Where the Lemon Balm Grows

Mari never used to believe in rest. Her calendar was color-coded chaos, her nights filled with half-slept hours, and her body — well, her body had decided it had enough. The flare-up wasn’t dramatic, but it was persistent: headaches, digestive issues, tight chest, scattered thoughts. Her doctor called it burnout, prescribed rest, light movement, and gently reminded her that medication only works if the system it enters isn’t constantly on fire.

So when her Aunt Lidia invited her to spend a weekend at the family cottage tucked in the hills, Mari gave in.

“I’ll just stay two days,” she had said.

Now, it was day three.

The cottage was surrounded by wildflower fields, a stone path leading into the woods, and a porch where tea was served morning and evening without fail. Lidia’s teas were legendary — not store-bought blends, but fresh, fragrant infusions she picked and brewed herself. She said it wasn’t magic. Just nature doing what it had always done, if you listened.

That morning, Lidia handed her a cup of tea that smelled lemony, calming, and just a bit earthy.

“Lemon balm,” Lidia said. “From the back garden. It’s good for stress. Mild enough to calm the nerves without knocking you out. Ancient remedy, still one of the best.”

Mari sipped. It was warm, soft. The kind of warmth that didn’t demand attention but slowly spread through the chest, like a memory of being held.

“Do you feel it?” Lidia asked.

Mari didn’t answer right away. She closed her eyes instead, letting the birdsong and tea do their quiet work. “I don’t feel the weight as much today,” she said eventually.

After breakfast, they took a walk along the creek. Mari brought her notebook — not to write work memos, but just to sketch the trees, the curve of the path, the way moss clung to the stones like sleepy animals. Milo, her cousin’s son, joined them with a stick he called his “forest sword,” darting between branches, hunting imaginary creatures.

They came to a clearing, one Mari had never seen before. A perfect circle of lemon balm plants swayed in the breeze, sunlight pooling in the center like spilled gold.

“This wasn’t here last year,” Lidia said, surprised.

Mari knelt down, running her fingers over the velvety green leaves. A single butterfly hovered, then darted off.

“It’s like it grew just for you,” Lidia said quietly.

Mari laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”

But that night, back on the porch, she sipped her lemon balm tea again and noticed something. The ache behind her eyes was gone. Her hands weren’t shaking. She felt… present. Not healed, not transformed — but steady. Like the first breath after a storm.

Before bed, she wrote in her notebook:

Today was quiet. I think I needed quiet more than I knew. The tea helped. The trees helped. I’m not used to being still. But I think this stillness is where I start to mend.

She slept deeply. No alarms. No thoughts chasing themselves. Just dark, and soft dreams full of green.

And in the garden, under the moonlight, the lemon balm swayed again — like it was listening.

Another look:

Lidia’s Garden

Lidia had never thought of herself as a healer. That word felt too large, too bright. But she had learned to listen — first from her grandmother, then from books, then from the plants themselves.

In her back garden, things grew slowly and deliberately. Lemon balm in the south corner, catnip and chamomile along the edge, calendula near the fence. She had learned which plants liked each other's company, which thrived in shade, which needed a talk or two to get through a tough week of wind.

Every tea she made was rooted in real use. Chamomile for gentle sleep. Peppermint for digestion. Nettle, rich in minerals. Lemon balm — her favorite — for the tension that lived in people’s shoulders and behind their eyes. The Latin name, Melissa officinalis, even sounded kind. She knew from both study and experience that lemon balm could help calm nerves, ease mild anxiety, and soften the symptoms of stress. Science had begun to catch up with what folk wisdom always knew.

But she never claimed magic. Just patience, practice, and tea.

When Mari arrived, drawn tight as a guitar string, Lidia didn’t lecture. She simply put the kettle on.

“Drink this,” she said, handing over a cup of fresh lemon balm tea. “You don’t need to believe in anything. Just sip it slowly.”

The next day, she brewed a blend of lemon balm, chamomile, and oatstraw — an old nervous system tonic her grandmother used to make during grief or sleepless stretches. Oatstraw, full of B vitamins and calming properties, wasn’t flashy, but it restored. The chamomile helped ease tension. Lemon balm soothed the nerves.

Mari asked if it really worked.

“I wouldn’t still be standing at my age if it didn’t,” Lidia replied.

That afternoon, they walked to the woods together. Lidia brought a thermos of peppermint and ginger for digestion, just in case. Mari was slower than she remembered her being — thinner, quieter — but she also asked more questions. She watched the plants like she was finally seeing them.

When they found the new patch of lemon balm near the clearing, Lidia knelt down and touched the leaves.

It was unusual. The plant had clearly taken root naturally — the soil was rich and undisturbed. But she had never seen it in this part of the woods before.

“Do you think it grew here for a reason?” Mari asked.

Lidia smiled. “Everything grows where it’s needed.”

That night, she sat on the porch after Mari went to bed. Fireflies blinked. The garden exhaled its green perfume. She steeped a cup for herself — holy basil and lemon balm — one to center the heart and quiet the looping thoughts. Holy basil, or tulsi, was revered across cultures for supporting resilience and clarity. A little bit of fantasy lived in that truth, she thought — but grounded in evidence, too.

As she sipped, Lidia thought of all the times people had come to her, not for cures, but for comfort. And maybe that was enough.

The moon rose.

Somewhere in the dark, she imagined the plants leaning toward it. Listening. Growing. Offering what they could, without promise, but with presence.

Just like her.