Rosemary and the Breath of Grace

Today was an odd day for me. I recently left my job—only at the beginning of this week. I was kind of a staple there. Not to brag, but I was a big deal, lol. I had to go back today to return a balloon arch I had borrowed last Easter. ADHD and borrowing things are an oxymoron—once I’ve used it, it disappears from my mind. Object permanence? I don’t know her. But walking in felt strange. Something you had so much metaphorical ownership of for two years is no longer yours. It’s odd to stand in a place that remembers you, but no longer belongs to you. Maybe that was the beginning of the Spirit working something new—making space where something used to live. My actual task for the day was an oil change. The nursing home was just on the way, but that detour gave me time to think—about the heaviness I’ve been feeling, the news that people could go hungry in November, the whispers of ICE activity in Springfield. It’s been sitting in my chest all week. I came home wrestling with it, unable to name what I felt—indifferent, maybe, but only because my heart cared so deeply it needed a breath before breaking. So I decided to take a bath. And if I’m having a bath, I’m having tea. I went to my herbs with no plan, no recipe—just what felt right in the moment. I reached for mint marigold first. I wish I could describe its smell—somewhere between fruity and floral, familiar but hard to name. I added linden flower next; I love the taste, but also how its pale blossoms look against the mortar, rustic and soft. A bit of eucalyptus for clearing, some ginger for warmth.

Then—rosemary.

We’re drying a fresh batch right now, and the scent fills the house. I don’t know that I’ve ever been drawn to rosemary before. I’ve used it in things, sure, but never as a main note. I honestly couldn’t have told you what it tasted like on its own. But something in me wanted it—almost needed it. I hesitated, worried Thomas might be saving it for something else, but the pull was too strong.

So I gave in.

And what came out of that teabag was bright, sharp, peppery—alive. It was the kind of cup that cuts through the fog in your mind. I took it with me into the bath, let the scent of steam and rosemary rise together. I didn’t think much of it beyond how good it felt to breathe again. But even after my bath, rosemary stayed with me. I washed dishes, and it was still on my heart. That pull, that scent, that feeling of clarity. It was as if something had spoken, and I was only just beginning to hear what it said. So, I sat down and decided to read about it. What I found stopped me in my tracks. Rosemary, I learned, has been known for centuries to awaken the body and mind. Its volatile oils—cineole, camphor, borneol—stimulate focus and alertness. It improves blood flow, especially to the brain. It supports digestion and helps move what’s stagnant. It opens the lungs when inhaled, clearing the heaviness from both airways and thoughts.

It wakes things up.
It wakes the mind to think again.
It wakes the lungs to breathe again.
It wakes the heart to feel again.
It wakes the soul to remember who it is.

And then I saw it—remembrance.

Centuries before anyone knew rosemary’s chemistry, people were already calling it the herb of memory. “There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance,” says Ophelia in Hamlet. Sprigs of it were carried by mourners, laid on graves, burned in homes to honor those who had gone and to remind the living of truth. That made sense in a way that went deeper than logic. Today, I had gone back to a place that is, in some way, “dead” to me now. Maybe rosemary called me to slow down and mourn—to come to the grave of what was, to remember what mattered, and to move on carrying its lessons instead of its weight. I kept reading. Rosemary, it turns out, is associated with the Sun—life-giving, truth-revealing, just. Its light burns away illusion. Truth is powerful; someone once said, “They will know the truth, and the truth will set them free.” (Yes, that someone was Jesus.) And maybe rosemary was the Spirit’s way of reminding me of that—reminding me that truth and light are still stronger than cruelty and apathy. And the symbolism didn’t stop there. In Christian mysticism, rosemary is linked to the Holy Spirit—breath, wind, wisdom. Across other traditions it’s the same breath, the same energy, the same life-force with different names: Ruach, Chi, Prana. The same pulse that moves through creation, that whispers, wake up, remember, breathe. I started to understand that rosemary’s real work—its spiritual work—is recall. To call back what we’ve forgotten. To re-member what’s been torn apart. To breathe life into the places that have gone numb. And that realization is what turned the whole day into something sacramental. Because now, looking back, I can see it clearly. That cup of rosemary tea—the one I made without thinking, the one that just “felt right”—was grace. Not a formal, liturgical grace, but the kind that slips into the ordinary when Spirit meets you where you are. That tea was a quiet communion, a holy pause. Water, leaf, heat, and breath, coming together as a small act of renewal. Grace poured through an ordinary cup.

I didn’t bless it, but it blessed me. 

Through rosemary, the Spirit invited me to pause and remember: that I am not indifferent, that I am capable of love even when I feel numb, that I am called to truth. The truth that no one should go hungry. The truth that all are welcome at the table. The truth that if it isn’t good news to the least of these, then it isn’t good news at all. The rosemary reminded me that the world is still full of holiness—quiet, fragrant, steady—and that all creation is indeed sacramental. Because grace met me today, not in church, but in a bath, in a teacup, in the scent of rosemary rising with the steam. And maybe that’s how the Spirit speaks most clearly—through the ordinary things that wake us up again.