In the Book of Revelation, a star called Wormwood falls from heaven and poisons a third of the earth's waters — a passage so vivid it lodged the plant's name permanently in the Western imagination as a symbol of catastrophic bitterness. The name in Greek is apsinthos, from which absinthe derives, and the image of a fallen, corrupting star has shadowed the herb ever since.
Greek mythology offers a counterpoint. Artemis, goddess of the hunt and wild places, was said to have gifted wormwood to the centaur Chiron, who passed it along to human healers. In this telling, the herb is not a poison but a transmitter of divine knowledge — a plant whose bitterness is inseparable from its power to clarify and restore.
In Central European and Slavic folk tradition, Wormwood was among the herbs blessed on the Feast of the Assumption of Mary (August 15th), when bundles of medicinal plants were brought to church for consecration. This blending of pre-Christian herbal reverence with Catholic ritual is a quietly fascinating example of how plant traditions survive by adapting — the herb changes its liturgical coat but keeps its essential role as protector and purifier.
Alchemists regarded Wormwood as a plant of Saturn — cold, dry, austere, governing boundaries, time, and the confrontation with what is difficult. To work with Wormwood was to work with what you had been avoiding. That framing, whether or not one takes it literally, captures something true about the herb's character: it does not flatter. It clarifies.