iv Anthroposophical Views Dora Wagner

Lessness Dora Wagner

In anthroposophical medicine, Bladderwrack is not the plant of choice to cure diseases of the thyroid gland. Rather, Colchicum autumnale (the Autumn Crocus, or Autumn Saffron) is used. To understand why, we have to explore the anthroposophical concept of the Threefold Human Being— a concept which reflects how the whole individual is animated, not just the nerves and the senses. Three different levels of organisation are distinguished in the human body:  The Nerve-Sense-System— comprising the brain, the nervous system, the skin and all sensory organs —is mainly centred in the head, but permeates the entire body, including peripheral and autonomic nerves. Here, life expresses itself through densification, differentiation and individualisation, releasing the life forces that form the basis of consciousness; thinking, feeling and willpower. The soul is seen as having a physical foundation in the processes of nerves, in rhythmic activities, and in metabolism. To some extent, then, soul is seen as separate from the external environment surrounding the body.  By contrast, the Metabolic-Limb-System engages with the outside world, both in its nutritional and activity functions. Here, the world is absorbed, internalised, and metabolised. The organs of this system are actively involved in the transformation, transportation and excretion of substance; in cell division, growth, regeneration, and the capacity to create new life. Perception is of little importance here; life expresses itself in a general, undifferentiated way.

Substances are dissolved and dynamized, muscular metabolic activities create the strength to move limbs.  The principle of polarity in the anthroposophical image of the human being leads to a concept of the middle— the Rhythmic-System —which synthesizes and transforms the opposing poles of the

Nerve-Sense-System and the Metabolic-

Limb-System. By connecting one pole to the other, the Rhythmic-System effects a well-ordered, higher unity. In healthy people, the ratio between respiratory rate and heart rate reaches a value of about 1:4, especially during the sleeping hours. Impulses for renewal, healing and integration emanate from this mediating centre. These rhythmic processes form the physical basis of the emotional quality of feeling, which always alternates between two opposing polarities; joy and sorrow, love and hate.

Anthroposophical medicine sees a basic correlation between the Threefold Human Being and the Threefold Plant. This also corresponds to an important basic concept of the late medieval alchemy of Paracelsus— the Tria Principia of Sal/Mercury/Sulfur. In this way, relationships between humans and plants dictate the therapeutic use of flowers, leaves or roots. For example, decoctions of roots are used to support diseases of the head and nerve-sense organisation; infusions and preparations made from leaves are used for disorders of rhythmic functions (especially of the heart and lungs); remedies made from fruits and flowers are recommended for metabolic and digestive disorders. The same principles apply to the selection of medical herbs; if a plant shows any kind of deviation, distortion or abnormality, if the tripartite structure of roots, flowers and fruits, leaves and shoots is unusual, this can suggest an area of application— and the possible curative effects, too. According to both anthroposophical and homeopathic medicine, the essential idea of a plant is also passed on, not just in its substance, but by an appropriate method of preparation. So, I’m contemplating Colchicum autumnale, trying to figure out why this plant is used for thyroid diseases and how the tripartite system can help me determine its healing properties.

When summer has passed and autumn begins, when days become shorter, when the air is noticeably cooler and we have a certain melancholy mood, we might discover pale

purple flowers, without any leaf, on sunny grassland near the woods. These flowers cannot be heralds of spring. At a time when most plants have long finished flowering, when leaves wilt, fruits ripen and seeds fall to the ground, that is when the Autumn Crocus begins to bloom. In my language, the plant is called Herbstzeitlose— literally translated, Autumn-Timelessness. But the Autumn Crocus is special in other ways, too.

The flowering parts of Colchicum autumnale go deep into the ground. What looks like the stem is also part of the flower; first white, then pale lilac-pink in the upper part, when exposed to the sun. So, what we regard as the flower is only a small part of the total bloom. Its mechanisms only become visible to us when the plant is dug up. Its base is more than 15cm below ground, so the flower can reach a total length of up to 40cm. Thus, Colchicum autumnale possesses the longest flower of our native flora, composed of six petals that merge at the base to form a long tube, extending to the bulb. The ovary develops at the bottom of this long flower-tube. The plant's seeds, therefore, lie deep in the earth. The plant fertilises in deep winter, underground; its seeds maturing in about nine months. In spring, when other plants become green and begin flowering, three or four broad, lanceolate, parallel-veined, deep green, shiny leaves— up to 40cm long —sprout, together with an initially green fruit capsule, from the daughter bulb. At this stage the plant can be mistaken for a Tulip (T. spp) with a flower bud, or the leaves can be taken for Wild Garlic (Allium ursinum). It reaches maturity in early summer. In autumn, its pollen is spread by animals— mainly by butterflies — and it migrates away from light and warmth, slowly down into the cold, dark, damp soil.

