, which is known to so profoundly affect our brain chemistry?

I decided to separately tincture and trial both species. Why not experiment? Together we harvested one compressed quart of the Hypericum Prolificum. We were careful to leave plenty for the bees. In fact, there was so much of the Prolificum, the bush didn't look at all different once we had finished. Unlike the Perforatum, the Prolificum turned the vodka a golden yellow.

If you're wondering about pesticides and doggy doodoo in the context of urban foraging, so am I. I'm in the process of learning which parks spray and which do not, as well as how comparable levels of toxins in city park herbs are to, say, what you find in the grocery store. Apparently, some plants take up more toxins from soil than others. As well, in many plants toxins are more likely to concentrate in roots than in fruits. There are also methods for determining whether a plant has been sprayed in the first place...but it all still feels like too much of a risk.

For this reason, I am not planning to distribute any of the tinctures made from Highland Park and Greenwood Cemetery. However, I am delighted to report little green buds of revival on Ezra (he lives!). I fear publicizing this news will make him shy, but I am too proud not to share. If this trend continues, and Ezra indeed flowers, I would love to share tincture with you (unless you are on pharmaceutical SSRIs, which in combination with St. John's Wort can lead to dangerously high levels of serotonin), stay tuned. This tincture is made with grief in mind, and is a response to the debilitating but also profound experience of waking up to the harsher realities of our world. As Fariha Róisín says in this podcast episode:

"what our bodies are telling us and what our bodies are showing us through illness, primarily, and through everything from grief to depression are lighthouses back to ourselves."

My interest in engaging grief comes out of a year marked by loss on many levels, but also intense growth and learning. Not to romanticize strife, but the high contrasts of late resulted in a thriving amid the heaviness, thanks in large part to my relationship to plants. Turning to them has unlocked a wilderness of awareness and an awareness of wilderness within me.

Thank you so much for being here. Just your readership is enough, but if you feel compelled, please consider becoming a paid subscriber, or making a donation. Funds at the moment are going toward good soil, wood for planters, as well as concrete and tiles for flooring. I've also started an instagram incase anyone is interested in live, regular going ons from the garden.