GOOD MEDICINE
We pull into the parking lot under the large letters on the orange background proclaiming that we’ve arrived at our hardware store that has everything we need. Here we are again. It is our “go-to” store. You need it? They have it. If you can’t find it there’s a friendly person wearing that ubiquitous apron (well, it is ubiquitous in that store!) to help you find it. If you don’t know how to do it, he or she will explain it, and even use language you can understand.
I am pleased we are here again. My husband needs to fix something again, or he has some bright idea that needs a few bits and pieces to make it happen. He wanders off down the plumbing aisle. “See you at the plants when you’re done!” I say.
Then I slow my pace, take deep, slow breaths and amble down to the other end of the store. This is where the busy (get it done!) side of my brain takes a rest. It is time to take in some medicine.
In summer the plants are outside, but even in winter there are plenty of tropicals to feast my eyes upon inside. This is a time to fill up on hope. Yes, I know the toilet doesn’t flush properly, and we need to fix it, but this is a time to wonder at existence. I do not know how I got to be in this world; I just know I am here and I wonder at the wonder of being.
Tight buds enclosed in green sepals hold a package of beauty. This is medicine for the broken heart. The hurt of a ragged relationship can be overwhelming, the disappointment of dashed hopes can plunge a person into despair, and graphic scenes from newscasts can wrench the gut. But beauty is on this planet. I pick up some brown bulbs, dead papery covers peeling off, and gaze at the illustration on the package of the flower it will produce. A small azalea bush in an eight-inch pot is a mass of buds and one or two have opened up into pom-poms of brilliant red. I can take these images wherever I go and treasure them as I sleep tonight.
Time doesn’t matter. Tasks are forgotten.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” The voice over my shoulder is my husband’s voice.
He’s ready for the check out now. “We can buy it if you like,” he says.
“No,” I said. “Thank you, though. I just like to come and look.”
I have received my medicine. I have hope. I have experienced wonder. I have drunk deeply of beauty. I am replenished so that whatever this life brings I know beauty will revive me – beauty that leads to the ineffable beauty of eternity.
by Andrea Kidd
