Today, I sat with the alliums in my garden. They are standing tall right now, vibrant spheres of magenta alive with the hum of bees, the shifting light, and the gentle rustle of peak summer. As I sat there listening to the garden breathe, this wave of deep, quiet gratitude just washed over me. Every bit of energy, intention, and soil-stained effort I poured into this emergency garden months ago is suddenly pouring right back into me. It’s a physical reminder that nothing sown with real intention is ever lost, even when it spends weeks hidden under the dark dirt. Sitting there, I wasn't just observing nature. I was in it. I truly felt part of something vast, ancient, and entirely unhurried. Stepping Off the "More" Treadmill In the world we live in right now, choosing this kind of stillness almost feels like an act of madness. We are constantly flooded with reasons to worry, and the modern collective voice never stops shouting that we aren't doing enough, we aren't having enough, we aren

A few months ago, during the Imbolc celebration in the midst of winter, I wrote down some words that have quietly stayed with me: "...maybe that's where the power lies. That things don't always need to be so big, so lavish. That there is a quiet need for small, safe gatherings - a trust-based and gentle pace. No Social Media exposure, no boombangs. But is that good enough in today's age? Is it of quality, even when it's a small celebration in all of its vulnerability?" Being watched over by Merlin at Merlin's Cave during the Sojourn of Sirens. Picture by Shina You see, the Imbolc celebration was quiet, it was low-energy, it was sitting or lying on the ground listening to music, meditating, some taking a nap, some just sitting in silence. I was self-conscious about it and I still am, with every celebration, because I do this with the intention to offer something else in this rowdy, noisy world. Now we are nearing Lughnasadh - the festival of the first harvest in the Wheel of the Year. A

The grain festival, usually celebrated August 1 to 15 or when the first grain ripens. Also known as Lunasda, Lunasdal, Lunasduinn (Scottish Gaelic), Laa Luanys (Manx), Calan Awst (Welsh) Gouel an Eost (Breton). One of the four cross-quarter fire festivals on the ancient Celtic calendar. It marks the First Harvest, sitting directly between the Summer Solstice (the peak of light) and the Autumn Equinox (the balance of day and night). Historically celebrated on or around August 1, Lughnasadh is the transition point where the green growth of Spring and early Summer turns to gold. According to Irish mythology, the festival was actually created by the multi talented god Lugh as a funeral feast as well as a sporting event (the Tailteann Games) to honor his foster-mother, Tailtiu. She died of exhaustion after clearing the dense, wild forests of Ireland so the people could farm and survive. Lughnasadh is deeply rooted in honoring the hard work, sacrifice and physical effort it takes to create a

Those who know me well know that I have a lifelong soft spot for frogs and toads. Since childhood, they have fascinated me just as much as orcas and deer. I love the contrast between them—frogs with their sleek, semi-aquatic grace, and toads with their dry, textured, terrestrial armor. With the intense heat we’ve experienced over the last couple of weeks, my gardening routine has shifted to the quietest hours. I tend to slip outside either in the cool, early morning or late in the evening to water the plants. It was during one of these late-night rounds that I finally witnessed a sight I’ve been waiting a long time to see. Living close to Mjøsa, Norway’s largest lake, means our local ecosystem is incredibly vibrant. The soil is alive, rich with diverse organisms, micro-fauna, and complex biochemical compositions. As I approached the front door to refill my watering can, I caught sight of two large toads sitting right by the threshold. As I stepped closer, they slowly began to move—one

There's very much a difference between the fire that warms a room and a fire that consumes it. How often do we feel that when we allow ourselves to follow our visions and our goals, our energy is like a well-tended hearth. It is contained, purposeful, and generates a sustainable warmth that fuels our lives and our work. But then, stress, over-commitment, and the pressure of constantly pivoting takes over, and our contained flame begins to scatter. Suddenly, that beautiful vision isn't building anymore; sparks are going in all different directions and we lose control. Then comes that little inner voice: you should push a little harder, there is just one more hurdle to overcome, one more demand to answer, and we tell ourselves we will find peace again on the other side. In reality, chasing this scattered fire only leaves our own hearth cold—the flames have long left their base. When our creative and day-to-day energy is spread too thin, our health, our boundaries, and our sense of securi

There is an immense gratitude that echoes through time when you choose to follow the Wheel of the Year. For me, these eight points on the wheel hold deep significance. Having celebrated them in both conscious and subconscious ways since I was eleven years old, aligning with the natural flow and the passing of the seasons feels like breathing. We have passed the longest day of the year, and the wheel is steadily turning toward Lughnasadh—the feast of the first harvest. With the food garden expanded this year, spring and summer have already been a time of gentle reaping. But this is the first year I’ve truly paused to witness the tiny helpers—from the insects to the balancing plants—going about their vital work. Getting my hands dirty and letting parts of the garden grow wild has been a profound reminder: we cannot change the macro-chaos of the entire world, but we have absolute agency to transform our immediate surroundings. When the world feels too loud, I return to the earth, to the s