juliette of the herbs

All my life, I've been fascinated with strong, creative, free-spirited souls--independent and inspired individuals who made their lives and work according to their own lights.  In doing so, they usually defied conventional social expectations.  Most of my creative heroes are writers and artists, although I admire anyone who is brave and resourceful enough to forge their own wild, weird, and wonderful path.  

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An important part of this blog's mission is to honor the creatixes who've eschewed the expected and orthodox route to do something original and creative with their time on Mother Earth.  Although I've many inspiring muses in mind, the first I'll profile here is wise woman and wanderer, Juliette de Baïracli Levy.  She was known primarily as an herbalist and author, but her adventurous life fascinates beyond students of the plant mysteries.

Juliette was born in England to Jewish parents in 1912. Her father was from Turkey, and her mother was Egyptian. Her family was quite wealthy, and her early life included private schools and chauffeurs, but Juliette would grow up to turn her back on her privileged upbringing. How's that for a proper Bohemian beginning in life?

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Juliette always loved animals--and was distressed how her childhood pets frequently sickened and died, but veterinarians couldn't seem to help.  She determined to become a vet herself, and studied veterinary medicine in Manchester and Liverpool.  However, she was disappointed with modern medicine's ability to heal her animals, and after two years dropped out.  Soon, she became enthralled with the possibilities of herbal medicine, and inspired by Matthew Arnold's famous poem, The Scholar Gipsy, took off to wander the world, learning healing from people still close to the land, notably the Gypsies.  One needn't imagine what her parents had to say about her leaving school for that reason.

(Note: usage of the term 'Gypsies' is controversial, but I use it here because it is what Juliette used.) 

Juliette's wanderlust led her to many countries: among them were France, Spain, Turkey, Tunisia, Israel, Greece, and Mexico. She always preferred to travel by sea, managing to bring various animal companions with her, including goats, owls, and her beloved Afghan hounds. She lived simply--sometimes camping happily in ruined cottages and caves--and always planted a garden wherever she journeyed. She would eventually bring her children along, and with the knowledge gained through her travels, raised them to be natural and hardy. She made many friends on the way, including fellow bohemians, Helen and Scott Nearing, and  became accepted as a family member among Gypsies, Berbers, and Arabs.

Juliette was renown for her knowledge and healing skills, and wrote many books on herbal medicine--recording for posterity the fast-disappearing ancient lore. She also pioneered the field of veterinary herbalism, writing some of the first books on natural care for dogs, cats, horses, goats, and other creatures. Her books are revered by all modern herbalists. 

Like most free spirits, she also loved poetry, and published several volumes of her verse, as well as at least two novels.  I haven't gotten my hands on any of these, as they are collector's items, so can't comment on them specifically.  However, her herb books and her fascinating travelogues have been re-published thanks to Ash Tree Publishing.  They've taken old, out-of-print, and hard to find volumes and made them accessible today for curious and thoughtful readers.  Juliette wrote in an accessible, conversational style that makes you feel you are sitting with her in the garden sharing a cup of tea. I heartily recommend them.

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Juliette of the Herbs is a wonderful documentary about her life, made when she was in her elder years.  I am grateful to the makers of the film for capturing the story of his remarkable being--but also for recording her natural voice, which is so gentle, rich and unaffected.  I watch this film whenever I am low, and requiring some inspiration from a wise elder. It was once available free on-line at Vimeo, but no longer is as of this update.  Clips are posted on youtube, and the DVD itself is for sale at Amazon.  I recommend buying your own copy if you can, and supporting the team that worked hard to bring it to us.

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When listening to Juliette speak, I'm often reminded of the wise voice of another revered Bohemian elder, Tasha Tudor.  I don't know if these two expert plantswomen ever met, although they were close in age, and Juliette traveled to New England when Tudor was still alive. It amuses me to think what these two fiercely independent, creative, and nature-revering women--both Titanesses in my imagination--would talk about, given the opportunity.

After living happily on the Greek island of Kythira near Crete (the rustic abode depicted in the documentary) Juliette moved to Switzerland, where she passed away in 2009 at the age of ninety-six.  She had lived an unusually full, free, and colorful life--one that is hard to imagine living today.  Juliette de Baïracli Levy  continues to inspire me, teach me, and encourage me to blaze my own unconventional path.  She is a favorite muse in my own private circle of elders.  Is she one of yours, too?

