Journal
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Lately, I’ve been reflecting on discernment — a word that used to sound heavier than it actually is. We use it as if it belongs only to ancient sages or scholars, but really, discernment is simply the ability to see clearly in a noisy world.
As I’ve moved through my herbal medicine studies these past months — while navigating my own recovery, shifts in my health, and trying to keep perspective when life presents both detours and divine timing — I keep returning to this one plant action that has captured my whole heart: mucilages.
There are moments in life that arrive without announcement. Small, quiet openings where someone else’s world brushes against yours, and for a second, everything slows. Today, I found myself standing inside one of those moments — unexpected, tender, and deeply human.
Ever notice how one tiny moment can shift your whole day? A glimmer on an ordinary morning, a thought that softens your heart, a reminder that storms don’t get to define you.
Some of the most beautiful work happens in the dark.
A seed hidden in the soil begins to stir long before it breaks the surface.
A child grows unseen in the safety of the womb.
Even winter itself — stripped, still — holds within it the quiet preparation for spring.
I wanted to jump on here before sharing November’s journal post — partly to pause, partly to catch my breath, and partly because it feels right to share what’s been stirring lately.
The more I study herbal medicine, the more I realise that the modern conversation around health has become overwhelmingly noisy. ……
October in England always feels like a quiet exhale. The light softens, the mornings are misted, and the hedgerows glow with berries. Autumn began here on the 23rd of September, but in October we really feel it settle — the damp scent of earth, the crunch of leaves underfoot, and that ancient tug to slow down.
As the wheel of the year turns once more, September arrives with a different kind of light — softer, lower, more golden. The days feel both full and fleeting, carrying the weight of harvest and the whisper of change. This journal continues the journey we began in July and August, tracing the lessons the garden and the seasons offer us, and how they mirror our own inner landscapes.
August in the English garden is a time of pause and plenty. The air feels full—rich with the hum of bees, the scent of lavender warming in the sun, and the rustle of leaves as the breeze shifts gently through them. The days stretch out with generous light, inviting us to linger outdoors longer, to take slow breaths and notice how alive everything is.
The Wild Remedy wasn’t born out of a perfect life. It grew out of healing. Out of the cracks.
“Please stop feeding me unpronounceable ingredients. I’m not a chemistry experiment.”