WARRIOR'S MEDICINE, HEALER'S WISDOM
From Neanderthal burials to Achilles’ battlefield, and the scars of war to the wounds of a collapsing world, yarrow has stood as both warrior’s medicine and healer’s wisdom—quietly strengthening, quietly healing, quietly waiting.
We’re in his garden, the day we first meet. Here, herbs grow thick and beautifully wild, spilling over paths, climbing through cracks. The scent of them—sharp, green, alive—clings to the warm, dry air. He moves through them like they’re old friends, brushing leaves, picking stems, inhaling deeply.
Not so long ago, this beautiful landscape was ravaged by wildfire. This whole property was a barren ash field. Yet here these herbs grow again, pushing forward with tenacity and strength.
Crouching beside a patch of feathery green, he runs his fingers through a gentle plant that somehow feels ancient, untamed. ‘White yarrow,’ he says, his voice warm with recognition.
I know of this plant, but this is the first time I've seen it. I am keen to grow it, I say.
He smiles. ‘I love spending time with plants. They’re friends. They listen, they change with the seasons, they give. If you pay attention, you start to see—they’re not just surviving. They’re strengthening everything around them.’
His fingers hover under the yarrow’s flower head. ‘Steiner knew it. He called yarrow the great companion plant. Said it made everything nearby stronger. And he was right—science backs him up now. But we didn’t need the lab coats to tell us that. We’ve always known.’
White yarrow (Achillea millefolium) is a tough, perennial herb with feathery, fragrant leaves and clusters of small, white flowers that form dense, flat-topped umbels. Found across temperate regions of the Northern Hemisphere, it flourishes in meadows, along roadsides, and in disturbed soils, often emerging where the land is in need of renewal. Its deep roots stabilise the earth, while its presence enriches the soil and attracts pollinators, strengthening the ecosystem around it. Drought-tolerant and quietly resilient, yarrow may appear delicate, but it holds remarkable medicinal power—antimicrobial, anti-inflammatory, and astringent—making it a plant of both endurance and quiet strength.
He stands, eyes bright. ‘Fifty thousand years, at least!’ He throws his hands wide, laughing. ‘That’s how long we’ve been walking with this plant. Neanderthals had it in their burial sites—think about that. It was important enough to be carried with them into death. If they knew its worth, early humans certainly did too.’
In the 1960s, archaeologist Ralph Solecki excavated Shanidar Cave in Iraqi Kurdistan and discovered the skeleton of Shanidar IV, an adult Neanderthal. Analysis of soil samples from around the remains revealed clumps of pollen from various flowering plants, including yarrow, leading to the hypothesis that these plants were deliberately placed in the grave. Studies analysing their dental plaque have identified traces of yarrow, suggesting they also consumed these plants in life for their medicinal qualities.
His laughter fades into something quieter, and he kneels again, pulling a sprig free and handing it to me. ‘And then there’s Homer. He wove it into The Iliad. Achilles’ plant. Warrior medicine. Soldier’s Woundwort. Bloodwort. Staunchweed. Every name a testament to what it’s done for us.’
The genus Achillea honours the Achilles myth, while millefolium, meaning ‘thousand leaves’, refers to the plant’s finely divided, feathery foliage.
Insects thrum and the trill of small birds in the woodland beside this glorious garden punctuates the quiet. This land sits nestled within the boundaries of a timeless, wild landscape of a National Park. There is a creek below the hill, now beyond view as new life springs from the seedbed that survived the fires. The trees that endured reach out with vibrant growth. An energy and deep beauty rests here, and somehow the herbs and vegetables grown here vibrate with that same life.
I press the yarrow between my fingers, copying his action. ‘Bruised leaves, straight onto a wound—it stops the bleeding. Antimicrobial, tannin-rich. Worked for Achilles’ men. Worked for Crusaders. Works just as well now, when you slice your hand open fixing a fence post.’
This man is a healer whose quiet wisdom and knowledge fortifies our community in ways that words can barely convey—our crazy village of souls spread across our wild and unpredictable island landscape. And, in the years that have unfolded since that first meeting, I have learned so much from him.
A few weeks ago, we’re in his house, looking out across the wild, open stretch of land he and his partner care for. Their home sits high on the hill, looking over a vast forest. The bushland is denser now, a carpet of eucalyptus green from horizon to horizon. We’ve been pressing tinctures of herbs grown in our community. It’s work we cherish. His presence is a gift I hold dear; each week, I’m reminded of how fortunate we are to have him walking this path with us. Now we sit to plan a list of herbs we need to grow in the following season. He is still for a moment, arms folded, watching the wind move through the trees outside.
‘Yarrow’s not loud about what it does,’ he says after a long silence where the only sound around us is the breeze through the nearby forest. ‘It just gets on with it. Tough as hell. Thrives in mountains, shrugs off droughts. It was brought here by settlers, but it never needed permission—it just stayed.’
He turns to me, weighing his words. ‘That Achilles story—it’s not just about war. It’s about weakness. That one point where you’re most vulnerable. And that’s where yarrow works best. When you’re running on empty, when you’ve got nothing left but sheer bloody-mindedness, it’s there.’
Outside, the wind shifts. The land stretches on, untamed. Cherished.
‘Most of us aren’t dodging arrows, not yet. But tell me—climate collapse, political chaos, systems breaking apart—how much longer before we’re all fighting for survival in one way or another? How much longer before we’re forced to face our own Achilles’ heels?’
An eagle banks in the eddies and flows of the midday warmth. The sky is cobalt blue at the distant horizon.
He turns back to the window, his voice quieter now. ‘When that time comes, yarrow will still be there, waiting. It always has been.’
Solidarity & Soil
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.’
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This post is part of a Resilient Roots Growers Collective Series with deep gratitude for funding support from the Foundation for Rural & Regional Renewal (FRRR).
This is a beautiful description of the wonderful Yarrow. As an herbalist, it's one of my "desert island" herbs.
I particularly love this quote by the great herbalist, Dorothy Hall - “It is fitting that I finish my list of herbs with yarrow. It seems to me to typify the silent strength possessed by herbs in the healing of many ills, pulling the warmth of the sun and the welcome rain down into the soil to change by Nature’s alchemy into natural mineral, vitamins and oils in the service of man. I stand beside my yarrow clump with a feeling almost of awe. The “sacred herb” of some of the earliest cultures of man, unchanged for thousands of years, grows in my garden with the same properties now as it had then.”
Wonderful words, wonderful story. Wonderful plant and wonderful man. Thank-you Margi