Hepatica: Following a Path to Healing

This morning, we are walking a trail that traces meandering Pequea Creek in southern Lancaster County. The stream looks to be running full and cold. We move quietly and steadily; nevertheless, a skittish pair of mergansers and a belted kingfisher are stirred to flight by our unannounced approach. Late this evening, our Northern Hemisphere will mark the vernal equinox, the astronomical beginning of spring— until then, this day seems determined to waver betwixt blue sky and leaden cloud, between chill sunlight and snow flurry, unanticipated flakes swirling in a brisk westerly wind. Despite wishes to the contrary, it remains jacket-zipped-to-the-chin, hand-warmers-and-earmuffs weather. Partly from curiosity, but mostly from desire to escape the high-line chill, we duck down a steep, narrow path to meet the creek. 

Picking our way across damp, sometimes yielding ground, we spot a few bluebells, Dutchman's breeches, and Virginia saxifrage gathering intention to bloom. Just as we're ready to turn and clamber back to the main trail, we spot an array of round-lobed hepatica sheltered on a precipitous creek side embankment. Here and there and everywhere, hepaticas rise from winter-weary litter and debris on slender, finely-haired stems— blooms in soothing shades of cream and lavender, framed by captivating, fleshy leaves. We maneuver with care, soon gaining foothold and handhold to get a closer look. This hepatica hillside is poised in the lingering moment between season-past and season-to-come.

Several weeks ago, as D and I were sharing initial thoughts about hepatica, I observed that, in my experience, it was a rare, almost elusive spring ephemeral. D, in her sisterly way, mused that cursory reading indicated that hepatica was both widespread and easily located in our corner of the natural world. I'm not sure why, but in recent days— perhaps challenged, or perhaps inspired by these contradictory pronouncements— we've been finding hepatica more and more frequently and at unexpected turns of trail— almost as if someone is whispering— walk patiently, look carefully, and see.

In truth, we are still learning this new way of walking, following a path that travels beyond winter's mantle of grief and loss, walking patiently, looking carefully— and sometimes finding hepatica in the waking woods. I've read that in the language of flowers, hepatica is emblematic of healing, reorientation, and focus— recovering oneself in the aftermath of confusion or loss. And so, we metaphorically gather hepatica where and when we happen upon it. We are still healing, still learning, and still walking— across the seasons, through joy and sorrow, in sunlight and in shadow. Isn't that the way? — B.

Hepatica—

the hush
of morning path,
a still and present loss—
then sunlight falls through leafless tree,
softly
showing
the flush of creamy lavender—
not a panacea,
but patience, like
healing.

— B.

From the dawn of humankind, people have looked to the plants around them for relief from pain and suffering. For most of this time, determining which plants to use and how to use them has been an exercise in trial and error. Some people reasoned that a divine power must have left a hint on the plant as to how they should be used. This thinking that like heals like developed in cultures around the world— and eventually was called the Doctrine of Signatures. The doctrine has always had its skeptics, particularly since people read the signs differently, and many herbal treatments either don’t work or cause more— sometimes fatal— harm. Still, the Doctrine of Signatures continues to intrigue both scientists and laypeople because sometimes it has worked— and it has certainly been a useful way of remembering and communicating knowledge about the healing power of nature. 

So it is for hepatica, named from the Greek hepar, meaning liver. The leaf of the plant— also called liverwort or liverleaf— has three leathery, rounded lobes like the shape of the human liver. Hepatica, a native perennial in the Buttercup family, can be found around the entire Northern Hemisphere of the globe. Its unproven use as a folk medicine for liver ailments has often led to wild misuse and toxicity in the hands of the inexperienced. The species Hepatica nobilis is commonly found throughout the United States in woodlands, meadows, rocky areas, and gardens. Each flower of this species has its own fine-haired stem, and a bloom of 6-12 petals— technically sepals— in vibrant shades of blue, pink, purple, and white. The beauty of the flowers revitalizes the early spring landscape and offers an interesting complement to the way hepatica leaves have interfaced with human lives for thousands of years. — D.

Probably because of its historical use in folk medicine, hepatica has a long association with the idea of healing. Healing— recovering from physical or emotional injury— does not mean getting life back the way it was. It is a deeply personal, complex, non-linear process of readjustment, and it usually requires facing off with pain. Most of us want to avoid pain, so there is a strong cultural pressure to snap out of it quickly. Suppressing pain isn’t a good idea— in fact, repeatedly dismissing strong emotions can intensify them. On the other hand, it is rarely useful to get stuck in pain either. An alternative is to acknowledge and validate your pain. Think of pain as a crying baby. You may not be able to know or fix the problem that is making the baby cry, but you can recognize the crying, hold the baby, and comfort it.

In the same way, the next time you feel a painful emotion you can try recognizing it. You might even say to yourself, This hurts. Sometimes just this is enough to help. Deep breathing can help too: breathe in and acknowledge the pain; breathe out and give it attention and comfort. Sometimes your body will tell you it needs more— some first aid, a walk through the wildflowers, a good cry, some rest, a hug from a friend, or consultation with a professional. If it is possible, listen and respond. If it is not possible, you can tell yourself that it is not the time now, but there will be time later. Commit to the healing that your body needs. — D.

 from Hepatica 

Like robin's song or bluebird's wing,

Or throats that make the marshes ring,

Her beaming face and winsome grace

Are greetings from the heart of spring.

— John Burroughs 1837-1921, naturalist, poet, journalist