The whole plant contains the highly toxic colchicine, so picking flowers can be fatal for children. And adults picking Wild Garlic run the risk of harvesting this poisonous doppelgänger. Eating one leaf causes stomach-ache, nausea, diarrhoea and vomiting. Ten leaves are definitely lethal. If your foraged Wild Garlic tastes strangely bitter, and about an hour after eating there is a burning and scratching sensation in your mouth and throat, you should immediately seek medical help. The only way to distinguish between the two plants is an odour test. It is enough to rub a piece of leaf between your fingers and smell it. If the typical Garlic scent develops, you are safe— the Autumn Crocus does not have this aroma.

In my encounters with Colchicum autumnale, I have often wondered how that motif of timelessness is revealed in the essence of the plant. It’s apparent in its remove from the course of the year. Its poisonous effect shows the same impact on a smaller scale: colchicine freezes cells in their life cycle. In countering the spatial and temporal order, the plant evokes a polar nature: a tender creature with great vitality; a huge, delicate blossom and a deadly poison. The strange habits of Colchicum make it an interesting medicinal plant. From an anthroposophical perspective, you’ll recall, the flower and fruit of a plant are assigned to human metabolism; the stem relates to human respiration; and the roots relate to the nervous system. But what to make of the Autumn Crocus, with petals that reach down underground? Furthermore, the bulb of

Colchicum is not a root, but an underground stem organ whose skins are metamorphosed leaves. So, in the tripartite anthroposophical system, the tuber corresponds to the transitional region between the nervoussensory and respiratory systems— that is, the neck and the thyroid gland.

Colchicum autumnale was administered as early as 1920 by Rudolf Steiner and Ita Wegmann to stimulate autoregulation of the thyroid gland: We have discovered that Colchicum autumnale exerts a strong stimulus on the astral organisation of the human organism, namely on the parts corresponding to the neck and headorganisation (Steiner & Wegman, 2014). Colchicum is still used today, among other applications, for latent thyroid dysfunction, or that manifest with goiter and, as a potentised remedy only available in our pharmacies, to regulate a disturbed thyroid function.

Since the Medicinal Herb Garden of the Anthroposophical Community Hospital in Herdecke is open to the public, we cannot grow the very poisonous Colchicum autumnale. In its stead, we have planted 2750 botanical Crocuses (C. spp.) and Wild Tulips (Tulipa spp.) and also sowed Primroses (Primula vulgaris), so that our insects will find food in the cold of February.

References Translated from the original German: “Wir haben gefunden, dass Colchicum autumnale einen starken Reiz auf den Astralleib ausübt und zwar auf denjenigen Teil, welcher der Hals und Kopforganisation entspricht.“, in: Steiner, R. & Wegman, I. (2014) ‘Grundlegendes für eine Erweiterung der Heilkunst nach geisteswissenschaftlichen Erkenntnissen‘, 8. Auflage, Dornach.

Tired All the Time? Anne Dalziel

Sound familiar? You are not alone. Many people say they feel tired every day— and with all that is currently happening in the world, it’ s not surprising. This feeling may have become more prevalent in 2020, but it certainly has been common for a very long time. When folks say they’ re tired, what do they mean exactly? Strange question, perhaps, but as a Bach Flower Registered Practitioner it is what I try to find out. Dr Edward Bach, after whom Bach Flower Remedies are named, wrote: Treat the person, not the disease: the cause, not the effect. So, whilst each person may feel at low ebb, the cause may differ from one individual to the next— and so each case requires a different flower essence.

Some reasons for tiredness are pretty obvious, such as the parents up all night with their new baby, trying to adjust to the change and lack of sleep. A viral illness can result in overwhelming fatigue, which can last for an extended period of time and be quite debilitating. Indeed, a lot of people may be experiencing this right now, with the emergence of Long Covid. These are examples of actual, physical tiredness— but underlying fears and uncertainties can add to the overall depletion of energy. Struggling to adapt to a new way of life after a baby’s arrival; being overwhelmed when you’re normally able to cope; your slumber impacted by fears that something may happen to the baby whilst it sleeps; anxiety that something is wrong with the baby, and so on. Sometimes we're just too tense, or too worried, to sleep. There are many recent studies showing how poor sleep quality can impact our overall health.

