Artemisia

Words by Luiza Prado de O. Martins

I’m in Berlin. Cruising in the fields of Hasenheide park, I spot her for the first time. On her leaves downy hairs, so soft to my touch. The wetness of this Berlin soil, this sandy swamp, excites her, makes her grow and spread herself, taking over the margins of paths and small roads. Our encounter is quick, but I can’t forget her. She graces my table, aromatic; her smell makes me salivate. I lick my fingers in the aftermath, wishing for more.

Taste her. Feel her downy leaves grazing your tongue, a slight spice hinting at secrets well kept.

I got to know her as Artemisia first. A plant named after the Greek goddess of hunt, wilderness, chastity, and the moon; the twin sister of Apollo and the daughter of Zeus and Leto. Artemis was the protector of young, unmarried girls, and the one capable of bringing healing to women. A virgin goddess who belonged to no man, only to herself.

Artemis lived with women, and loved women; a queer goddess whose virginity referred to her unwillingness to allow patriarchal access to her body and her self. It was men who betrayed and tried to tame her, to mold her to the constrictions of family and marriage. Her lover Callisto was raped by her own father, Zeus; Artemis herself survived numerous rape attempts by gods and men alike.

These are the bitter notes.

And yet, Artemis was also the goddess of childbirth. As a child — still unaware of the betrayals to come — she says to her father Zeus:

On the mountains will I dwell and the cities of men I will visit only when women vexed by the sharp pang of childbirth call me to their aid. even in the hour when I was born the Fates ordained that I should be their helper, forasmuch as my mother suffered no pain either when she gave me birth or when she carried me in her womb, but without travail put me from her body.

Trotula of Salerno, one of few women physicians and medical writers in the Middle Ages, used artemisia as a key herb in her pharmacy. In the late 12th to early 13th century, she prescribed artemisia soaked in wine for a delayed menstruation; in case this did not work, the herb could be used as part of stronger, more complex preparations. Nicolaus, another physician from 12th century Salerno, includes artemisia amongst 30 other ingredients in a preparation meant to stimulate the menses. In the late Middle Ages, herbal pharmacies started moving towards more complicated recipes, rather than relying on single-herb preparations — a phenomenon linked both to the development of pharmaceutical theory, and to the increasing opportunity for monetization of these practices in the context of a shift to early capitalism in the early Modern period.

Many authors refer to artemisia as the Mother of Herbs. Johann Wonnecke von Cube, author of an herbal published in Mainz in 1485, begins his text with the plant, describing it as a remedy for women’s sickness. Like Trotula, he recommended that the herb be soaked in wine and then ingested, in order to expel sicknesses that hid in the womb — including that which would swell and grow.

These are the pungent, peppery notes.

Wilderness nourishes. Nepali herbal medicine uses the plant to treat both physical and spiritual ailments. Krishna Gautam, Chieko Imakawa and Teiji Watanabe describe artemisia leaves being placed in the ridges of the roof of a new house as protection from evils, as well as being squeezed over cut wounds to ward off infection and promote quick healing. In Hokkaido, the Ainu use artemisia for smudging, as a way to treat spiritual and psychological illnesses, as well as for repelling insects and treating dental ailments.

Like the goddess she is named after, artemisia holds the secrets of the night, under the low light of the moon. Thujone, a chemical compound known to stimulate lucid dreaming and psychedelic experiences, is present in low amounts. I think of her as a guide to the novel paths offered by mystery; a way to a wilderness that smells like the wind caressing fields of hay.

I stand in the fields, at night. She grazes my leg, kisses me softly. These are the notes of the unknown.