May , 2025

Ground Ivy

Hello dear ones,

For the Kin Story of May, I have been working with the gentle beings of the Ground Ivy. The species of this month has been chosen by Jetske Apollonia, an interdisciplinary artist. In this Kin Story, we are excited to share our process and odes to the Ground Ivy with you.

Ground Ivy (Dutch: Hondsdraf) is a plant that is always present. He is a member of the dead-nettle family with toothed leaves and violet flowers that awaken in early summer. As an herbal medicine, it is used in traditional medicine practices all over the world and has many, many different uses. For example, fresh Ground Ivy infusions are said to be supportive for the lymphatic system, but also soften the onset of specifically ear- and sinus infections. Poultices of Ground Ivy can also be used to quicken the healing of skin wounds.

Usually, when I start researching and working with a being, I tend to turn towards folk stories and mythology. It inspires me greatly to read about the ways our ancestors made sense of specific species and to let them land in my subconscious through this poetic way of understanding. It was to my surprise I was not able to find any sort of story about the ever-growing Ground Ivy and so I was invited to shape my own sense of understanding.

I have spent many moments in a Ground Ivy patch in the dunes, some of its violet flowering peaking out of the green oasis. During one particular visit, a May rain spread over the patch. The raindrops made the individual beings of the Ground Ivy dance every time a raindrop would touch one’s head and cause it to sway back and forth. On another day, when the wind accompanied me while visiting the patch, I observed how the patch would sway as one, in contrast to the way the raindrops made their individuality more prominent. And on another sunny day, without any wind or skywater, the patch was resting in full silence - leaving plenty of space for the local birds to be fully heard.

In May, I was also halfway through the book ’The Fruitful Darkness’ by Joan Halifax. One paragraph greatly inspired my ode for the Ground Ivy. It gave a deeper sense of understanding to my desire to hum gentle melodies every time I rested in his presence. Through song, I felt myself melting into the moment and into the community of the Ground Ivy patch. Halifax refers to the song that runs through all beings as a collective ‘Holy Wind’.

She writes: “According to the Dineh (Indigenous people of the Southwestern United States) it is through this Holy Wind that the world came into being. For from the Wind came the Word. The vibrations of words solidified into phenomena. Thus all things are related through the Holy Wind and the Word […] The Holy Wind has been stilled within our lives, and we live in a cultural atmosphere that does not confirm the mutuality of creation. Even when we recognise our kinship and intimacy with other forms of existence, we remain mute before them. Their language has been forgotten. We are enclosed in a psychocultural cocoon; the outer world no longer flows into our being. Those voices remain unheard, and we are unable to speak in response. The winds of communication with creation are dying. Yet Earth and language meet and metabolise in the zones of dream and visions, in story, poetry, song and prayer, and in direct communication with untamed beings.”

For my ode to the Ground Ivy, I turned the humming into song. And thus the instrumental part of my demo was born. The words to the song are my human way of translating the understanding I found for the plant. The rest is all rooted in the  non-rational way of communicating Halifax also referred to, using the medium of song as a translation for the Holy Wind that I recognised in both myself and the Ground Ivy.

Come what may

As you will

I hear your voice

Care to spill

They sing -

Fox, white dunes

They cradle my head

Save my warmth

Warm blood on my chest

And they sing -

Breathing low

Becoming the air

Path of gold

Finding you there

And we sing -

Jetske Apollonia spends a lot of time knitting outdoors, looking for herbs and snails. In her work as an interdisciplinary artist she now explores traditional textile crafts, which she playfully translates into sculptures and installations, examining our connection with the natural world. A sanctuary for sensitivity and intuition, her work is a soft space where slowness and attention are forms of resistance.

Jetske Apollonia on Ground Ivy

“Ground ivy grew abundantly in the garden of the house I stayed in earlier this year.
This house was a refuge, a safe place for me and my partner to live temporarily.
Our own home felt uninhabitable at the time, and there was no prospect yet of a new place to live.
Time passed as we looked for our new home, becoming a little hopeless.
Winter grew warmer, slowly melting away in the sun.

This drew me outside. On those early warm spring days, I sat for hours knitting in the shade, my bare feet in the grass. Recovering. Resting.

Between my feet, small familiar shapes began to sprout.
Ground-ivy. Exactly a year earlier –three moves ago– I had met them for the first time.
They had grown in the garden of my house then, too. Whenever I stepped outside, I would smell their earthy, minty scent. For the first time, I brewed tea with the stalks, savored their herbal flavor, added leaves to salads.
Until I suddenly had to move again and ground ivy and I had to say our goodbyes.

Meeting this plant again a year later, felt like coming home. A home within myself; the part of me that seeks peace, that lives through small rituals –picking herbs, brewing tea, burning incense.
That part had been somewhat forgotten after a year of moving from house to house. I think I need solid ground beneath my feet to let that side of me unfold.

They presented themselves so clearly, that I had to propose to Shanna that we would dedicate the month of may to ground-ivy.
Not yet knowing that another move would take place within a few weeks.

My intentions, the things I had so looked forward to –to dive into the world of ground-ivy, to experiment and play– there was no room for it at this time. My head was swirling with all that comes with moving, practical and emotional.
Still, they lingered in the back of my head. I kept smelling and sensing them when I was in the garden. But I never took the next step.

Now I live in a new house. Less temporary, surrounded by greenery; the woods wait for me around the corner of our street.
All sorts of weeds grow in the meadow surrounding the small house: chicory, yarrow, plantain, self-heal, clover–
But no ground-ivy.

No matter how close to nature I felt now, ground-ivy was far away.

A few days ago, my love gave me a belated birthday gift.
We went on a wild foraging walk, and my inner plant nerd went wild. She was so happy.
Halfway through, the guide gave us a challenge: collect all the plants around you that you think are edible. Then she’d judge whether we’d survive as a group (which of course we didn’t).

The first plant I saw was ground-ivy. We were reunited at last.

The few sprigs I picked that day are lying beside me as I type this. They're still keeping me company, now dried and a little withered.

Since the walk, five days ago, I’ve been hooked on learning about plants –their healing properties, where and how they grow, which are poisonous and which aren’t, and how to prepare them.
I immediately borrowed five books from the library on the topic and I’ve listened to interviews  with herbalists or foraging experts almost every day.”

“This part of me, the one who wants to play with plants, to explore ritual and the natural world –she’s back.
Maybe she’s a witch, I’m not sure yet.
But I think she’s here to stay.”