Bach knew this, and so recommended meditation, fresh air and good sleep. He was a physician, bacteriologist, pathologist and homeopath. He was convinced that emotions are the key to health and well-being. Through his medical practice, he saw that fear of disease was as destructive as disease itself— and he believed that addressing this fear could help the patient to improve. He loved nature, and in 1928 he began to research the healing properties of flowers. He created a system of thirty-eight flower remedies, extracted from wild flowering plants and trees. Each remedy is aimed at a particular state of mind, or personality type. Bach Flower Remedies aim to restore balance, helping us rediscover the positive side of ourselves, and lead emotionally healthy lives. As Bach wrote: flood the personality with the virtues of the flowers.... and ... when the soul and personality are in harmony, all is joy and peace, happiness and health. Although Bach developed his system of 38 simple and gentle flower remedies almost 90 years ago, it is still quite relevant in 2020. Our circumstances may be different, but our emotions remain the same.

So, what thoughts and emotions are at the root of tiredness? In my practice, I may have suggested Olive (Olea europea) to those new parents struggling with the 3am feeds and the nappy changing. This particular Bach Flower Remedy helps when our efforts have left us exhausted. Elm (Ulmus procera) helps when our responsibilities overwhelm us. Red Chestnut (Aesculus x carnea) can calm needless anxiety about the welfare of a loved one and, finally, Walnut (Juglans regia) helps to protect against change and outside influences. Coincidentally, Olive may also help with exhaustion left after an illness; Walnut if the person had been fit and healthy before, and is now finding it difficult to accept that even everyday tasks are a struggle. Crab Apple (Malus pumila), known as the cleansing remedy, may be needed to counter feelings of contamination associated with viral illness.

Having chosen the remedies to match the feelings, I would then put two drops of each in a 30ml bottle, and top it up with mineral water. The client would be instructed to take four drops, four times a day, usually for three weeks. The remedy can be added to an ordinary bottle

of mineral water, as perhaps a more convenient way of self-administering.

There are many more flower remedies that can be selected for ‘tired all of the time’. Hornbeam (Carpinus betulus) for the person who is tired before they start, or who has a tendency to procrastinate at the very thought of clearing out that kitchen cupboard. Alternatively, the person who is so enthusiastic about their work they cannot switch off, and often cannot fall asleep, might require Vervain (Verbena officinalis). Oak (Quercus robur) might be given to those who keep going, even when their body is telling them to stop. Being afraid can be very tiring too, so many of the remedies for fear might also be chosen for tiredness. It’s always a question of finding out which remedy, or mix of remedies, is appropriate for that person at that moment. Once it is found, the effect can be profound.

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The Butterfly that Lives in Your Throat Khadija Meghrawi

A butterfly lives in your throat. It signals the speed at which you live, the speed you consume, the speed you burn. The thyroid gland is an organ responsible for releasing hormones to regulate your basic metabolic rate. That is, the amount of energy over a period of time that you must use to keep yourself alive. Slowing or accelerating several factors— such as the speed you at which you use the oxygen you inhale, or the nutrients you absorb —can influence your overall metabolic rate, and these are all controlled by the thyroid. The gland is made up of a left-hand lobe and a right-hand lobe connected by an isthmus, which is also a word used in geography to represent a narrow strip of land connecting two larger landmasses. Many textbooks characterize the thyroid as having a butterflylike appearance, though others believe it most resembles a shield. Armour. Sometimes it can be all too tempting to pit your body against the world. The lobes of your thyroid are wrapped around the rings of your windpipe, hugging your breaths in and out. Nearby are also your recurrent laryngeal nerves, responsible for helping to produce your voice. These are crucial to note during thyroid surgery, when one cut a few millimetres out could paralyse your vocal cords, leaving you impossibly hoarse, or worse, completely silent. T3 and T4 are the active thyroid hormones, the messengers of the thyroid’s demands. They act in tissues directly by targeting their nuclear receptors to initiate the processes in cells responsible for generating energy. The body, ever meticulous, makes sure the messengers do not run forever, and deactivates them in the liver and kidney. The thyroid controls how quickly these processes happen by controlling how high or low the levels of T3 and T4 are, with higher levels yielding faster processes. The processes responsible for keeping you alive— the metabolic processes in your body —have complicated Latin names, strange as it is that we still describe our body in a language it no longer speaks. ‘Genesis’ means generation, so we have gluconeogenesis, the generation of new glucose sugars; lipogenesis, the generation of fat; and thermogenesis, the generation of heat. ‘Lysis’ means to loosen, release, so we have glycogenolysis— the release of glycogen from your stores to be converted into glucose. ‘Synthesis’ means building, so we have protein synthesis— the building of protein into your muscles. The thyroid itself is also controlled by the brain— from an area called the hypothalamus —in a process of negative feedback. It is a system that is attentive to your body’s needs, intuitive; when cells feel they are burning too much for the energy they are getting, they immediately signal back that they have had enough. The hypothalamus then decreases the instructions it normally sends via various channels to the thyroid. So, when food is scarce— crops wiped out by disease in times gone by, or an all too restrictive diet in more recent ones —the thyroid lowers the T3 and T3 levels, so you burn energy more slowly. It is a Catch-22 familiar to calorie counters but, then again, dieting always

