Aromatic Traditions

06/05/2026

A day of contradictions.

An early morning emergency.

A long list of responsibilities.

And tonight, after pressing “publish” on my first book, rain.

Much-needed rain.

The gardens are drinking deeply after a long winter.

And I’m sitting on the porch with one of my sacred herbal blends.

Mugwort.
Mullein.
Lavender.
Passionflower.
Valerian.
Blue Lotus.

Plants long associated with dreaming, breath, stillness, and return.

Not an escape.

A return.

The older I get, the more I realize healing isn’t always found in doing more.

Sometimes it arrives in the quiet moments after the work is finished.

The moment when the rain begins.

The moment when the nervous system finally exhales.

The moment when we remember we are allowed to stay.

Tonight, I’m grateful for the rain.

Grateful for the plants.

Grateful for the journey that became a book.

And grateful to simply sit on the porch and listen.
🌧️✨

06/04/2026

There are seasons when the work looks productive.

And there are seasons when the work is simply staying.

Over the past few years I built a retreat, created new offerings, guided others, cared for family, and followed a vision I didn’t fully understand when it first arrived.

What I didn’t expect was how much exhaustion I was carrying.

Or how much healing would be required after the doing was done.

Somewhere in that process, a book began to emerge.

Not because I set out to write a book.

Because I needed to understand what it meant to stay with myself long enough to hear what remained.

I Stay grew from the retreats, the gardens, the water, the art, the quiet, the questions, the grief, the beauty, and the long recovery that followed years of caregiving and building.

It is not a book that will be for everyone.

But I hope it finds the people who need it.

Today I’m standing at the doorway of my studio, holding pages that have accompanied me through one of the most transformative seasons of my life.

Not finished.

Not arrived.

Just grateful.

And still listening.

✨

06/01/2026

06/01/2026

Today I met a dragonfly becoming a dragonfly.

At first I noticed what looked like strange dark husks clinging to the water plants. Then one landed on my chest while kayaking, still dragging its old casing behind it.

I sat with it for a long time.

It emerged.
It dried.
It tried to fly.
It fell into the lake.

So I scooped it up and gave it another place to rest.

Watching it, I realized something.

I thought I was depressed.

I’m not.

I’m exhausted.

Years of caregiving.
Months of healing.
A retreat.
A book.
A life being rebuilt.

Even beautiful things require energy.

The dragonfly wasn’t struggling because something was wrong.

It was emerging.

Maybe that’s true for some of us, too.

06/01/2026

The studio at night.

The flowers are tucked in.

The trees are making shadows on the walls.

The paint is drying.

The books are waiting.

And somewhere between the last light of day and the first dream of sleep, new ideas begin to arrive.

I have always loved this hour.

The threshold.

✨

05/31/2026

This morning’s garden walk.

The hostas are unfurling like green silk.

Bleeding hearts hang quietly beneath the trees.

The honeysuckle has begun to bloom, and even the horseradish is flowering—something most people never see because the root is usually harvested long before this stage.

Every season teaches me the same thing:

Pay attention.

The garden is never repeating itself.

It is always becoming.

🌿

05/30/2026

The world is full of things we never see because we stop looking once they become useful. Horseradish Flower.

05/28/2026

What a day.

Biked twenty miles beneath the bluest sky.
Wood anemone, Solomon’s seal, and barren strawberry blooming quietly through the forest floor.

Then the lake.

So many fish moving beneath the surface.
Water lilies beginning to rise again.

Kayaked out to my favorite place and offered a blessing to the water before heading home.

Summer is returning.
So am I.

05/27/2026

The morning doves are teaching their babies to fly.

They’ve followed me for years now.
Different homes.
Different states.
Always arriving.

This morning I stood still long enough to watch them become brave.

05/27/2026

night garden