“The sadness sits heavily in my chest“, I say with a sigh, sinking into a soft armchair.
With her heart sparkling with empathy, she looks at me, touches my hand affectionately and listens to my story.
She doesn’t say much. She is just there, present, focused on the rambling that comes out of my mouth, listening, witnessing, and seeing me.
“Wait,” she says warmly when I finish and disappears into the kitchen.
After a short while, she returns with a tray, on which she brings a little red teapot and two matching tea bowls.
“There,” she says, passing one of them to me, “Close your eyes, inhale its scent for a moment, and then take a sip. Let the tea sit on your tongue for a few seconds before you swallow it.“
I follow the instructions. The brew smells heavenly, sweet and serene. As soon as the delicate wisp of tea steam reaches my nose, I find myself on a dirt path.
The delicate, nearly see-through mist drifts across the meadow, lifting unhurriedly and letting the golden light of dawn illuminate the dew-soaked grass. The wildflowers turn their heads lazily towards the sky as they seek the warmth of the first sun’s rays. I can imagine her entering this pristine temple of nature with a wicker basket in her hand and creeping carefully among cornflowers, poppies, daisies and buttercups, stopping from time to time to admire their beauty or to observe the bees sticking their pollen-covered bums out of the flower heads. I see her looking up to watch fluffy clouds travelling through the sky. She will tell me later she saw them shapeshifting into rabbits or mice. She smiles as she takes a deep breath, inhaling the fresh early summer air.
She leaves the meadow and continues her walk down the dirt path. What are those shimmering pink crystals in the hedgerow? She has to go and find out, so like a graceful cat, she tiptoes towards them. As she gets closer, she discovers the most magnificent wild rose bush she has ever seen. Its sweet perfume fills the air.
“Good morning, Sister. Could I collect some of your lovely petals, please?” she murmurs respectfully, her nose touching one of the flowers gently; then she closes her eyes and stands still, listening carefully to the birdsong, blending with the closeby birches’ whispers, the rustles of the grass, and the drum of her heartbeat. She lets the sounds and the scents hug her soul and wash away all the worries she woke up with this morning.
“Yes…” comes the barely hearable consent, and she opens her eyes.
“Thank you for your kind offering, Sister,” she says and bows her head, hands pressed together at her chest, then carefully picks up a few petals and puts them into her basket.
Feeling honoured and relaxed, she comes back home. In her rustic kitchen, she removes the rose petals from the wicker basket and spreads them over a linen towel. There they stay for a couple of days, warm and cosy. She separates them into mason jars when they are dried and ready. Content, she places them on the shelf next to other mason jars containing various blends of herbal teas.
I can feel her calmness, the simple joy of the ritual she loves so much.
I take a sip and feel all my worries; all sadness wash away with the golden brew. With every sip, I welcome the tranquillity flowing into my body. For a moment, I forget all my sorrows.
Touch, I sense her squeezing my hand – love, understanding and support travel over the invisible bridge that forms between us. We exchange smiles. Drinking our rose teas, we enjoy each other’s company and the silence – the timeless connection between two souls.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Not at all! It is how magic works,” she says with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
In the hedgerow, two new rose flowers come to life.