Calendula: The Little Sun-Keeper of My Garden

There are flowers that simply decorate a garden, and then there are flowers that quietly become part of its household.

Calendula is one of mine.

With her crumpled golden skirts, sticky green stems, and ridiculous determination to keep blooming, Calendula officinalis is not a particularly delicate garden guest. She is bright, practical, cheerful, and generous—the sort of flower that rolls up her sleeves and asks where she is needed.

I grow calendula from seed each year, harvest her blossoms gently throughout the summer, dry them low and slow, and steep them in beautiful olive oil until the oil takes on a deep, warm glow. That infusion eventually becomes an intricate and beloved element to my Hedgerow Healers Balm recipe: a little bit of captured summer for dry, weather-worn skin.

A Flower Long Loved by Skin

Calendula is sometimes called pot marigold, although it should not be confused with the ornamental marigolds of the Tagetes family. The calendula I grow is Calendula officinalis, a member of the daisy family with a long history of use in traditional herbal preparations.

Its flower heads contain naturally occurring plant compounds, including flavonoids, carotenoids, and triterpenes. Calendula has traditionally been used in topical preparations intended to comfort and condition dry, irritated, or delicate skin. Modern research has investigated its potential anti-inflammatory and wound-supporting activity, although clinical findings remain mixed and calendula should never be treated as a replacement for appropriate medical care.

For me, calendula belongs in the category of gentle household herbs: useful, uncomplicated, and well suited to simple preparations made with patience.

It is not a miracle cure. It is a well-loved flower with a long relationship to human hands and skin—and that is lovely enough.

Growing Calendula from Seed

Calendula is wonderfully obliging from seed, which makes it an encouraging flower for new gardeners and an old reliable for those of us who have been known to forget where we planted things.

Its seeds are wonderfully peculiar: curled, knobbly little crescents that look like something a tiny woodland creature might use as claws.

Calendula prefers cooler growing weather and can be sown directly into the garden once the soil can be worked and severe frost has passed. It can also be started indoors several weeks before planting out. I cover the seeds lightly with soil, as calendula germinates best when it is not exposed to strong light.

I give my plants a sunny position, reasonably well-drained soil, and enough room for air to circulate around them. Calendula is not especially demanding, though regular water during hot, dry spells helps keep the plants productive.

Once the blossoms begin, regular picking encourages the plant to continue producing more flowers. Left entirely to her own devices, calendula will eventually concentrate her energy on forming seeds. Harvesting the open flower heads tells her, in botanical terms, that her work is not yet finished.

She usually responds by sending up another round of little suns.

Harvesting with Gentleness

I prefer to harvest calendula after the morning dew has dried but before the hottest part of the day. I choose fresh, newly opened flowers that are dry and free from damage.

The whole flower head can be used for an oil infusion—not merely the loose petals. Much of the wonderfully sticky, resinous character of calendula can be felt around the green base of the flower. After gathering for a while, my fingers are often slightly tacky and fragrant, which feels like calendula’s way of signing the harvest.

I do not strip every blossom from every plant.

Some flowers are left to mature fully so I can save their curious crescent-shaped seeds for the next summer. Others simply remain because a garden should not be emptied in the name of usefulness.

Gentle harvesting means taking what I can use while leaving the plant—and the small lives relying upon it—abundant.

Before bringing the flowers indoors, I inspect each head carefully and give any tiny inhabitants an opportunity to return to the garden. Beetles, spiders, and other miniature stowaways are excellent garden citizens, but rather less helpful in a jar of infused oil.

Drying Calendula Low and Slow

Fresh flowers contain moisture, and moisture is not a welcome guest in a long oil infusion. For this reason, I dry my calendula thoroughly before covering it with olive oil.

I arrange the flower heads in a single layer upon a baking sheet lined with baking parchment paper so that warm air can reach them from every side. Because I live in a real home rather than an enchanted drying shed—deeply inconsiderate, I know—I use my posh oven at its very lowest dehydration setting.

The key is low and slow.

I do not want to bake or brown the flowers. I want to remove their moisture gently while preserving as much of their color and character as possible. If you don't have the dehydration setting for your oven, it may be better to use a dehydrator or allow the flowers to air-dry on screens in a warm, well-ventilated place.

When using my oven, I check the flowers frequently, rotate the trays as needed, and remove them only when the flower heads feel completely dry. The petals should be crisp, and the thicker green bases should no longer feel cool, soft, or damp when gently pressed.

