The Stinky Healer

The Stinky Healer

Incense. Is it pungent, fragrant, spiced, clogging, purifying, messy, calming? It depends on who you ask. If you had asked me at fifteen years old, I would have turned a wrinkled nose up at you, pursed my lips, and shook my head while almost gagging at the well-imagined smell in my head. A realistic thick smoke would fill my nose, tinged with a slight burning. My sister loved the stuff. If I was feeling dramatic maybe I’d throw in a fake gag for extra effect. 

Against my will, my then roommate – my angsty, artsy, depressed, seventeen-year-old sister – would light up this stinky, thin wooden stick that replaced the air with an ash you could taste. Ew. I made my dislike known, mind you. My bed covers would sometimes provide a makeshift cave temporarily free of contaminated molecules that surely would poison my lungs if there were to be prolonged exposure. As any sisters, we fought over personal preference within our shared space, the home within the home. Verbal assaults weren’t uncommon, and of course I look back with cringe and shame, but this was perhaps the most opinionated time of my life (so far), hence they needed to be known and followed, or all hell would break loose. Hell being a ‘Moooooooom,’ or maybe a ‘if you don’t snuff that out I’ll snuff it up your [redacted].’ You know, the usual. I can’t say what about incense triggered anger and disgust within my adolescent scope of good and bad, healthy and unhealthy, right and plain wrong, but it nevertheless made me want to sue its inventor. Too bad ancient Egyptian priests are hard to reach in the modern era. 

One crucial thing about me that has changed since my days of the bunk bed: I’ve been to therapy. Ok, so maybe I have OCD. And it possibly might have made me really particular about Everything. Yes, With a capital E. Now, this mental health condition, like many many others, manifests in different ways depending on its host. In my case, routine was the difference between an alright or horrible day. I didn’t like sharing editor permission to it. I had not yet unlocked an apparent need for a homely spiritual and mental cleansing. I needed one. Bad. But it definitely wasn’t ever going to be that stinky, evil stuff called incense…until it was. My sister was lightyears ahead of me in this regard. Her stress demanded a salve. A routine. And BOY, has adulthood demanded the same of me. *Releases a long, tired sigh that makes an innocent twinkling star instantly blink out with incurable depression.

Brains are funny. We demand routines, consistent ethic, reliability, etc., yet they’re so adept to change. People, generally, resist this evolutionary skill. I haven’t quite figured out why. Pride? Ego? Selfishness? Faith in the routine? Commitment to someone we used to be? Admitting it’s kind of all of those for me was a healthy step. I apologize if I have strayed too far from my original point; the romantic in me likes to think about crumbs in muffin-scope. Basically, the incense is a metaphor for growth. Ten years ago, resentment towards the fiery stench filled my core. Now, it's hard to go an evening without its inviting, calming, neutralizing, scented energy. 

Life is one big lesson. To treat it otherwise is unwise. We’re all crumbs in one giant muffin. What does a crumb know? Only what it’s made of. Maybe going from hating incense to essentially needing it is small potatoes in the grand scheme of change, but hey, it doesn’t make it any less real. Though my devout obsession with the wispy, fragrant smoke has been going on for over a year, I haven’t brought it up in conversation with my sister. You give shit, you get shit. I like giving it a lot more than getting – who doesn’t? In reality she probably wouldn’t care and even not remember that I once plotted her annihilation because of it, but I’m Proud. With a capital P. Anyway, my partner hates it and says it reminds him of Sunday mass. Karma knows my address. 

So, what made me suddenly able to stand the scent of incense? It’s anybody’s best guess. All I know is that the routine of lighting the end of the stick, watching the fire lick its way upward, then with quick precision blowing out the flame and setting the smoldering object in its dais, makes me really really happy. It’s the small things, as they say. Change is good, natural. To be taken with graciousness and resolve to adapt. Bad change sucks. No denying it. Though every cloud has its silver lining, the obviously good changes stand out as winners in a popularity competition. And then there’s the less obvious ones. Neither bad nor great. They may not even seem life changing. But I’ve learned that small things add up. Make you unique. 

Lately, I’ve been hard on myself for not being as firm in beliefs as I used to be. Making simple decisions can be headache-inducing. My confidence, often being lower than the deepest depth of the ocean, is cause for concern. I seek others’ opinions ahead of my own. Passion is constantly lacking to say the least. Sometimes I catch myself feeling numb then seek out any memory to induce emotion, even if it’s not a particularly happy one. But incense shows me how once overlooked things can one day, one hour, one moment, be the thing holding you together. Whether it be a small like incense or big like a career change, embrace it. Tell people about it or don’t. It’s for you, not anybody else. 

I encourage others to think about what their stinky healer is. Or multiple of them. What is something you have changed your mind about, that’s altered your routine, giving you confidence, assurance, peace, or pleasantness? I know now how important it is to have one. I pity, but do not blame, my younger self for her judgmental thoughts and actions. I of course still struggle with this, as judgements are only natural and even integral at certain points, but if something is harmless, healing, and important to someone, who cares if it’s stinky? (It’s not to them).