A lovely memorial by another great-souled Bohemian can be found at aliciabaylaurel.com.

la petite mélancolie

Although I originate from a family of depressives, I've always fiercely resisted that identity.

I was not, I was determined to believe--constitutionally depressed so much as situationally so. To that end, I've striven to live my life as such: I own I have a naturally happy disposition.

 

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Childhood photos of me bear witness to this fact. Photos with my family often depict me as a rosy cherub, beaming at the camera. My melancholic kindred are downcast. They look away from the lens. Or regard it with sullen forbearance. Of course, my siblings regarded me as retarded. My cheerfulness clearly marked me as having a membership amongst the intellectually impoverished.

Depressives often develop a sort of superiority complex about their mental state. It is the more ARTISTIC state of mind. It has a rich poetic tradition. It is très BOHEMIAN. And if you were truly paying attention, were as acutely aware and deeply observant as they--then you, too would be depressed!

There is some truth to that. In psychology, the concept is known as depressive realism. In 1979, psychologists Alloy and Abramson, and in 1989 Dobson and Franche conducted two separate studies that seemed to indicate that depressed persons may have a more realistic perception of their abilities, importance in the world, and prospects in life. Which is an interesting, if depressing finding.

Although at times I've toiled like a carpenter ant to maintain my happy outlook, often I've FAILED. Miserably. When I'm free-falling into the black chasm, scrabbling to get a handhold on the edge of the bottomless pit, I am apt to wonder if I've been fooling myself all along. Perhaps I am a dismal melancholic, like the rest of my dreary tribe.

Should I just be REALISTIC? And accept my fated chemical temperament?

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I've concluded this isn't true for me. Gothic gloom may be novel at Halloween, and titillates when one is in certain moods--but it's not my permanent address, and I don't want to live there year round. Though I admire the phantastically creative Goth aesthetic, I was never tempted to adopt it as my personal style. After a while, the darkness palls and I yearn for something fresh and clear. I must wear pink, go swimming, and laugh at something hilariously witty, but not morbidly so. 

Thankfully, even when I've been at my most miserable, and worried to death I will be stuck in that mansion of despair forever, somehow I've always wriggled myself free. Even those times when I feared I was clinically depressed, in hindsight there were ALWAYS situational components to my distress. When I figure my way out, I find that my natural, happy disposition returns. As novelist William Gibson advises, 'Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, first make sure that you are not, in fact, just SURROUNDED BY ASSHOLES.' Which has often proved to be my real problem, not defective levels of serotonin or whatnot.

Now, after years of encountering such 'situational' situations, I have a bag of tricks, a Girl Scout emergency kit in which to rescue my oft-times teetering moods. Happiness repair has become one of my 'mad skills.' My mental hygiene.

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Admittedly, this current bout of melancholia I've been having has been a long slog. It has exasperated my can-do spirit, and my usual bag of tricks has come up empty. I could list my tragic losses, my woe log, my quaint best intentions, the various sucker punches dealt by the random and uncaring universe; but I shan't wallow. On the other hand, mayhap I should. I have no compunction about WALLOWING really; for wallowing (or less pejoratively, FEELING) is an essential part of the grieving process, and one must get through it to find the other side. Too often people who aren't depressed, aren't grieving, are quick to judge--and tell the besieged person to cheer up and forget. But as the old Zen masters say, that which you resist, grows stronger. 

Of course, we all know of individuals who are stuck fast in their depression, and can't or won't do something to move out. The wise person knows when it's time to cease grieving, when the noble wallowing process is finished, when to put a period at the end of purgatory, and begin a new project. Count me amongst the wise: I may be smacked down by life's giant fly swatter, but I'm resilient. I will come back. The sap is rising in my poor listless limbs, giving strength to my sword arm, or in my case, my pen. Or my keyboard. I finally feel my old happy self returning--and I am on the march toward my GLORIOUS hopes and dreams.

And even at this late time of my life, I'm still going to GET THAT PONY.

 

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 Even if it is totally UNREALISTIC.