Drying time varies enormously depending upon the size of the flower heads, the humidity, and the accuracy of the oven. Calendula does not care for a strict timetable. She prefers that I pay attention. Here at altitude, 8,700 feet above sea-level, mine take hours to completely dehydrate.

Once dried, I allow the flowers to cool completely before placing them into a clean, dry glass jar. Any warmth trapped inside the jar can create condensation, and condensation is precisely the sort of mischief we are trying to avoid.

Infusing Calendula in Olive Oil

I use a high-quality olive oil for my calendula infusion.

Olive oil has its own long history in skin preparations, and I appreciate its richness, stability, and substance. It produces a nourishing oil that feels particularly appropriate for a hardworking salve intended for hands, elbows, heels, and other dry places.

I loosely fill a completely dry jar with dried calendula flower heads, leaving enough space for the oil to move between them. I then pour in the olive oil, making certain that every flower is thoroughly submerged.

Air pockets have a habit of hiding beneath the blossoms, so I use a clean, dry utensil to coax them out before adding a little more oil. The flowers must remain beneath the surface throughout the infusion.

Then comes the least glamorous and most essential ingredient: patience.

I keep the jar away from harsh heat and strong direct sunlight, allowing the flowers to infuse slowly for several weeks. I visit it regularly, gently turning or swirling the jar and checking that the plant material remains covered.

Over time, the olive oil becomes richly golden, as though the calendula has tucked a little summer light into it.

When the infusion is ready, I strain it carefully through fine cloth, pressing the flowers gently to recover the oil they have absorbed. The finished oil is poured into a clean, dry bottle or jar, labelled with its contents and date, and stored somewhere cool and dark until I am ready to make my Hedgerow Healers Balm.

Calendula-infused oil can  be incorporated into salves, creams, lotions, soaps, and other oil-based preparations.

From Golden Oil to Balm

To turn my calendula oil into my beloved Hedgerow Healers Balm, I gently incorporate it with beeswax, shea butter, mango butter, jojoba oil, meadowsweet foam oil, vitamin E, and my own blend of essential oils. The beeswax  butters and oils gives the finished preparation its protective texture and transforms the liquid oil into something that can be carried in a tin, tucked beside the garden sink, or kept close through the dry Colorado seasons.

The firmness can be adjusted by changing the proportion of beeswax. More beeswax creates a firmer balm; less makes a softer, more easily spreadable salve.

I melt the ingredients slowly and avoid unnecessary high heat. Once everything has combined, I pour the warm balm into chilled, clean tins and leave it undisturbed until completely cool.

What began as one curled seed has now passed through soil, flower, harvest basket, drying tray, oil jar, and beeswax before reaching its final little tin.

That is what I love most about making things from plants.

The finished balm is useful, certainly, but it also carries its own biography. I know where the seeds were pressed into the earth. I remember the bees working among the orange blossoms. I remember the sticky resin on my fingertips and the trays of petals warming slowly in the kitchen.

Nothing about it is instant.

And perhaps that is part of its medicine.

A Few Sensible Calendula Cautions

Calendula is generally considered gentle when used topically, but natural does not mean universally suitable.

Anyone with an allergy to plants in the daisy or Asteraceae family—including ragweed, chrysanthemums, chamomile, and related flowers—should be particularly cautious. Patch-test a small amount of a new salve on intact skin before using it more widely.

My calendula preparations are intended as handcrafted skin-conditioning products, not as medical treatments. Balm should not be used as a substitute for professional care on deep wounds, serious burns, infected skin, unexplained rashes, or any injury requiring medical attention.

Because handmade products contain no magical exemption from spoilage, I also discard any oil or salve that develops an unusual odour, visible mould, unexpected moisture, or a significant change in texture.

Even the most folkloric apothecary must occasionally put on her sensible shoes.

A Little Sunlight Kept for Later

By the end of the growing season, calendula is often still trying to bloom through the cooling days.

Her leaves may be tired. Her stems may be untidy. The garden around her may already be turning toward autumn—but there she is, holding up another small orange sun.

I gather what I need, leave what I can, and save a crooked handful of seeds for spring.

Months later, when snow has covered the beds and summer feels almost imaginary, I can open a tin of calendula salve and find the garden waiting inside it: olive oil, beeswax, golden petals, patient hands, and a little sunlight kept for later.

From seed to skin, calendula reminds me that the gentlest work is often the work done slowly.