was a battle against nature to fit into a manmade mould. Regulations are written into the code of our bodies, but when the words are misread the rules cannot be followed to the letter. Both genetic issues and lifestyle factors can mean that the thyroid sets your metabolic rate either too high or too low. Sometimes the butterfly beats too fast, is too eager to race the body through life. This is hyperthyroidism, when the thyroid goes into overdrive, stimulating the body to carry out energy-consuming processes too quickly. The most common reason for this is Grave’s Disease; a thyroid autoimmune condition, which is a type of condition where the immune system attacks itself. In this case, immune cells begin to make those chemicals which stimulate the receptors— chemicals that should be exclusive to thyroid messengers. If you have Grave’s Disease, your eyes take on a permanent bulge, your fingers a permanent fidget, your limbs dance around in spite of themselves as if you have lightening in your nerves. More than once has a hyperthyroidism patient been mistaken for an addict without a fix— the stereotype being ever so easy to adopt, as the condition presents most often in the young. Despite its ominous name, its effects are not too ‘ grave ’, and it is treated and managed well in most cases. But sometimes the butterfly staggers, splutters to a standstill. Hypothyroidism is when your thyroid slows down, and so your body runs slower, not burning energy fast enough to fuel you. Everything becomes sluggish, your mind forgets, you think as if through fog. You put on weight as the energy consumed has nowhere else to go, your muscles cramp up and your mood plummets. Again, very treatable, and manageable— but there’s often a long road between years of symptoms normalised as just ‘being low’ to a diagnosis that validates them. Often that which is invisible in life, is the hardest to bear. Medicine is no exception and, as a general rule, it is the least visible wounds and illnesses that are the hardest to treat. Thyroid disease though, can be characterized by one of the most visible symptoms. A ‘goitre’ is a swelling in the throat that is far more severe in appearance than the relatively manageable condition it indicates. You’ll often find many a medical student pacing the ward, seeking out a patient with an overwhelmingly large lump in their neck, just to match textbook to reality. The thyroid demonstrates that the pace at which your body works and spends its energy is meticulously controlled. If we push either way— too fast or too slow —the thyroid can slip out of balance with nature and we become unwell. Yet, we often force ourselves to move at a faster or slower pace than our instinct tells us is good for us. If our body is hardwired against this principle, why aren’t we?

Caffeine, consciousness and curriculum Ramsey Affifi

This morning, I’m perusing articles on the origin of humanity’s favourite stimulant, sitting— obviously —with a coffee in hand.

Dozens of plant species, across unrelated families, produce caffeine. This indicates it has evolved separately, many times. That seems surprising, but according to Huang et al. (2016), it really isn’t. Plants synthesize caffeine in different ways, but each start with a 100million-year lineage of enzymes conserved for crucial but unrelated biochemical purposes. Co-opting these enzymes to synthesize caffeine is, therefore, always an ongoing possibility. If all caffeine-producing species went extinct, we can imagine caffeine would likely again evolve.

I find that strangely consoling, perhaps due in equal measure to my joint addictions to both caffeine and to evolution. But what makes caffeine so valuable that it has repeatedly emerged? After all, producing it, like any metabolite, has costs. What kind of selection pressures would pull its synthesis, again and again, from mere possibility into actuality? Independent evolution suggests caffeine synthesis may have different roles in different contexts. There are two favoured theories associating caffeine with a plant’s defense system. One is that caffeine’s antifeeding and pesticidal properties protect it against herbivory. The other is that the release of caffeine into the soil inhibits germination of nearby seeds, reducing competition from neighbours. From my own experience with caffeine, I know its pleasant lift can quickly go awry, so it’s no shock that it would be detrimental to other creatures. I also know the slide from elation to irritation is dose dependent. Could a small hit have positive effects for any other animals? Perhaps even for those very insects— and competing plants —it seeks to debilitate?

