Today I am Writing: On Valerian Root

My grad assistant and I were finishing up a semester, loaded down with draft after draft of newsletter and little tasks that needed her attention before she packed her office up and graduated. I bounded up the stairs to her office one afternoon (to ask her a question or give a direction, I don't remember now which) and was struck to find a tidal wave of semester-ending had left detritus across her desk, accompanied by a vaguely strange but overly forceful odor.

"Sorry for the mess," she said, immediately upon my arrival. We agreed it was that kind of time of year, and I was about to press on when she said, "and sorry for the smell...."

Having assumed the smell was part and parcel of the mess, I waved my hand through the air, as if to brush the comment aside. "No," she said, "really, it's this tea..."

Into my face she offered a plastic bag with a few innocent tea bags floating inside. I took a whiff, and--

Whoa. (I said.)

Whatever was in that bag had a life of its own that has long since passed on, leaving only this packet of decay. (I thought.)

"It's Valerian root," she said, explaining at length what it was all about. "I love it," she said, "but it stinks."

Turns out, Valerian root is a) a stinky but b) sedative type herb, perfect for putting one to sleep. (Why she needed such a thing at work, I did not ask.) And, since I had been struggling to sleep in recent days, she offered me one. She placed it in a plastic bag and brought it to my office, on her way out that day.

There it sat, on my desk. I left for a meeting, returned, opened my door, and--

Whoa. (I said.)

This stuff stiiiiiiiinks. (I also said.)

I put a book on top of the bag, to quell the stench.

Shortly thereafter a colleague stopped in, to sign some papers. He sat at the chair across from me, and I moved some things to give him space. Suddenly--

Whoa.

"Sorry for the smell," I said to him, concerned that he might think I was just stinky, compelled to tell him the whole story, understanding anew why my grad assistant had continued to talk until she assessed I fully understood the situation.

I took the bag home later that day, and placed it on the table by my stove, near some other tea items. For weeks, I simply looked at it, wondering if I wanted to taste the source of such disaster. The odor calmed down slightly as it sat in one place, but any time I got too close, or --whoa-- moved it, I was once again reminded of the possibility that it was simply a tiny package of downright death.

"Am I really going to drink this stuff?" I asked myself.

But last night, after a few more sleepless nights, I dove in. I boiled the water, rubbing my hands together anxiously at what I was about to do. I placed that stinky little body into my mug, where it brewed into a color somewhere between dandelions and dirt. I sniffed it, curious to find that the smell was far better than expected, pleasant even. And then I held my breath, and tasted.

It was actually, delicious.

Whoa. (I said.)

And then sleep. (I did.)