Medicine
Dear Crew,
For a long time, I believed that generosity meant giving away a lot.
A jar of jam. Some homemade oil. A small bottle of Agua Florida. A bundle of incense. A special syrup. An idea. My time.
I enjoyed it.
Until, at some point, I realized that some gifts had never been unwrapped. They were just sitting on the shelf.
"What is this for again?"
"I'm saving that for a special occasion."
Months later, that special occasion still hadn't come. And eventually, the oil went rancid. The herbs wilted. The scent faded.
Because no one had used them.
Ever since then, I've thought differently about medicine.
Medicine isn't something that's meant to be put away. It's meant to work.
A bundle of incense wants to burn. A syrup wants to be drunk. A fragrance wants to touch the skin. A hug wants to be felt. A song wants to be heard. Love wants to be lived.
Everything else is a promise for later.
Today I find myself wondering: Will the gift I want to give even end up in the right place? Is there a place for it? Will it be used? Or will it disappear into a drawer, along with all the things that were supposed to be important someday?
I think many of us grew up with the idea that special things need to be treated with care.
The fine china. The beautiful candle. The expensive perfume. The special wine.
They wait. And wait. And sometimes their lives end right there. Unused.
Perhaps the biggest misconception is that we believe valuable things become more valuable when we preserve them.
I’ve come to believe the opposite. Something becomes valuable when it becomes part of our lives—when the candle burns down, when the perfume runs out, when the medicine is used up.
I take my medicine today without fear. Not because it’s optional, but because I know that the cycle continues.
The year brings new plants. New blossoms. New scents. New harvests. Once again, things are being stirred. Dried. Bundled.
What is used up today makes room for what wants to emerge tomorrow.
Perhaps this doesn't apply only to wild herbs. Perhaps it applies to our time as well. Our attention. Our creativity. Our love.
They don't become more valuable when we hold onto them. They become valuable when they are allowed to make a difference where they are appreciated.
And sometimes, love also means not giving something away . Not out of stinginess, but out of respect—for what it represents, and for the people who will truly make use of it.
With love and a handful of flowers,
Jeannette
