🌿 The Fire of Clove
Sometimes, the smallest thing can remind you how alive the world really is.
A few days ago, my dad suggested I try something simple for my stuffed sinuses — clove.
Just a single dried bud, ground and added to my water.
I didn’t think much of it at first. Clove was something I associated with spice blends, mulled cider, or the warm edge of a winter kitchen — not medicine. But I tried it anyway.
The effect was immediate.
A flash of warmth, a sharp fire across the tongue, and then a clearing — as if a cold window had been opened in a stuffy room. My breath came easier, my head lighter. It was almost startling how quickly something so small, so ancient, could bring that kind of relief.
I found myself thinking about the way nature hides power in the tiniest places — in buds and roots, seeds and resins — waiting patiently for us to remember.
Clove is one of those reminders.
It’s antiseptic, aromatic, and full of vitality. I learned later from reading that for centuries it’s been used not only for flavor, but for healing — to soothe toothaches, to warm the blood, to stir circulation. The very same spice that perfumes a holiday roast can also wake the senses and bring you back to yourself.
I think that’s what I love most about living closer to the land — these moments where something simple bridges the gap between nourishment and medicine. A spice becomes a remedy. A conversation with my dad becomes a lesson in ancestral knowledge.
And once again, I’m reminded that healing doesn’t always come from what’s new. Sometimes, it comes from what’s been here all along — waiting quietly in the kitchen cupboard.
“He causeth the grass to grow for the cattle, and herb for the service of man:
that he may bring forth food out of the earth.”
— Psalm 104:14 (KJV)