Some ingenious experiments on bees shed light on this question. In a story all too convenient for punsters across the world, it turns out caffeine gives bees ‘a buzz.’ Bees on caffeine become more energetic and are more likely to remember the location of caffeinated nectar in complex environments (Wright et al. 2013). This is totally remarkable. According to Evogeneao’s Tree of Life Explorer, humans and bees’ closest ancestors are simple blob-like entities that lived about 630 million years ago. Could it be that virtually all of the species between us and bees, and even that blob, can get high on this stuff? Or is the response to caffeine similar to caffeine itself— evolvable should a species be lucky enough to land in situations where its own endogenous possibility for botanical exhilaration strums into existence?

As I look further, it seems a whole range of insects and molluscs fall for effects Homo sapiens know only too well: they get hyperactive on caffeine, but succumb to tremors and lose their appetite and their focus on larger doses (ex. Nathanson 1984). Mustard’s (2013) review of studies administering caffeine to insects, molluscs and mammals concluded its effect on behaviour is conserved across animal species. Meanwhile, at least one study sees this pattern repeat in another kingdom entirely. A small dose of caffeine stimulates the growth of sunflower plants, but inhibits it at larger concentrations (Kursheed et al. 2009). Indeed, cases of immunity to caffeine seem the rare consequence of deft symbiotic mergings— such as those of the Coffee Borer (Hypothenemus hampei), who conspire with gut microbes like Pseudomonas fulva (CejaNavarro et al. 2015). In this case, the bacteria consume the caffeine and allow the Coffee Borer to live its life burrowing into a bean containing, according to the Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory (2015), a lethal dose equivalent to 500 shots of espresso. The Coffee Borer seems to be missing out. But do these other organisms really get high?

Biologist Jakob von Uexküll is well-known for launching a research programme aimed at

gleaning insights into other species’ lived experiences (ex. Uexküll 2010). According to him, by carefully observing an organism’s behaviour, we can see what ‘shows up’ in its environment as relevant, and what is ignored, and use these to make inferences into how the world appears to that being. His intention was to create a science interrogating the subjective experience of the biotic world. He was well aware humans would never really know what it is like to be a bee. After all, we cannot really know what it is like even to be our own spouse or child. But we can get ever closer, especially if we try. For example, many people are familiar with studies revealing that bees see a different spectrum of light, and hence floral patterns invisible to our eyes. This is an example of an insight falling within an Uexküllian focus.

Does caffeine tell us anything about the lived experience of other creatures? As far as I know, Uexküll never asked this question. Some would deny it, arguing that because another species gets hyperactive and jittery when on caffeine does not indicate they consciously experience it. It merely shows that caffeine produces stereotypical physiological reactions. If a conscious organism ingests caffeine, then it obviously would experience those physiological reactions. However, the majority of the biotic world is not conscious. The reactions just happen with their consequent ecological effects. Such a perspective forms the basis of a dominant assumption in biology research and infuses biology education, too: if a biological system can be understood mechanistically, there is no need to appeal to consciousness. It is at best pointless; at worst, it is dangerous and anthropomorphic.

But, of course, those very same chemical changes occur in human physiology too, and the behaviour of a human on caffeine can also be understood mechanistically without appealing to human consciousness. And yet, human consciousness clearly exists. A double standard seems baked into biology. I am keen to find a way out of this. Perhaps if we figure out what role consciousness plays for humans, we can infer whether it is also active in other species. This turns out to be a difficult job, and one I am hoping another cup from my French press will help facilitate.

I’ll continue on my loosely Uexküllian trajectory. As humans go about their lives, they are generally trying to do things. To accomplish those things, some things matter and others do not. Our bodies filter out what does not likely matter, presenting only what is deemed relevant. These relevant features can then be seen in relation to one another. For instance, I am aware of a small subset of things right now: that the coffee is starting to scatter my focus, and that this conflicts with my writing deadline. Because I am conscious of these two things, I am able to realize that I should slow down my drinking. Consciousness is like a map of important features in ongoing play, a global representation of relevant internal states vis a vis relevant external features. Given the complexity and contingency of dynamic environments, it is likely all organisms would be faced with a similar situation: a lot more things are going on than a creature can attend to, and there is a need to respond only to what is relevant, instead of getting buried in details. Consciousness is that porous map.

