Leisha Alfalfa has always struck me as a bridge between the earth and the body, a plant that works as hard beneath the soil as it does within our cells.
When I walk through my gardens scattered with alfalfa plants, I see the familiar green leaves and tender stalks that the northern farmers cut for hay or sprouting seeds for our tables which is so easy to do. Alfalfa Sprouts
But what I do not see is what astonishes me most. Beneath my feet, alfalfa sends roots down, deeper and deeper, sometimes stretching more than fifteen meters below the surface. Seriously, they can go down that deep.
These roots penetrate layers of rock and compacted clay that most plants never reach. They tap into mineral reserves locked away far below, bringing them upward, transforming what was once inaccessible into food for life above ground. In this way alfalfa is not just a crop but a medicine for the soil, a natural miner that restores vitality to land worn thin.
Farmers have long planted alfalfa not only for forage but to heal their fields. Those roots break up hardpan, allowing air and water to circulate. The nodules on its roots host bacteria that fix nitrogen, adding fertility to the soil. Where once there was tired earth, alfalfa returns vigor. It is no surprise that regenerative farmers and soil stewards rely on it to rebuild. It does not merely feed the animals that graze it, it feeds the ground itself.
In this sense alfalfa is a true alchemist of the land, converting stone and subsoil into nourishment, opening pathways for microbes, loosening what was compacted, and leaving behind a soil richer and more alive.
The same qualities that make alfalfa medicine for soil make it medicine for humans. When we eat young alfalfa sprouts or drink a tea of its leaves, we are receiving a concentrated distillation of minerals gathered from deep within the earth. Calcium, magnesium, phosphorus, potassium, iron, zinc, selenium, and trace elements often lacking in cultivated crops all appear in its tissues. It is as though the plant carries the memory of stone, offering us the mineral wealth of geological time in a form our bodies can absorb. No wonder it has been used for centuries as a tonic for strength and recovery. To consume alfalfa is to drink from the depths of the soil itself.
In my practice I have offered alfalfa to those weakened by illness, to women after childbirth, to elders losing vitality. The effect is gentle but steady, a gradual restoration of mineral balance. Its high chlorophyll content cleanses the blood, supporting the liver and intestines, while the minerals strengthen bones, teeth, and connective tissue.
I think of it as a green infusion of sunlight and stone, a food that nourishes both body and spirit. For people who live on refined foods and shallow-rooted crops, alfalfa brings what is missing. It offers back the richness that industrial agriculture has stripped from our diets.
I often pause at the metaphor hidden here. We too need to send our roots deep, beyond the surface distractions, into the hidden layers of ourselves and of the earth. Only then can we draw up the minerals of wisdom and resilience that sustain us. Alfalfa shows us how. It does not remain on the surface, content with what is easy. It pushes down relentlessly until it touches the old stones, the ancient layers, and it drinks. Then it shares those gifts freely with animals, with soil, with us. It is a teacher of perseverance and generosity.
Harvesting alfalfa is easy because it grows abundantly anywhere. I should have included it my Wild Plants Herb Book – next edition!
The young leaves and tops can be dried for tea or powdered for supplements. The seeds can be sprouted for crisp, living food full of enzymes. In the soil it can be mown and turned in as green manure, enriching the field for the crops that follow. Each form carries the essence of its deep roots. Whether you are a farmer replenishing soil fertility, a healer offering nourishment, or a gardener watching sprouts unfurl on a windowsill, you are partaking in the mineral cycle that begins far underground.
I believe alfalfa will become increasingly important in times ahead, not only as a forage crop but as a reminder of how life connects from stone to soil to seed to body. In its humble stems and trifoliate leaves lies a story of renewal. It gathers from the depths, it shares without hesitation, and it heals both earth and human. When I taste the green bitterness of alfalfa tea I taste more than a plant, I taste the memory of mountains eroded into soil, of rain carrying minerals into cracks, of roots drawing them upward, and of the body gratefully receiving what only the earth could give.
