Clean and Fragrant

Some days the air feels heavy before I even step out of bed. I light a little something to remind myself that breath can be medicine.

In many Indigenous and Afro-diasporic traditions, scent is how we communicate with the invisible — ancestors, spirits, memory. When I write about cleansing a room, I try not to think of it as “banishing bad vibes.” I think of it as making space for balance.

Sage is the most famous plant for this purpose, though it is not mine by birthright. Among Indigenous North American peoples, white sage has ceremonial meaning tied to prayer and protection. Out of respect, I grow my own garden sage instead and never buy wild-harvested bundles. Smoke is powerful, and it belongs to someone’s lineage.

When I want something brighter, I turn to basil. In South and West Africa, basil leaves are used in spiritual baths, steeped in water and poured from head to heel for cleansing. The scent is sharp and green, a reminder that freshness can come from the garden, not the factory.

And then there’s palo santo. True palo santo comes from the Bursera graveolens tree in South America. Among the Quechua and Aymara peoples, it is burned only from fallen wood. I use it rarely, and always with a sense of debt. The scent is resinous, citrus-smoky, something between warmth and prayer.

Sometimes I simmer lime peels, sage, and basil together on the stove. The steam fills the kitchen with a scent that feels halfway between tea and temple. It’s not a ceremony, but it is a kind of respect.

“Clean air isn’t just fresh — it’s intentional.”

Every time I light, boil, or crush a plant for its scent, I think about where it grew, and whose knowledge taught me how to use it. The point is not purity. It’s gratitude.