An Old Cure for a Modern Dilemma

Hildegard comes to the rescue

Allie Brosh, Hyperbole and a Half

My mom was fond of saying that I was a horrible baby. One of her favorite stories was about how she handed me to my dad when I was three months old and said if he didn’t take me she was going to throw me down the stairs because I had been crying all day long. This story never really bothered me—no one threw me down any stairs. But if you would look through the family’s photo albums, you would notice many photographs where I am either crying or looking sorrowfully into the distance. A diverse number of reasons were proposed, ranging from colic (very possible for the stair incident) to raving PMS and general weirdness, but the real diagnosis came in my fifties after a serious, life-threatening bout of straight-up depression with a 1/4 teaspoon of manic to make it all the more interesting. That’s all you need to know, except that a good doctor put me on a morning regimen of very powerful antidepressants. And this is why I am the alive, delightful person you would meet today.

As I said on Saturday, I spent the weekend in Philadelphia, dutifully floundering through snow for two stories—one on the fate of corner bars in the neighborhood where I grew up, the other on a large grocery store that caters to expansive immigrant groups. There were also two uproarious nights celebrating my brother’s and sister’s birthdays, one ending after a lot of cocktails, wine, and Chartreuse, with sledding down a good-size hill in the dark. There wasn’t much of a greeting when I arrived home exhausted on Sunday because my husband was watching the last seconds of the Kansas City Chief–Cincinnati Bengal game, so I went about unpacking, making up with the dog and cat who stuck to my legs for attention, sorting my notes, answering emails, and cooking an easy dinner. Eventually, it was bedtime, and I took down my little pill organizer box for the night combo of heart medicine that also keeps me alive. Instead, I swallowed the morning mental health mix that prevents my brain from exploding: I had just ingested what amounted to a double dose of a highly powerful, possibly deadly, drug.

The doctor didn’t answer her phone nor texted back, and online advice was to call the poison control hotline where a calm man said there were two possible outcomes: I’d be knocked out for the night, or I’d start throwing up. Both occurred—knocked out for the night; Monday morning nausea coupled with agitation, brain fog, and a dicey lean toward an emotional meltdown. My experienced husband shifted into high-alert.

The doctor finally responded, advising to wait it out until night before taking another dose. I tried to work all through the day, resulting in six stories composed of an incoherent crash of spinning words. My husband suggested doing something else, like curling up on the couch and staring at innocuous television shows, perhaps with the dog sleeping on top of me, sort of like a weight blanket. Instead, and specifically because my brain did not like the idea of being still, I spent an ungodly amount of time on Google searching for help.

This is how I met Hildegard of Bingen.

Hildegard lived in the early decades of the 12th century (1098 to 1179). Dedicated to an abbey when she was eight, she flourished as a nun. Today, she would probably have received a MacArthur ‘Genius’ Fellowship for her extraordinary artistic and intellectual achievements as a musician, poet, artist, scientist, theologian, and healer. All her work stemmed from visions she experienced throughout her life and which she attributed as direct messages from God.

Hildegard’s depiction of receiving a vision from God.

One of the most unique threads for her time was her—and therefore God’s—emphasis on the divine importance of women as conduits for the natural world. For this reason, and because throughout her life she successfully bucked the church’s entrenched male hierarchy, she is considered a feminist icon.

“And the children who have passed through the womb of the image [of Ecclesia] walk in the splendor that surrounds her; which means that they, who through the font of sacred baptism have the Church as their happy mother, should remain in and keep to the divine law by which their mother is illuminated and adorned.” Hildegard’s vision recorded in her illuminated manuscript, Scivias

Reading about her life is as inspiring as it is humbling, feelings she would probably consider ridiculous and then invite you in for a long friendly chat that would go completely over your head but would be very fun to listen to.

For the current purpose, it was most gratifying to discover one of her famous works, Physica, consisting of nine books that explain her scientific investigations into the concept of viriditas, a belief in the intersection of human life with the divinity of the natural world. The second book in this work is Causae et Curae, which explains nature’s effect on a wide range of illnesses and its cures for various diseases. Her medical knowledge derived from her vast experience doctoring the afflicted who sought her help and the cures she formulated from her abbey’s extensive herb garden.

Hildegard’s concept that our bodies are one with the natural world holds validity to me, but I tear away from the homeopathic nature of her cures. They’re well and good for the Middle Ages, but not for our times. Herbal treatments for serious diseases with little or no modern medical research behind them, especially those for mental health, are a complete nonstarter for me. Having said that, I believe there are practices that provide some supplemental relief when agreed upon by doctors. Mine has added meditation and exercise, and for those times when I’m a little ragged, a course of calming teas, specifically green and valerian. Turmeric with a spoonful of very pure honey has been touted by my primary doctor.

Hildegard comforted me for several hours, but there was still a few more to go. It wasn’t that I thought I couldn’t make it to the prescribed time, but I ached and was disoriented. Hildegard advised that my body would once again be in synch with the natural world by sipping a tea made from cowslip primrose. She also recommended a combination of lavender and rosemary. I didn’t have cowslip primrose, but I knew where lavender and rosemary grew under the snow in my garden. All I can tell you is that the perfumed water helped guide me through.

I’m so much better now!

Hildegard’s cure for disorder of the brain

Place at least five branches of lavender and rosemary in a large soup pot and fill with water. Bring slowly to a boil, then lower the flame to a gentle simmer. When the herbs begin to give off their scents, carefully pour the water into a bowl. Place a piece of cloth or towel in the water and carry the bowl to a bed. Be sure to place the bowl on a table close to the bed. Lie down and, once the water has cooled enough to retrieve the cloth, wring it out and place it over your forehead and your eyes. Rest, breathing in the scent both from the nearby bowl and the cloth. When the cloth cools, soak it in the water again and repeat the process until the water grows cold. Remove the cloth and continue to lie still with your eyes closed. The scent of lavender and rosemary water will linger. Breathe in slow and deep.