Wild Gardens
When I moved to the mountains, I noticed a nice little patch of land that got plenty of sun next to my house. I thought about tilling it up to make my daydream of an idyllic garden a reality. Instead, I walked past it and went into the woods.
Being in the forest made more sense to my tired body. It was a cool, damp escape from the heat and there was an overflowing abundance of green. I scouted the understory for years, learning the names of plants over time. I removed the opportunistic ones who crowded out the slow growers. I trimmed low branches and opened up the canopy to allow a trickle of light back in. This year, I laid proper paths to navigate without stepping on anyone.
Somewhere in between the juneberries (Amelanchier arborea) and the black cohosh (Actaea racemosa), it dawned on me that there was already an existing garden here. And by just taking care of the health of the forest, I had been tending to a whole pantry.
In some cases, wild plants can be an almost direct substitution for cultivated herbs. Mountain mint (Pycnanthemum montanum) is a cooling, medicinal native growing freely in Appalachian forests that has a long history of use for respiratory issues, digestion, pain relief, and skin conditions. It is antimicrobial, anti-inflammatory, and antispasmodic. It mirrors the effects of peppermint (Mentha × piperita) that we find in traditional gardens. They both contain menthol, they are both excellent in tea, and they are both safe for consumption. But the wild mountain mint has an added benefit that peppermint can’t touch: it functions as an important part of the natural ecosystem here.
I don’t have to worry about something I plant spreading invasively and becoming a headache years down the road. Mountain mint isn’t going to dominate the environment; it’s going to work in harmony with its habitat because this is where the plant developed, alongside all of its neighbors. It has a niche to occupy and exists as part of the whole. It exists as its own being, separate from humans.
It’s not dependent on me - it has a rich life outside of our work together. I am not tethered to caring for it; it already has what it needs. I don’t ever water it, fertilize it, or weed it. Being with this plant is not a chore or something on my checklist. If I skip a few days, it’s not going to die. This dynamic has allowed us to develop an organic relationship.
Now I’m not knocking anyone for growing peppermint in their garden. There’s a real need to connect with ancestral plants in accessible ways, and traditional gardening is an excellent method to foster that. I grow tulsi (Ocimum tenuiflorum) in pots on my porch and have a greenhouse full of poison plants that require twice-daily watering, and I love them all the same. But the way I show up for plants who are reliant on my care is a lot different than the autonomous plants I spend time with in the woods. At the heart of my cultivated plants is a relationship built on daily responsibility. And at the heart of my relationship with wild plants is a mutualistic respect for our shared land and all of its beings.
The same goes for my obsessive practice of poison plants: there are native equivalents to the big personalities I spend all my resources maintaining. Wolfsbane (Aconitum napellus), a powerful plant native to Europe and Asia, is one of my favorites - I even have it planted atop my dog’s grave as a memorial and living connection to her body. But there are wild types of wolfsbane who originated much closer to me. Eastern Blue Monkshood (Aconitum uncinatum) is native to the eastern US, growing freely here in Appalachia. Columbian Monkshood (Aconitum columbianum) is from western North America, and Nothern Wild Monkshood (Aconitum noveboracense) grows in the upper midwest. I am not limited to importing plants from faraway regions when I want to work with them. In so many instances, I can find a relative or medicinal equivalent on nearby trails.
Comparisons aside, each landscape has their own unique plants to be understood. Local folklore can be as rich as the mythology from across the ocean. And it still exists, as much as colonialization has tried to destroy it. Part of the role that plants hold is the ability to carry these tales long after the original storytellers have passed. Developing relationships with regional plants inevitably pulls us into the myths that still live in the soil. Eating them or using them as medicine brings the stories into our bodies. It allows each individual to become a part of the ecosystem in a deeper way - beyond the surface, beyond what can be seen.
Being on a remote mountain in Appalachia isn’t necessary to access this kind of botanical wealth. Many benefits can be reaped by just substituting imported seeds with regional equivalents. We’ve all heard people preach about the importance of planting native perennials in suburban yards for pollinators and to keep things low maintenance; the same sentiment can extend to herbs and wild foods. When we connect with the beings who have been already living nearby, we are investing in our lands (and ourselves by increasing the understanding of our surroundings).
Having public land access to forage and tend is one of the most valuable things I can think of for humanity. Reducing our dependence on imported foods, medicines, and fibers has direct benefits for all environments involved. Educating ourselves on what is around us, on the history of our land, and about the people whose home we are on fosters reverence and respect. Practicing reciprocal relationships with our environment will only make us better humans.
Even the act of cultivating the regional species of an herb on an apartment windowsill is powerful. It supports local pollinators, it requires less resources because it is adapted to the climate, and it creates a sense of place. And not to be a downer, but my experiences being off-grid for weeks during a massive climate catastrophe was a harsh wake-up call: understanding how to work with the plants in our immediate environments could potentially be a matter of survival in this increasingly unsteady world.
The idea of a garden stretches far beyond a picket fence. There are entire ecosystems ready to welcome our attention. Often times the medicine we need is already present; it becomes a matter of listening and learning how our bodies can cohabitate. But the best part of a wild garden is that we aren’t meant to do it alone - no one can know everything about each local plant. It’s a community effort for humans to educate each other and exist in it all together.