The Cure

“Curling up on the sofa in the yellow light, I place a single strawberry slice on my tongue like a communion wafer.”

5 min readJun 26, 2022

When depression has me sluggish and macabre in its clutches, when I can’t sleep in the sticky humid air, that is when I stumble into my darkened kitchen and pull open the fridge door. I squint in its assault of bright, fluorescent light and rummage until I find the plastic carton of strawberries.

Shutting the door, I make my way into the kitchen corner by memory. The flimsy plastic crackles in my grip when I place it on the counter to feel for the light switch. When the under-cabinet lighting flickers on, it colours everything bronze and amber. My kitchen drawers turn a deep bronze. The pink speckles in the black marble counter top gleam maroon. The strawberries glow an appealing ruby red.

I fetch my cutting board and, from the knife-block, I select a sleek black santoku knife.

“ Schling,” it says as I slip it from its home.

Laying in bed a moment ago, there had been a smorgasbord of pantry ingredients and jumbled midnight snack instructions in my head. In the midst of these half-formed thoughts, slicing strawberries seemed a blessedly simple task. It drew me, a sleep-deprived mop of a human, out of bed like a beacon of clarity.

Next to the sink I set up my system — strawberry carton, cutting board, and knife. I run my thumb over the waxy, uneven surface of each fruit. They are plump and indented with seeds. The papery pale green leaves cling to water droplets long after I have pulled the berries from the stream of frigid tap water. They are not yet completely ripe. For some, a flush of white appears underneath their leaves before disappearing into a brief blushing pink, then red.

But I don’t mind. Sour and sweet are both welcome tastes when exhaustion colours so many of your emotions bland.

I place them on the board and draw the knife across the very tip of the berry. The little nub of its nose falls off. I continue, slicing up its length, from the tip to the coin-sized base. The process is repetitive. Meditative. Wet. I slice each one right to the end, hanging on by the leaves. The knife grazes my fingernail on the last cut.

Curling up on the sofa in the yellow light, I place a single strawberry round on my tongue like a communion wafer. I do so as if it would melt away with time, but of course, it doesn’t. I chew and swallow, and then I crunch seven discs at once like a harlot. They are sweet and tart. Sometimes a little watery, but still bright and fresh, like citrus. Like sunshine. Like hope.

I breathe in and out, lay my head on the bolster pillow. I think to myself that if I wait long enough, I may doze off eventually when the ink black skies turn to lilac-grey. And it is the last thought I have for the night.

When I blink open my eyes again, there is sunlight streaming into the living room. It is 10am and my husband has already removed the bowl, once full of strawberries, from my lap to wash it. I am the most rested I have been in weeks.

3 weeks later I am wandering the garden centre at my local super store. I am delighted to find strawberry plants on sale for $8. The prospect of waking up one morning to bursts of red berries ready to be tasted is tantalizing. After all, the basket appears to be halfway there already. There are dainty little white flowers fading in the breeze and white cone-like berries beginning to form in their place. They seem to me on the cusp of saying something very poetic, but still gathering the words. I am enchanted.

I buy the planter and hold it in my lap like a child as my husband drives us home.

Tonight, I am sleepless again. I am laying in bed and contemplating getting up. Outside the bedroom window, there is a basket of green leafy vines hanging outside the backyard shed. Though I cannot see it, I believe I can feel it in the shadows swaying in the summer breeze. Perhaps the white flowers will glisten when moonlight breaks through the clouds.

I remind myself that every season passes. This too shall pass. Tomorrow I will wake up and look at my strawberries, thriving in the relentless beaming of the sun. Sprouting new shoots and flowers. Like them, I am constantly changing, with my ups and downs. We are both growing things, these plants and I, by nature, determined rowers against the currents of monotony. They remind me that there are new delights everywhere I look. And oh, how they encourage me to look.

Some Notes from the Author

I have come to realize that cutting fruits is an opportunity to practice mindfulness. While I perform the simple motions I notice textures, temperature and tastes. It helps calm an anxious mind, and I usually slice up more than I intend to eat in one sitting.

3 things I do with the excess strawberries in summer:

I drop a few slices into green tea, or lemon water, hot or cold
When I make bagels, toast or crêpes, I spread one layer of the appropriate spread, cream cheese, Nutella, what have you. And then I add a layer of strawberries.
I drop them in a container with some balsamic vinegar, olive oil and some herbs — I like to add rosemary and basil. Screw the lid on and shake for a herbaceous strawberry vinaigrette.

Is mindfulness a cure for a mood disorder?

No, I suppose not. And neither are strawberries for that matter. But they have been wonderfully helpful to me and I hope that it will help you as well.