Hello friends,
In 2016 I decided to become a professional herbalist. I enjoyed creating formulas and interacting with the plants. My teas tasted delicious yet were also practical. They relieved stress and menstrual symptoms. They lulled you to sleep. I called my business Mystic Sister—mainly because I’m a sucker for a good slant rhyme. I registered my business with the state and paid my taxes like a responsible citizen. Mason jars full of herbs decorated my shelves. I flexed what minimal design muscles I had to create a logo and labels that represented what I was trying to do. I was trying to help people, and for a time, I succeeded.
Then, a couple of years later, I was diagnosed with MS. Fatigue became the defining characteristic of my life. I shut down my business, too tired to spend all day crafting recipes and shipping goods to customers. All the herbs I’d bought in bulk now sat on those same shelves as nothing more than decoration. I kept them because I figured I’d still make teas and whatnot for myself, my family, and friends. But those jars remained as full as ever.
This year, my brother moved back home. I had been using his old bedroom as my office/storage space. In addition to the mason jars, rolls of old labels and unused shipping boxes sat gathering dust. I threw the labels away and tossed the boxes in the recycling. Marie Kondo would have been proud. Relinquishing the past felt pleasing, but I kept the herbs. I moved them to the room next door, my dad’s office, where they took up most of the floor space. For months they sat there as I deluded myself into thinking I would still use them one day. But that day was yesterday, and yesterday is gone.
Today (months after my brother, Jonah, moved home), I threw out all those herbs. I filled the recycling with glass jars and tin lids. I made the trip from my dad’s office out to the bins so many times I lost count. A floral, minty, bitter, sweet scent filled the summer air as I poured the herbs into the trash. Even as I rid myself of that old life, it had one more gift to give me.
It’s a funny thing to throw away the life you dreamed of. I kept all those things for so long because I wanted to believe they were still a part of me. I needed to feel that I could still be that person, that I hadn’t wasted all that time. But the thing about dreams is that they always end. They end, and you wake up and begin a new day. Letting go of that dream, I realized it was never really mine. I saw so many women becoming healers and guides and businesswomen, and I wanted to be like them. I needed to try out that life before I realized it wasn’t for me. My medicines are stories. I heal by weaving tales.
Those years in the past weren’t wasted because now they exist as this story. Releasing the material reminders of a life no longer my own was difficult. But now that they’re gone, so is the weight of them. Dozens and dozens of jars, filled to the brim, smothered my present like they smothered my dad’s office floor. They sat waiting, pleading, begging to be of use. Now, six years later, their use comes in their release.
Who were you in a past life? How is your life different now than you expected it to be? Let’s talk about letting go and starting over.
Until next time,
Yardena
Weekend Potpourri
This loving letter from daughter to mother feels like something I could have written to my own mom
Wynton Bernard spent ten years in the minors. Last night he made his MLB debut. Here he is telling his mom he’s headed to the Major Leagues. And here’s his first hit and trip around the bases. Try not to cry; I dare you.
Based Angolan elephants
Here’s a short story from Joyce Carol Oates about life, death, and the heat of summer