Cup of memories

Before I begin writing, there’s a ritual I’ve invented for myself that I always need to honor. I must have tea to help guide my imagination. It’s a specific kind of tea. From my cupboard, I reach for a container of dry wildflowers. The long thin stems are folded and bundled together. The flower petals look like they’re hugging the stems. I place the bundle into an old tea kettle, fill it with water and let it all boil. The tea I’m making is called ch’il ahwéhí, or Navajo tea/wild tea.

The wildflower I’m using is commonly called greenthread. During the spring and summer, it grows throughout the Southwest, especially around the Navajo Nation. The flowers thrive in the desert. The thin stems can grow up to 2 feet, they lift the yellow flowers as far as they can toward the sky. On the rez, you either know where to find batches of greenthread or you know someone with plenty to offer. Navajo tea has been a constant in my life. I keep it in supply at my apartment in Durango, and it keeps me connected to home. What I cherish most about Navajo tea is the way it conjures up childhood memories and spending time with my elders, including my great-grandmother, Josephine. 

I grew up in Shiprock, raised by a single mother, but on the reservation, she had a support network of family to help. Since there were periods of time when my mom’s schedule was filled with school and work, I wasn’t just raised by her. I was raised by aunts, uncles and grandparents. But it was my great-grandmother whom I spent so much time with as a child. When other relatives were unavailable, great-grandma Josephine was always ready to take me in. She lived on the north side of town, which wasn’t too far from the apartment mom and I lived in. That proximity to home provided some reassurance. To keep me occupied, she had a house full of cats, and outside there were trees to climb, and further out, there were old sheds and barns to explore. 

When you’re a child, hours are not measured in minutes. They’re measured in emotions. And boredom can feel like an eternity. If it goes on long enough, boredom can turn into doubt and worry. There were times my mother worked late, and I was left waiting longer than expected. I’d get anxiety, worrying about her. Then I’d start to wonder, “What if she never comes back for me?” In these stressed moments, my great-grandma would find me standing outside in her yard, leaning against a fence post, staring down the stretch of dirt road, keeping an eye out for my mom’s truck. My disappointment and unease accumulated with every passing vehicle that wasn’t hers. Eventually, great-grandma would come for me. We’d walk back to her house and, to calm me, she would make some tea. I’d watch her take a bundle of dried wildflowers and drop them into a tea kettle. We’d sit at the dinner table while the kettle filled the kitchen with hisses and bubbling. 

So many years stand between me and these childhood memories. I can’t recall any stories my great-grandmother would’ve told me, but I remember scenes. She was fluent in both English and Navajo and she moved between languages when talking to me. I remember the stacks of wordsearch puzzles she always worked on. Sometimes she’d let me help her finish a book. I remember the sound of her voice and laughter. I remember her smile every time she looked at me. 

When I’m writing, it’s not just my voice telling a story. The voices of my ancestors are with me. The ritual of preparing and drinking Navajo tea acts as a bridge. It keeps me tethered to land and lineage. As I pour a hot batch of Navajo tea into a cup, the earthy aroma evokes deep-rooted memories of my great-grandmother and other elders who have passed on. I watch the mug fill with a rich red-brown, the colors of the earth that raised me. I place one hand around the mug, letting my palm and fingers savor the heat, and I know that my life keeps my ancestors and our culture alive. I take a sip and feel gratitude.

– Kirbie Bennett