I made lists of meanings and astrological correspondences but now that I’m in the store I feel lost.
There are so many shelves and faced with all the ingredients in separate jars and bottles I’m instantly overwhelmed trying to remember how they’re supposed to be combined and what everything means and what it is I need.
And I don’t really know what it is that I need so I stare at the faded label on a jar of white sage and try not to cry.
The shopkeeper, a tall guy with cobalt blue dreadlocks and a nice smile, asks me if I’m okay and I manage a nod.
I expect him to ask me what I’m looking for so I try to come up with a proper answer. Protection, maybe. Or revenge.
But he doesn’t ask, he just offers me a cup of yerba mate tea with lemongrass and suddenly we’re talking about how tea tastes better when served in proper cups rather than paper ones and discussing literature and cinnamon and fate.
I don’t end up buying anything, he won’t even let me pay for the tea.
As I’m leaving he gives me a single violet from a pot on the windowsill and tells me that living well is the best revenge.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.