RED SKY IN THE MORNING

The eerie glow of sunrise through smoke on our farm.

Pi, our resident rooster, crows up on the hill. Eyes opening at dawn, I glance towards a rose-coloured, cloudless sky. My soul groans as the ancient shepherd’s warning, ‘red sky in the morning…’ surfaces, while I pull myself fully awake.

So ingrained is my instinct, my first reaction is to go outside to reassure horses spooked by the prospect of storms. It’s muscle memory, baked into me through years of care. Never mind that it’s been decades since those noble creatures were part of my everyday life—yet the urge lingers, stubborn and fierce. A few more heartbeats pass before my brain catches up with my heart. No, there’s no storm today, nor are there horses. The sky is cloudless.

The red sky is smoke.

I remain still for a moment longer, registering the sounds of Geoff making coffee in the early morning glow of the kitchen. There’s a quiet pattern to his movements, a gentle rhythm I know well. No sudden chaos: this fire isn’t ours to fight. The smoke is drifting in from afar—wildfires raging almost 500 kilometres (310 miles) away in The Grampians.

Prosaically, a red sky appears when dust and small particles are trapped in the atmosphere by high pressure. This scatters blue light, leaving only red light to give the sky its notable appearance. There’s science behind the shepherd’s warning, though it hits differently when you’re living inside it.

A few hours later, I am standing in our oil-seed sunflower crop, cutting the matured flowers, in the heat of mid-morning. It’ll climb to 35°C (95°F) today—and cutting flowers is taxing work under a merciless sky. Best to get this job done before the heat reaches its zenith. The air is still, barely a whisper of breeze, and as the day ages the smoke hangs heavier, like a claustrophobic blanket—an all-too-familiar reality in this age of climate chaos.

My husband Geoff’s lungs will be taking a beating from this smoke. He won’t complain, but I feel the quiet urgency to offer support.

I text a skilled and deeply trained herbalist and tai chi practitioner in our community. He embodies the essence of herbalism—gentle yet unwavering, a healer whose quiet devotion to our community shapes and strengthens it in ways words can scarcely capture. His presence is a gift I never take for granted; each week, I’m reminded just how fortunate we are that he chooses to walk this path with us.

We need him.

Unshakeable, supremely capable, and fiercely resilient, Geoff has weathered decades of life with a suppressed immune system, enduring medication that mercilessly crushes his body’s natural defences. Still, when the Black Summer wildfires came, he stood shoulder to shoulder with firefighters half his age, facing the beast head-on, day after punishing day. Seven weeks in dense, toxic smoke cost him dearly. He now lives with a lung capacity of 60 percent. Damage that cannot be reversed.

We’ve grown weary of the medical merry-go-round—a system hell-bent on fitting everyone into neat little boxes of symptoms and age-related drug-dense prescriptions, while conveniently ignoring the wreckage wildfires left in our health. So we stepped off that path. We’re figuring it out ourselves now.

When I was writing FIRE, I dove deep into the science of smoke exposure:

‘Prolonged exposure to wildfire smoke over December 2019 and January 2020 alone is estimated to have resulted in over 400 deaths and over 3,000 additional hospitalisations across Australia, and not only among people with respiratory conditions but also among healthy people. … Wildfire smoke contains high concentrations of fine particulate matter that penetrates deeply into the alveoli, can move into the bloodstream, and cause systemic inflammation. Firefighters especially, but really everyone who spent nearly two months in the toxic soup that was our breathable air, were recurrently exposed to [a long list of carcinogens]. As if that is not enough, fire atmosphere can produce acute changes in pulmonary function that can lead to chronic, debilitating lung dysfunction.’

Post-medicine life means thyme tea is our daily go-to for lung support. I’ve resolved to make a tincture this year, but today feels like a tougher challenge, and I am grateful I have someone wise to ask. My herbalist friend replies:

‘Elecampane (Inula helenium)’

Elecampane … still standing among the sunflowers, I can’t resist a quick search:

‘Prized by the Romans as a medicine and as a food, elecampane, Inula helenium, derives its botanical name from Helen of Troy, who, according to legend, was holding elecampane in her hand when she set off with Paris to live with him in Troy. … Elecampane, also called horse-heal or elfdock, is a widespread plant species in the sunflower family Asteraceae.’

WTF! Sunflowers and horses. Right—message from the universe received.

‘Elecampane works gently to ease irritation and calm inflammation in the lungs, while its roots offer a natural remedy for stubborn coughs. The secret lies in a compound called alantolactone, a quiet but powerful ally in the healing process.’

Neither my herbalist friend nor I have elecampane growing, but it’ll be a priority this year, and we agree thyme is the best of what I have available today.

As I am walking back toward the house, another message from him pings, adding more depth to the discussion:

‘The main organs affected by grief, particularly in the medium to long term, are the lungs. Unresolved grief is often associated with chronic lung problems. Smoke and fires pose a very physical challenge to our lungs, but the grief relating to all that has been lost in fire has a compounding effect on the lungs. I would expect to see a huge jump in lung problems in Los Angeles over the next couple of years.

The grief discussion is one that can go long and deep. Who isn’t in grief over all we are losing?’

Unlike mainstream medicine, there’s something profoundly beautiful—and necessary—about herbalism. It understands health as a whole rather than disjointed parts. The balm for the times we’re living through, it is ancient and necessary knowledge we can not lose—an area of community building and being that will need many more skilled practitioners in the years to come.

A few hours later, Geoff and I sit on the front porch, thyme tea in hand, the haze of smoke still thick around us. We talk long and slow about grief—over people, hope, security, place. And, after a while, about moving forward.

This is all we can do.

The sky might be hazy blue now, but soon enough, there will be another red sky in the morning.

---

---

If herbalism calls to you, know that you are needed. Invest in your skills; take care to learn well and deeply. My herbalism friend recommends you approach the Matthew Wood Institute of Herbalism for any online training. But really, he says, face-to-face training is best.

‘In my experience, it simply feels right when you have found the right teacher. Wisdom, knowledge and experience are what you are looking for, and ideally someone who understands the medicinal plants you will be able to grow or source in your local area.’