I Believe I'd Be a Wise-Woman

I know what they say about me; the simpletons. They say I do magic, that I dance with the Devil in the light of the full moon, that I know the future.

The truth is much harder to explain, even though it IS the mid-1600s. I am a wise-woman, as my mother was, and my granny, and her mother. People come to us when they are ill, when they want to give birth, when they don't want the child, when they are heavy with child. They come for poultices, to break their fevers, to draw their heart-match closer.

Then come for gout, for shingles, to cure the pox. They share their dreams and ask me what they mean and how they can make them come true. I treat their cows, their horses, plaster their sprains and tie up their fractures.

Their children have chilblains, pinkeye, colic, cradle cap; they want the cures, they want the balms., they want the ointments that will restore the health of this fragile little one lest it join its siblings in the grove outside the village.

But- do they want to know, do they really want to know, how these things are done? Or is imagining me bargaining my soul for their smelling salts part of their ritual? They believe that a simple eternal deal could be done and they could do what I do?

It's not that simple.

I trained to be the healer and midwife from the moment I could walk; I likely started even earlier than that, not that I can remember. I was always intended to take my mother's place here, just as she knew she would be the one that opened the door in the middle of the night when a fretful villager came calling after her mother could no longer tell the right herb from the wrong.

I trailed behind my mother as she gathered the lavender, basil, chamomile, and fennel to bring down the red in grandmother's cheeks and calm her racing heart. The mint was carefully gathered and dried for teas that would warm us in the winter months, and to keep the mice out of the pie safe. Thyme and sage to be dried and burned- driving out the insects and the ill humors.

The ginger was sought and gathered, bartered when we needed to do so. It would settle the stomach of anyone from baby to expectant mothers. Goldenseal and milk thistle were useful for bowel and stomach upsets, and could help restore the balance in the body when used carefully and patiently.

Beautiful calendula to heal the wounds of the unfortunate heal and not fester. Lemon balm for teas and tinctures, and soft fuzzy mulleins to tickle my chin and help bring up the phlegm when old granny had her coughs.

I was taught the herbs to never put in my mouth as soon as I was trusted to help gather: the arnica that promotes healing and softens the bruises that Lady Winston shows granny, that arnica would kill me dead if i tasted it, and I knew it because mama told me so. Borage, comfrey, and sassafras must be treated with respect, and pennyroyal; tea was set aside to secretly be given to girls that were rounded with child too early or exhausted mothers despairing of another babe in the house.

I delighted in gathering the lacy webs of the white flowers of the Wild Carrot to make tea that would create an unwelcome home for a seed to stay and develop, and learned not to touch the giant hogweed or fool's parsley that confused and harmed too many unskilled and untrained gatherers.

My mother taught me the rhymes and songs that her mam had taught her as we gathered. I know those fools call them spells, but they are the teachings passed down generation to generation, the ways that we remember and prepare the answers they seek.

I'm not a seer, nor do I ask the devil for knowledge. Of course I know when that Ned comes banging on the door that Cecily is birthing. Don't I have eyes in my head and haven't I seen her swell this time same as the last four?

My wisdom is hard-earned, and all too often the answers, charms, potions, and packets I give when they seek me out are tucked in a pocket as they turn away muttering a psalm as if I were unholy.

Still- this is the life I know, and should my womb quicken and I have a daughter then she will someday tend these fields and woods after me. In time, I wonder, will there still be wisewomen to help those around them? If I could see into the world to come, I suppose I'd know that. But for now I'm content with life as it is.

~~~

This look at a wise woman of the 1600's was written in response to a prompt from Vocal: "What would your occupation be if you were born in a different historical period."

Knowing how important reading is to me I was tempted to seek out a version of myself as a librarian or teacher, but the United States didn't achieve a literacy rate of 80% until 1875. Doing more research I learned of the passing down of rhymes and songs from one wise woman to the next generation, since there were few books for the common person and even fewer people to teach anyone to read.

~~~

Books are so important to me that I've chronicled THIS life and THESE times by the book here:

I appreciate you reading my non-AI-generated thoughts! While you’re here, please choose one or more of the ways below to interact with me and the other writers on Vocal.

FIVE ways to interact with all writers on Vocal:

1. Leave a comment and share your thoughts. What would you be, in another time? What have you learned from your parents and grandparents that you use still today?

2. Click on the little heart to let me know that this clicked with you.

3. Click on the subscribe button and get a FREE notification when my next post goes live.

4. Feel free to share a link to anything I write on your social media.

5. A one-time tip or even a monthly pledge to support my writing is always appreciated if you are so moved!