Holy Basil

This afternoon I harvested holy basil from my indoor garden and steeped it in a pot of simmering water. The steam rose slowly, fragrant and slightly sweet. I sat at the counter sipping it like this was something I’d always done.

I hadn’t meant to grow a tea garden.

The hydroponic system was supposed to be practical — super greens, tomatoes, cucumbers, fruit. Winter survival. A hedge against the slump that usually arrives when the light disappears and the days narrow. But somewhere between kale and peppers, I started tucking in tea plants. Borage. Lavender. Chamomile. Mint. Sunflowers for their petals. Now I’m researching whether ginseng or saffron can be coaxed into water and light.

I didn’t set out to become someone who harvests her own tea. It happened the way most real shifts do — quietly, without a declaration.

Holy basil came in the original kit. I didn’t choose it. It arrived. I nearly pulled it out to make room for something flashier, but it grew strong and fragrant, insisting on its place. It’s an ancient medicinal herb — calming, grounding, used for centuries to steady the nervous system and quiet the mind.

Five months ago, I might not have noticed that detail.

All winter long I’ve been surrounded by green. I didn’t sink into the usual gray. I ate salads daily. I grew stronger. Snow pressed against the windows while leaves unfurled under light. It’s hard to argue with that kind of evidence.

Transforming your life through hydroponics sounds absurd when I say it out loud.

And yet.

The basil is warm in my hands. The house smells alive. I’m drinking something I tended from seed.

I don’t know if the universe sends gifts. I don’t know if alignment is something we notice only after the fact. But I do know this plant arrived before I understood why I might need it.

I didn’t go looking for holy basil.

And here it is.