Willow: On Rooting into Land

Salix spp.— ערבה / Aravah

Nov 20, 2022

As both an herbalist and a diasporic Jew, I simultaneously hold a deep love and reverence for this beautiful Colorado landscape I call home and an unshakeable feeling that I don’t quite belong. I fell in love with herbalism through connection to this land and its plants— these relationships made me who I am today. And yet, there is a barrier between us, a wall of grief that needs my acknowledgement and wants my action.

The grief, for me, comes in two forms of ancestral displacement from land. That of the Jewish people, largely exiled from a homeland that our culture is deeply intertwined with, and that of the indigenous peoples disconnected from the lands I now call home. I live within the territory of the the Hinóno'éí (Arapaho) people. And while some Arapaho are still here today, many are on reservations in Wyoming and Oklahoma, far from their sacred plants and mountains. A third grief: the fact that I can freely harvest herbs in these woods while many Arapaho have to drive hours and hours, rent hotels, and request forest permits before harvesting. This is a heavy privilege to hold.

This year Sukkot offered me a seasonal and cultural focal point for working through some of this grief. This festival of Sukkot, where we are asked to sleep and eat in a temporary structure for a week, a sukkah that is open to the elements and connected to the land and the stars, is a joyful invitation to feel at home on this earth. And in that joy, there is ample room for grief.

This Sukkot, my intention was to connect with willow. Of the four species of the Lulav and Etrog that are waved in the six directions every year at this time, the willow is the one that is native and easily abundant around my home in Colorado. Exploring one of the important plants of this tradition through the lens of both the Jewish people and the indigenous people of these lands has become the start of a cultural and ecological bridge to healing.

Coyote Willow (*Salix exigua*) along Clear Creek

ערבה— Willow in Hebrew

How is willow, ערבה, woven into the Jewish people? It has everything to do with water. For both ancient Israel and for willows, water is life. Sukkot marks the end of the dry season and is a celebration for the coming rains. Just as Israelites were dependent on these winter rains to nurture their crops, the willows growing in seasonal creeks throughout the land needed this rain to survive. Willow is a symbol of our dependence on rain and plays an integral role in the water ceremonies of our ancestors.

As Ellen Cohn writes in her essay Rain and the Calendar,

“During the time of the Temple, the priests held an elaborate water ceremony in which they danced, juggled, and played music as they drew water below the Temple Mount from the pools of Shiloah and brought it in gold-clad buckets up to the Temple. Our ancestors celebrated water to invite in the rain.
During the week of Sukkot, people circle the sanctuary in synagogue, waving their lulav and etrog, and chanting poems of praise. On the seventh day, they circle the sanctuary seven times and then shake the willows in a dramatic finale called Hoshana Rabah. The custom is a cathartic transition as we leave the withered summer behind us and enter the new year afresh, with a prayer for water to nourish our crops and souls.”

Yóokox— Willow in Arapaho

There are more than 35 species of willow in Colorado, including both trees and shrubs. In the American Southwest willow is a keystone species in riparian habitats— the wetlands and river banks of the big rivers like the Colorado and the Rio Grande, as well as the hundreds of smaller creeks and streams. The health of this riparian habitat is indicative of the health of our water ways in general. The great Colorado River, which originates just a few hours from my house and travels all the way to the Sea of Cortez, has been gradually reduced by human impact—dams, agriculture, industry— to the point where it dries up before it reaches the sea. This exploitive human behavior has also resulted in a radical decline in willow populations.

Willows growing in their preferred habitat on the bank of a creek

Willow is present in native cultural and ceremonial life in this region, particularly in the Sun Dance. They are often used for shade during the ceremony, and are an integral part of the construction of the lodge and alter. Willow saplings are also often used to build the sweat lodge for Inipi (sweat) ceremonies.

An Arapaho story that weaves many of these elements is When Nih’oo3oo Witnessed the Sun Dance. Here is a translation from the anthology Arapaho Stories, Songs, and Prayers:

Nih’oo3oo was on the prairie
He Reached the front of a Sun Dance lodge [inside an animal skull].
He went over to it.
The drum was making a soft sound as it was played.
He heard yelling/cheering.
“Gee! let me watch on,” he said.
Everyone was shouting/cheering.
He put his head inside at the front entrance.
Once he put his head in, these little mice who were horsing around in there, they all ran outside.
Nih’oo3oo discovered that he had gotten his head caught [inside the skull where the mice had been dancing]
He was just groping about for things, wherever his hands happened land [as he stumbled across the prairie].
“What kind of bush are you?” he said to whatever he felt.
And “dogbush,” he was told.
He set off again.
“My friend, what kind of bush are you?”
And “bow-wood,” [he was told].
“All right!”
“My friend, what kind of bush are you?”
And “Pawnee clan bush.”
“Well, now the river is close,” he said.
“My friend, what kind of bush are you?”
“Praying bush.”
“All right!”
Once again he set off, carefully and thoroughly groping about for things.
“My friend, what kind of bush are you?”
And “cottonwood,” he was told.
“The river is really close now,” he said to himself.
He kept doggedly moving onward.
“My friend, what kind of bush are you?”
And “willow,” he was told.
“Okay, now it’s right here,” he said.
There was sand all over.
Boy, was [the river] deep!
Before you know it [after falling in], he was floating downstream.
Downstream some women were bathing.
“[Hit me] right smack in the middle of the face,” he said.
Sure enough, that was where they hit [his forehead].
They split it open.
“For me I’ll take it for the handle of my scraper,” the women said.
[Once] they have seized his horns, deer horns, [they said:]
“How wonderfully Nih’oo3oo provides things for us!”

