By Mel Kasting, RH (AHG)
When I meet folks in my classes or out in the wild who are new to herbalism, or “Herb Curious” as I like to call it, one of the questions I hear most often is some version of, “How am I supposed to remember all of this?” And I tell them that like anything else, learning takes time and experience.
If herbalism feels hard, it’s often because folks try to furiously shove as many new herbs as possible into their brains with no context and/or because they aren’t being patient with themselves.
Herbalism can look enormous from the outside. There are many hundreds of plants, long lists of actions, unfamiliar constituents, preparation methods, safety considerations, energetic qualities, and traditional uses. Every plant seems to arrive with its own collection of facts.
When I first started studying herbs, I thought becoming an herbalist meant finding a way to store all of that information in my mind and retrieve it on demand. I imagined that knowledgeable herbalists had somehow memorized an endless catalogue of plants.
Over time, I began to understand that memory develops through relationships. The plants I know best are the plants I have spent time getting to know on a personal level.
Mel: Nice to meet you swamp mallow, I am so glad you’re growing in my yard!
I remember them because I have tasted them, prepared them, smelled them, gathered them, and paid attention to how they feel in my body. I have also shared them with friends, family, students and clients and listened to what those people felt in their bodies. I have listened to other teachers talk about these plants and trying out their uses. I have returned to the plants through different seasons, preparations, questions, and stages of my own life. Each encounter added something to my understanding.
Funny tangent, I used to HATE linden (I know, right, what kind of person hates linden). It gave me a tummy ache, made me feel soft and fuzzy in a way I wasn’t comfortable with and the taste didn’t appeal to me. Now I barely go a day without a bit of linden in my daily mix, relying on that moisture and softness to soothe my mental and physical edges, to help me see the spaces between the leaves. And its sweet mucilage and gentle aromatics are tastes that I crave now.
I ALSO read about these herbs in books, articles and research papers, which is an important part of learning plants. But when we focus on developing relationships with plants, these facts connect to experiences, like the spokes on a wheel that keeps it rolling forward.
A word like “demulcent” can feel abstract when it appears in a textbook, but drinking a strong cold infusion of marshmallow root gives the word texture. You can feel the moisture and slipperiness in your mouth and throat. The definition becomes attached to a physical sensation and it makes it more likely that you will notice it when you meet new plants.
Astringency also becomes easier to understand after tasting a plant like oak bark that puckers and dries the mouth. Aromatic herbs become more distinct once you have smelled their volatile oils and felt their movement through the digestive or respiratory systems. The language begins to describe something you recognize.
Experience gives information somewhere to land.
Blind tea tasting has become one of my favorite ways to create this kind of experience. The method we use at ESHM has been adapted by Thomas’s experiences, but also from Erika Galentin’s approach to organoleptic tea tasting, with inspiration from the way Jim McDonald teaches through direct sensory engagement with plants, as well as my love of writing and metaphor as a method for making sense of our world (and herbs).
During a blind tasting, participants are given an herb without knowing what it is. They smell it, taste it, feel its texture, and notice what happens in their bodies. They pay attention to temperature, moisture, tension, movement, sensation, emotion, and any other response that arises. And often come up with surprisingly apt metaphors (red clover is for mermaids anyone?!)
The plant arrives before its reputation does. Like deciding not to google someone or tear through their social media profiles before a first date 😉
In these tea tastings, no one has been told that it is an herb for digestion, sleep, anxiety, pain, or the respiratory system. There is no list of actions guiding the experience. Students have space to notice what is happening before trying to fit the plant into a category or give it a name.
Someone may notice saliva increasing, warmth spreading through the chest, tension releasing from the shoulders, or dryness developing in the mouth. Another person may have a very different response. Once we begin sharing observations, the plant becomes larger than any one person’s experience of it.
I learn during these tastings too, even when I already know which plant is in the cup.
Facilitating also asks me to loosen my own preconceived ideas. A pattern may emerge across the group that I had never noticed so clearly. I may know what I expect a plant to do, and I still have to make room for what is unfolding in the room. That practice keeps my understanding flexible. It reminds me that knowing a plant is an ongoing process.
The taste, sensations, observations, traditional uses, clinical applications, and phytochemistry begin to connect. The plant becomes easier to remember because it has become an event, a conversation, and a physical experience for everyone involved. It’s a rewarding, fun and often hilarious event and we can host them for each other, without a “teacher”. Get a group of friends together and go at it 😊
Developing personal relationships with plants is one way of learning plants. Historical and traditional knowledge, modern research, books, teachers, classes, and formal programs are all also essential parts of learning herbalism.
They help us understand safety and preparation, introduce us to perspectives outside of our own, and connect us with the generations of people who have built and carried this knowledge. I will always keep reading, studying, asking questions, and learning from others.
But nothing replaces spending time with the plants themselves. Eventually, memorization becomes a byproduct of relationship. The plants stop feeling like collections of facts and start feeling like people you know.