Thanks for landing here. Motherhood is often spoken as a beginning. Yet within every beginning, there are countless endings, transformations, and quiet acts of surrender that shape us along way. Some are witnessed. Many are not. We give less of our time these days to honouring the moments of witnessing, celebrating, grieving, holding, and letting go. This poem is an offering to those unseen, unfelt, unnamed moments. To the sacred bodies that carried life. To the brave hearts

Thanks for landing here. This piece arose from an experience I had when I followed an instinct to sit with the Magnolia tree in my mother-in-law's backyard after her passing. With the rhythm of a shamanic drum synchronizing with my heart, something began to shift. Perhaps I started dreaming in the waking world. Or perhaps I began awakening within the dream. I have no expectation for how you will meet these words. You may receive them as a reflection. As a story, As imagenatio

Thanks for landing here. Some relationships leave traces that are difficult to name. This poem and tea arose through my witnessing of the many forms of tending woven throughout life. In my own act of tending—which looked more like a quiet struggle for emotional survival— old stories began to surface. Not only my own but my sister's, and my mother's, and perhaps the stories of countless tenders who came before us. If you are here, I'm sensing that you, too, may have carried mo

Thanks for landing here. This is my reflection on the day I met myself through Dandelion. I met the part of myself I had buried deep beneath layers of protection—the part that had quietly entrusted its life on Earth to those layers. The part of myself I had denied. The part of myself I had left behind. Resurfaced. From a simple moment in a field. When I expected nothing, and asked a single question, guided by Dandelion. When you ask a genuine question— one your soul has been

In relational tea formulation—the way through which I craft my blends—the inspiration sometimes arrives as a slow unfolding: a quiet revelation shaped by long contemplation, a journey inward, or through time spent in deep presence with particular plants. And then, there are moments when it comes all at once—like an image, or a knowing that gathers itself at the meeting point of perception, intuition, and something harder to name. One of my blends, Goddess’s Way Home , came to

For those who have spent time with my journal on Japanese mugwort ( part 1 ) — you may have felt how this elder plant, long in relationship with humans, met me and returned me to a vision I didn’t know I held. From that quiet revelation, a poem came through with Yomogi. If you feel called, you can read it here. If you’d like to feel her presence in a tea, you may find it here, when the season brings her forth 👉 [Seasonal Blend: Memory of the Dream ]

The first year I moved into this place, where I've been slowly building my apothecary garden, one of the first herbs I thought to grow was Mugwort, more specifically Yomogi (Japanese mugwort) (pronounced yo-mo-gee). I didn't know why. It just kept popping into my head like a reminder. I was born and raised in Japan for about 20 years, and moved to Canada for school, and at first, I thought maybe this was about identity. Maybe this was how I would reconnect with my roots. Ma

Magnolia is a tree dear to my heart—one that changed the way I related to plants forever. In the Spring of 2025, while many people were working with early spring herbs like Stinging Nettle, Cleavers, Chickweed etc., I felt called (unexpectedly) to work with Magnolia blossoms— We have a large Magnolia tree growing beside our garage. It was our third year on this piece of land we are fortunate to call home. I had always admired the tree. I remember finding it fascinating that