I do not see other species waffling about, as we might expect if a global map did not exist to simplify the relationship between the organism and its world. Instead, I see other species’ focus directed by what is relevant to them. If caffeine interrupts or enhances that focus, it makes sense that this would show up too, as it would be relevant for the creature that its capacities had changed. Different decisions might be needed.

The consciousness of other animals is increasingly acknowledged by scientists (see for example the Cambridge Declaration on Consciousness [Low et al. 2012]), and is even posited by plant scientists (ex. Trewavas 2015), but Uexküll’s vision remains totally eclipsed in biology education. The assumption that life is nothing but mechanism pervades even apparently ‘progressive’ school provision, such as Scotland’s Curriculum for Excellence’s steadfastly mechanistic biology learning outcomes. What is the reason for this, and what effect does it have on the way children see the

world? Who benefits and who loses when education is the buzzkill at the party? Some historians claim caffeine accelerated the Enlightenment (Pollan 2020). Could investigating its role in the biosphere enlighten schools too?

References Ceja-Navarro, J.; Vega, F.; Karaoz, U. et al. (2015) ‘Gut microbiota mediate caffeine detoxification in the primary insect pest of coffee,’ in Nature Communications 6, 7618 Evogeneao https://www.evogeneao.com/en/explore/treeof-life-explorer#bees-and-humans Huang, R. ; O’Donnell, A. ; Barboline, J. & Barkman, T. (2016) ‘Convergent evolution of caffeine in plants by co-option of exapted ancestral enzymes,’ in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 113(38), pp. 10613-10618 Khursheed, T.; Ansari,M. & Shahab, D. (2009) ‘Studies on the effect of caffeine on growth and yield parameters in Helianthus annuus L. variety Modern T,’ in Biology and Medicine 1 (2), pp. 56-60 Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory (2015) ‘Gut microbes enable coffee pest to withstand extremely toxic concentrations of caffeine,’ July 14, 2015. Retrieved on November 21, 2020 from https://phys.org/news/2015-07-gutmicrobes-enable-coffee-pest.html Low, P. et al. (2012) ‘The Cambridge Declaration on Consciousness’. Publicly proclaimed in Cambridge, UK, on July 7, 2012, at the Francis Crick Memorial Conference on Consciousness in Human and non-Human Animals. Mustard, J. (2014) ‘The buzz on caffeine in invertebrates: effects on behavior and molecular mechanisms,’ in Cellular and Molecular Life Sciences 71(8), pp. 1375-82. Nathanson, J. A. (1984) ‘Caffeine and related methylxanthines: possible naturally occurring pesticides’, in Science. 226(4671), 184–7 Pollan, M. (2020) Caffeine: How coffee and tea created the modern world. Audible Original. Trewavas, A. (2015) Plant behaviour and intelligence. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. von Uexküll, J. (2010) A Foray into the Worlds of Animals and Humans: With A Theory of Meaning. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Wright, G.A.: Baker, D.D.; Palmer, M.J.; Stabler, D.; Mustard, J.; Power, E.; Borland, A.; Stevenson, P. (2013) ‘Caffeine in Floral Nectar Enhances a Pollinator's Memory of Reward’, in Science 339(6124), pp. 202-1204

No Rest for the Joyful Ruth Crighton-Ward

There is a popular misconception that gardeners cannot work over the winter. Actually, there are many jobs which can be done in the latter part of the year. Winter is a good time to start preparing vegetable and flower beds for planting in the spring. There is more than one way to dig over a bed for planting. We shall look at both ‘single digging’ and the ‘no dig’ system. Some gardeners favour one over the other, although both are equally effective.

For the single dig system, dig a trench about the depth and width of a spade blade (known as a ‘spit’). Dig the trench across the length of the planting area. Put the earth which has been dug from the bed to the side, for now. In the base of the trench, layer well-rotted organic material— such as compost or manure —a couple of inches deep. Lightly fork it over, then move backwards to the second row, and dig a new trench. Place the soil you remove from this second row into that first trench. When you get to the final trench, wheelbarrow the soil set aside from your first one and fill it with that. Do not worry if the dug area looks a bit rough and lumpy. Leave it for now. Allow the frost to break the chunks down naturally over the winter, thus improving the structure. There is no need to prepare the soil further until the following year. We’ll come back to this when the time is right.