I’ve sat with this story for a long time. It’s one part cultural and ceremonial origin story. It’s another part ecological lesson encapsulated in the adventures of a Trickster—the plants Nih’oo3oo passes are in order of their moisture requirements, with willows having the highest requirements and found directly next to the water. It is additionally likely no accident that there are seven plants in total, a sacred number for the Arapaho.

Willow as Medicine

Willow bark has been used since antiquity to treat pain. The first recorded mention of willow for pain comes from a 3500 year old Egyptian scroll now known as the Edwin Smith Surgical Papyrus. The ancient Greeks and Romans also employed willow bark, as recorded by Hippocrates and Pliny the Elder. Many First Nations in America used willow extensively as well. Salicin, the main constituent for this pain-relieve effect was first ‘discovered’ in the early 1800s and used to create aspirin.

Besides acting as a pain reliever, willow bark is useful as an anti-inflammatory for body aches, gut pain, fevers, and headaches. Because of its astringent, drying nature, it’s also helpful for issues like diarrhea. A complex remedy found in the Talmud (Gittin 68b) is one written record of how willow weaves into Jewish folk medicine:

“As a remedy for a headache caused by excessive blood in the head, let him bring cypress, willow, fresh myrtle, olive, poplar, sea willow, and cynodon grass and boil them together. And he should pour three hundred cups of this liquid on one side of his head and three hundred cups on this, the other side of his head.”

The most common preparations for willow bark today are as a powder, a tea, or a tincture. It is widely available commercially and is also easy to harvest. The bark can be peeled off branches, dried, and then chopped for tincturing or tea.

The Rabbis’ Tales

There are a few Rabbinic teachings involving willow that do not take cues from the plant’s ecological role or its medicine, but instead from its physical attributes. The Midrash (Vayikra Rabbah 30:12) uses a symbolic interpretation of the four species to describe four kinds of Jews:

The etrog, with tasty fruit and a good fragrance, represents Jews who both study Torah and do good deeds;
The lulav (date palm) has tasty fruit, but no fragrance, and represents those who study Torah, but don’t do good deeds;
The hadas (myrtle) has no fruit, but possesses a beautiful fragrance. It represents those who do good deeds but do not study Torah;
The aravah (willow) has neither fruit nor fragrance. It represents those who do not study Torah nor do good deeds.

Another interpretation derived from the physical attributes of the four species is found in Sefer Bahir, an ancient kabbalistic work from almost 2,000 years ago. Each plant maps to the human body:

The etrog represents the heart, the seat of our emotions.
The hadas (myrtle) has leaves shaped like an eye.
The lulav (date palm) represents the spine, from where our actions emanate.
The aravah (willow) represents the lips, our speech.

Meaning Making

As I harvest willow for a community sukkah this year I reflect on the power of plants and stories. Plants and their stories often connect us back to ancestral lands while simultaneously easing us into deeper relationship with the lands we currently inhabit, adding layers of meaning to both. As I’ve apprenticed with willow this season, one last meaning has slowly emerged:

Willows have a remarkable ability to root and grow fast. They possess high concentrations of a plant hormone called indolebutyric acid that stimulates root growth. If you place cut willow branches in water not only will they soon start to sprout roots, but the water itself becomes a potent brew to help other plant cuttings root. In this same way, willow is helping me root into this land, helping me heal old wounds of diasporic disconnection, and helping me build a real sense of belonging. And this rooting with willow is also a gentle reminder to keep tending the grief this land holds and let it move me to more action and solidarity with the indigenous peoples of this place.

A Willow Love Poem

The fantastic Dori Midnight offers a moving love poem to Willow, illustrated by Sol Weiss, that captures so much of what I’ve learned from willow this season:

my mother always told me you like to have your feet in water
your roots, like mine, always toeing the depths
weeping friend, you drink from the delta of our tears
and then turn and teach us how to bend and not break
how to dance with grief and not calcify in anguish
you make bitter water and from this water new roots emerge
you make bitter medicine and from this process our pain is eased
our ancestors say your leaves are lips in prayer
our ancestors taught us to beat the ground with your branches to draw water
our ancestors tell us to bind you
with myrtle palm and citron
shake this bundle in a circle
from east to south to west to north
above and below
you quiver in our fingers as we cry out
please
please
bless us with good winds and good dew

Reflections

What land do you belong to? What lands have claimed you?

How can we, as diasporic peoples, heal our connection to land and place?

Rabbi & The Herbalist

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