Solidago sway and sing
of summer’s ending–
life transcending,
gilded golden on the wing.
It seems like only yesterday the path to her stone cottage was worn from the footsteps of the villagers. During the day they came for her soothing elderberry syrups and her clover and linden teas. And when the shadows lengthened and curled around behind the evergreens, they would slip along the path for rose petal and hawthorn tinctures to mend the cracks in their broken hearts and agate amulets scripted with sigils to banish their fears.
On that late summer day they last saw her, the old woman rose early and plucked the pod of a beautiful silvery green milkweed from its tall stem. The skin gently opened, and its silky white seed tails scattered across her fingers and floated down into the meadow below. As she watched them fly over the tall swaying grasses, the blood in her veins quickened to the rhythm of the singing cicadas and she decided the time had come to collect her late summer herbs.
She gathered her woven willow basket and set off along the path, humming her heart song to the purple loosestrife, orange jewelweed and the cloudy white flowers of virgin’s bower that climbed through the thickets and sparkled in the green overgrowth.
All morning she gathered tangy wood sorrel and succulent purslane. She dug stubborn burdock root and snipped the brittle stalks of dusty green seeded nettle and carefully laid them in her basket.
And as she worked, the cicadas sang on and the sun rose higher and higher until its honey warmth poured down upon her head and shoulders from above. It was only then that she stood up stiffly and realized her back was sore and it would do her good to have a strong staff to lean on as she traveled home.
She rummaged through the ground for a fallen branch, but there was none to be found, so she picked up her basket and began her journey home. The path was stumbled and steep and her heart began to beat more quickly so she paused for a moment to catch her breath in the soft green filtered shade of some young cedars that grew at the edge of the forest.
“Dear cedars,” she asked, “Will you spare a branch that I can lean on as I travel home? I have been working all morning and my old bones are weary.”
The cedars sighed softly as a light breeze moved through their sweetly scented sprays of green. “Our branches are too delicate dear grandmother,” they whispered softly, “And none are strong enough to support you.”
So she continued on, her basket pulling her arm and her feet dragging along the rooted path until the cedars gave way to ragged Scotch pines.
“Dear Scotch pines,” she asked, “Will you spare a branch that I can lean on as I travel home? I have been working all morning and my old bones are weary.”
The pines creaked and rasped and muttered crossly, “Go your way old crone! The needles on our branches are too long and sharp and they would poke your skin as you walk.”
And so she carried on, still struggling as she walked, until she came upon a dancing family of spruce trees, their branches clasped together in a ring. “Dear spruce trees,” she asked, “Will you spare a branch that I can lean on as I travel home? I have been working all morning and my old bones are weary.”
“Oh no, beautiful lady,” the spruce trees laughed merrily. “Our branches have too much sap on them. You would dirty your hands and ruin your skirt.”
She continued on, until she finally came to a fragrant grove of balsam trees. Their branches stretched to the sky and their citrus earth scent was like a hymn to the heavens. It lifted her spirits to breathe it and she asked, “Dear balsams. Will you spare a branch that I can lean on as I travel home? I have been working all morning and my old bones are weary.”
But they too would not give up even one branch. “So sorry lovely healer woman”, they sang in unison, “We have nothing for you. We need all our branches to reach for the sky and send our prayers to the Mother Goddess herself.”
By then it was late in the day and the sun had been sinking closer and closer to the earth. Her heart was filled with such heaviness that she lowered herself to the ground, her skirts billowing out around her. She sat and watched the auburn sun as it floated level in the western horizon and marveled at how its golden light burnished all it touched. The cedar boughs trembled under its warm kiss, the spruce trees swayed in their sacred circle dance and the grumbling Scotch pines sighed and finally settled. Finally, the scented song of the balsams was released and drifted up into the air making the Mother Goddess smile.
And there, hidden among the grasses, the old woman found a stem. It was from a lovely tall golden-flowered plant that she had never seen before, and it was strong enough to help her raise up and carry on.
As dusk fell, she took her final steps home; and as she did, her aches and pains began to evaporate, and the wearisome weight of many her long years drifted away.
The villagers could hear her singing her heart song to the sturdy stem that helped her on her journey home and as she sang, her voice floated higher and higher above the trees joining with the scent of the balsams until her keening drifted far and wide and it was full of love and the lightness of being.
That was the last day the villagers saw the old woman, though some say that on that lovely late summer evening, they witnessed a beautiful winged fairy with long silver hair flying about in the meadow. As she flew, she cast golden dust from a stick she carried which poured among the meadow grasses and glinted in the setting sun. Wherever the gold dust fell, the wonderful plant we call goldenrod eventually established itself and began to grow. Its stems are straight, sturdy and strong and the medicine from its golden yellow flowers that bloom in the late summer still nourishes us and lightens our hearts.
Goldenrod Grandmother, where are you now? Does your heart song still hum in the gilded corbiculae of honeybees who visit the bright and brilliant goldenrod that dances tall among the swaying grasses?
Do you still gather the greenest herbs in the sunniest meadows?
Do you still search for the deepest roots near the clearest running streams?
Do you remember us Goldenrod Grandmother?
We remember you.
This story was originally told to me by my friend and herbalist, Amber Westfall. Visit her Wild Garden here: http://www.thewildgarden.ca/
The photos that accompany this piece were taken during a recent trip to Vermont where I personally learned to appreciate the value of a good walking staff!
Additional photo credits:
Milkweed: Marilyn Shannon; Cedar Branches: OregonEncyclopedia.org; Scotch Pine Branch: Tree City; Balsam Branch: Peter M Dzuik
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If you could see my smile,and my eyes full of tears at the beauty of this my dear friend. As I read, all my weariness fell away and I felt as if we walked in fields of gold together. Thank you for such a peace, thank you…
Oh thank you so much dear Stephanie! 🧡🌲☀️🌲🧡
Greetings Diane,
Thank you for this pleasantly beautiful tale. I loved it.