There is also a process known as ‘double digging’. This uses the same method as single digging, but the difference is that you dig out double the amount of soil. Double digging is useful if the soil is very compacted or has not previously been cultivated. As you can imagine, it is labour-intensive— but a great way to work off all the mince pies! The ‘no dig’ system is favoured by many organic gardeners. It involves covering the soil with a layer of compost, manure, or well-rotted organic matter. The idea is that the soil life will remain undisturbed, allowing the microorganisms, fungi and worms to enrich the soil naturally by incorporating the organic matter into the soil. If an area is heavily weeded, the no dig system can be useful. Use sheets of cardboard to cover the section. Then place the organic matter on top of the cardboard. This should then be left for at least six months. Over time, the cardboard will break down, along with the organic matter, and be incorporated into the soil. As the weeds have been deprived of light for the past few months, they will die off naturally and form part of the organic material. Although the no dig system sounds appealing, it does still involve a certain amount of physicality— carting the organic matter to the planting areas, and raking it over the soil and around any existing plants.

A gentler job for this time of year is the cleaning of pots and trays. This can be done as an ongoing project throughout the winter. If left unattended, containers can become good hiding places for pests— such as slugs and snails, or vine weevils. Terracotta pots can be brushed clean, whereas plastic pots and trays should be washed. It’s a good idea to reuse plastic containers from year to year, so brush off any excess dirt first, then wash them in warm soapy water. To sterilise seed trays, follow the same procedure, then soak them in a solution of equal parts white vinegar and water. The trays can then be left to air-dry. This will help prevent many diseases and give your seedlings the best start in life. When all your pots and trays have been cleaned, store them somewhere dry.

The greenhouse, if you have one, is another cleaning job for the winter. It’s important to clean both sides of the glass— inside and out. This will maximise the amount of light getting through. Propagators will also benefit from this treatment. Now is also a good time for general maintenance. Tools used for cutting— such as shears and secateurs —can be cleaned, sharpened and oiled. Cultivation tools— such as hoes and spades —can also be sharpened. For a more efficient clean, take the tools completely apart. Doing this allows you to see grime and rust which cannot normally be seen. Remove loose dirt or rust by gently applying wire wool to the areas. Blades, springs and other metal parts can be left in a solution of salt and vinegar, which will remove more stubborn rust. There are various items that can be used for sharpening your tools— such as a whetstone, diamond sharpener, or a file. To go into detail here would require a whole article, but there are many good instructional videos available online.

Last month, I briefly mentioned using mulch around plants. A mulch is a protective cover, which can be spread around the base of plants to provide protection from frost, and help reduce evaporation. Many substances can be used as a mulch; compost, bark, wood chips, straw, leaf mould, and seaweed can all be effective. If using seaweed, ensure you wash it first with fresh water to remove the salt water. Some people use an artificial mulch— such as plastic sheeting —which can also provide frost protection and function as a weed suppressant. Personally, I prefer the natural methods, as organic matter provides protection and assists in keeping the weeds down— with the added benefit of enriching the soil. Plants such as Rhubarb (Rheum rhabarbarum) and Asparagus (Asparagus officinalis) especially benefit from a good mulch of compost or manure. If using manure, make sure it is well rotted first. Layer your mulch around four to six inches deep, but try not to put too deep a layer over an area where there are bulbs— the resulting plants may struggle to break through the surface, grow spindly and develop fewer flowers.

Next month, we’ll look at the planning required prior to planting. In the meantime, Merry Christmas to everyone. I hope you can still find peace and joy in these most uncertain times. Images: Ruth Crighton-Ward

We Need to Talk about Seed Sinéad Fortune

The shift to the darker, colder months brings a change in energy. Thoughts and focus move inwards, as busy harvesting activities change to preserving and planning for the next year. We see the same pattern in our herbal allies, of course. In the short, intense, Scottish growing season, plants that have completed whole lifecycles over a few months— from early spring’s first, intrepid signs of life, through the almost overwhelming exuberance of harvest season, to the setting of seed and dying off — have now put their energy into the next generation.

