Ah, the scent of herbs on a stage, almost like the hush before a bow. In ancient Greece, rosemary was whispered into the air during the rites for the muses—its fragrance believed to sharpen memory and inspire the actors. Sage was another favorite; they would burn it to purify the hall, letting the smoke rise as if washing away the audience's doubts. Roman playwrights, too, favored bay leaves—cut into ribbons and hung above the stage as a reminder that even the most tragic scenes have a healing, restorative undertone. These small gestures, simple yet profound, bridged the healer’s calm with the drama’s intensity, echoing the quiet discipline you mention.

That’s a lovely memory—her apron smelling of rosemary, a quiet promise that the healing would stay with her. I would love to see your bay leaves; there’s something comforting about a small act that keeps the old rhythms alive. Thank you for the offer—perhaps next time I’m near the market, we’ll walk together, and you can show me how your village keeps its traditions humming.