I find there are two types of people; those who can’t stand the smell of Valerian and those who find them intoxicating. I place myself firmly in the category of the latter. Fresh valerian flowers in the garden carry a floral muskiness that I’ve often tried to bottle and can never seem to capture quite right.

Yarrow, ancient one. Mother of boundaries, healer of wounds. She clears the blood and clears the mind, cradling all in her white cloak.