Healing traditions in Lithuania
The morning after my flight I step out on the dark soil, recently showered by warm July rains. I ignore the mosquitos trying - and succeeding - to bite me, as I observe abundant bunches of bright orange blooms exploding in the garden. Calendula blooms in mid-summer, but delivers its benefits much later in the year. So I pluck the blooms, still housing some drops from the rain earlier, and put them in a blue plastic bucket. Bloom by bloom, the bucket fills up, as my fingers get covered up with sticky flower sap, that smells mildly of honey. I carry the bucket indoors, and lay the plucked blooms on a paper-lined table. In a week or two, they will be dry enough to be stored away in paper bags, and to be encountered again in winter, to treat inflammation.
Similar rituals accompany other plants, some - even more adventurous. Linden blossoms are said to treat fever. And linden blossoms, naturally, grow on linden trees. So to gather these, it's not enough to venture into a garden, you got to climb a tree. There is an old linden tree by the river, and some of its branches are low enough to reach. Yet climbing allows to gather more blossoms. And more fun. Then there is thyme, which often hides in the high grasses of meadows, or among the forest moss. It is said to treat sore throats and colds. Pick, dry, store. An ongoing ritual.
Summer is not only there to heal you in winter - it provides you with ways to prevent ailments in the first place. So we venture into the forest to look for wild strawberries in June, wild blueberries in July, and raspberries closer to August. Foraging also graciously creates conditions for catching sunlight, and hence getting equipped not only with vitamins and minerals from the berries, but also improved immunity from the sunshine blessing our skin. Rain is soon to come, so sunshine can be appreciated without much worry of overdoing it.
In fact, forest air in itself is believed to be therapeutic, the trees breathing together with the forest explorers, the birds chirping the thoughts away, the distracting smells of berries, leaves and mushrooms gently nudging us into focus. Seaside air has similar reputation, especially since Lithuanian seaside is lined with pine trees, their smell mixing in with salty drops of sea water, carried by adventurous sea winds. Autumn colours the seaside with a completely different palette - the bright noisy colours removed, the soft brown and grey hues dominate, with a touch of mossy pine green and deep sea blue. Once summer season quiets down, and September settles in, you can walk around just breathing in the healing air, or, going one step further, focusing on the weeds at the line where the waves crash onto a shore. The seaweeds sometimes have drops of amber tangled up in them, and trying to spot it can become a deeply relaxing and invigorating game on its own. Then you pick them up, dry them from the seawater, and, well, store them. Same formula.
Of course, viruses exist despite the comforting air of a forest or a seaside, and by October the dried summer herbs turn into teas that are there to alleviate unfortunate ailments. The dried blooms are sprinkled into a tea pot, boiling water is poured on them, and they sit together for a while, with a slice of lemon and a generous teaspoon of honey concluding the tea ritual. I actually don't know any Lithuanians who buy their honey at the store - now, they must exist, as honey in the stores exists, and the supply and demand logic should be upheld somehow. But mostly, everyone knows someone who knows someone who has bees - and sells or gifts honey as a result. The beekeeping is an ancient art and a respected hobby, in fact, a Lithuanian word for a friend is derived from the same root as a bee. The person of bees - a friend. Bees are appreciated. So honey tends to be homemade and unheated, hence crystallising easily as autumn approaches winter. In July, we drizzle fresh honey down on slices of fresh cheese. In November, we scoop it with a spoon, allowing it to slowly melt in a cup of thyme tea.
Soon, winter comes. Winter always comes. And then the teas may no longer suffice, and the heavy artillery comes into play. We soak our feet in hot water, put on woollen socks, knitted during autumn or years ago by our grandmas, and we drink milk with honey before going to sleep. If we get truly sick, we stay in bed and hibernate away, in a way embodying the winter itself.
December is also a time of Advent, and therefore, a time of stillness, of quit anticipation. Which has its own role in the cycle of healing rituals - as the abundance of autumn harvest dies down, as the amount of farm work dies down, you go indoor, and you go within. Now, I'm talking about the olden days, a hundred - or a couple of hundreds - years ago. These days, while most people tend to cosy up inside their homes in December, not as many may cosy up inside their minds, let alone something much more etherial than that. And yet that space - provided by a lack of leaves on the trees, a lack of colours in the meadow, a lack of food in the pantry - does not have to be immediately filled, and the Advent time, the old, Solstice-awaiting ritual, was all about honouring this space. So that it could explode into the celebration as Solstice arrives and settles in - and the days finally start to get longer. And the darkness finally starts to shrink.
I mention it, because that rhythm, that tradition may contribute to the peace of mind and body. There's a waving nature of reality - not a constant abundance, but rather, abstaining and feasting. There's honouring the plenty of autumn and the bareness of winter. No need to fill in the gaps. In this light, spring is very much awaited, as a renewal and rebirth, both literal and symbolical. The colds and fevers may become a bit less threatening with sunshine getting warmer, albeit still shy. So we get braver as well, swimming in icy streams, going back to the forests to look for the very first violets, before there's a hint of green on the forest floor, just the brown pine needles uncovered by the melted snow. But for now there is no need for bright greenery or intense sun, as icy water shocks me into my body, and so, into living in it, rather than limiting my home just to my mind. The violets act as a reminder of the colourful, more abundant days ahead. Sometimes the promise is just as beautiful as the gift awaiting.
And so the cycle goes. We have a pact with forests and meadows, and they steadily hold their end of the deal. And so does the sun, and the rain. And the axis of the Earth itself, which is still tilted, and therefore, the seasons still change from one to another, unavoidably, inevitably. Thankfully, they do. In a healing way.