The gardeners and growers among us (who are numerous, I am sure) know all too well that when plants die down for the winter, it’s our time to retreat indoors with a nice cup of tea, to introspect and pore over seed catalogues. I’m sure I’m not alone in conjuring quite grandiose notions of what I can achieve in the next year, inspired by the beautiful photos and evocative descriptions of the seed catalogues. I usually manage a small fraction of what I set out to do. In the quiet of winter, while everything rests, it’s easy to forget just how frantic the garden will be by high summer. What I do grow is always rewarding; teaching me lessons for the next growing season, anchoring me to the natural passing of time— as opposed to that created by human logic — and, of course, connecting me to the earth where I’m based, and to the herbs I use in food and medicine. This connection is more powerful than can be expressed in a few short words; it needs to be experienced first-hand to really understand the sense of collaboration that comes from nurturing a herb so that the herb, in turn, nurtures you. We need only look to the local food movement, and the renaissance that Grow Your Own is enjoying in the current pandemic, to know that this is a connection we are craving. Food that is grown in agroecological conditions (that is, conditions that are good for the ecosystem in which it’s situated, and the humans cultivating it); food that is ethical, fair, and nourishing; food that is regenerative as opposed to depleting; food that is local and appropriate to our climate, weather, and culture— this is what makes good food. And the same is true for the herbal medicine we grow and use.

But what about the seeds? When we pore over seed catalogues, or pop down to the local garden centre to pick up a packet of seeds or some seedlings, or even when we buy readyprocessed medicinal food and herbs, we seldom consider the origin of the seeds themselves. But if we are to aim for healthy, ethical, and agroecological food and medicine, then we need to start with healthy, ethical and agroecological seed— and we have a long way to go to get there. An estimated 80% of our organic vegetable seed is imported from outside the UK. In many cases, this seed is produced in Italy, Spain, or elsewhere in the Mediterranean, where the climate and growing conditions are very different to our own. Imagine being born in the warm, sunny south of Spain only to be shipped up to west central Scotland and expected to thrive! There are a small number of fantastic seed producers and companies in the UK— notably Real Seeds in Wales, and the Seed Cooperative in England —but there are no Scottish seed companies selling Scottish-grown seed anymore. While the Seed Sovereignty Programme— an initiative run by The Gaia Foundation to build resilience, diversity, and local supply chains — is working to support and strengthen seed networks all over the UK and Ireland, there is still much work to be done.

The situation for medicinal herb seed is even bleaker: As an organic grower and herbalist, running a micro-herb farm, it's important for me to be able to source new and unusual medicinal herb seeds organically, because it adds assurance about the source of the seeds and how they are produced. I do what I can to care for the plants and seeds I currently grow, but there is certainly a need for more organic medicinal herb seed guardians and producers in the UK. So says Rosy McLean, master herbalist and organic herb grower at Rosy Rose Herbalist, based in Falkland, Fife. It's hard to source anything unusual and out-of-the-basics, organically. Even finding Skullcap in the UK was challenging, despite it being native. This is a challenge faced by many medicinal herb growers, throughout the UK. The situation has been made even more difficult this year, following the decision of a popular American organic herb seed producer— Strictly Medicinal Seeds —to stop selling to the UK, because of the complications of shipping seed internationally. So where next for our medicinal herb seed? If warmer climates are unsuitable, and Brexit and other seed selling regulations make international seed sourcing a challenge, where can we source our medicinal and more unusual seeds? We need to reclaim a heritage that, only a few generations ago, was common and essential. We need to save our own seeds, to swap with other growers, herbalists, and herbologists, and to encourage existing seed producers and sellers closer to home. We need to demonstrate that there is market, and indeed great need, for these seeds.

Sarah Weston, Herb Field Manager at the Organic Herb Trading Company, has always struggled to source organic herb seed closer to home, and often finds herself the only one bringing herb seed to swaps run by the South West Seed Savers. Nonetheless, she is optimistic about the future. She looks to the community of herb growers and herbal practitioners for resilience: It’s relatively easy to save your own seed, as herbs are quite generous. We all have experienced the generosity of the herbs we work with. Perhaps the time has come to return that generosity by becoming guardians of our medicinal herbs, cultivating herbal seed networks and libraries, and sowing the renaissance of a resilient and diverse medicinal herbal seed culture here in the UK. Want to get involved? If you are maintaining herb seeds that you would be happy to share, would like to learn more about saving seed, or would like to support the movement in some other way, please get in touch. As you recharge your energy over the coming months, dare to dream of what we might achieve together. I challenge you. After all, every revolution starts with seed.

sinead@gaianet.org www.gaiafoundation.org www.seedsovereignty.info www.organicherbtrading.com rosyherbalist.co.uk www.realseeds.co.uk seedcooperative.org.uk www.organicherbtrading.com

Images: Jason Taylor