My good friend Nettle tells me that those who have mugwort growing by their doors are witches. If this is so, Yowsa! I'm a witch!
Mugwort is practically all that is growing in my garden these days. I have to beat it back with a stick. It threatens even my precious bloodroots, dear little Appalachian replants like myself.
This is the interesting part. When I moved to my house, the back yard was not Mugwort Heaven. Mugwort only started appearing in quantities about six years ago -- at the time when I began to question all the answers. So I think Nettle must be right. The bored gods moved in, recognized that I was going to bang a gong for them, and populated my garden with the correct plant.
I only pull it up around the bloodroot. Otherwise, mugwort rules. The leaves are pretty, and it is definitely a plant that doesn't need much sunshine to thrive.
When I get a minute, I want to ask you, my dear readers, about the new ghost in my house. But that will have to wait. There's cat hair on the upholstery, and nothing is more important than returning my chintz to its pristine state.