Little Sister Apothecary

In 2021 Kira enrolled in school to study the Wise Woman Tradition, following a calling to deepen her relationship with the plant world. She held an intuitive feeling that many of our modern problems could be linked to seeing the natural world as other or separate. Also, that our aches, problems, and dis-ease are often viewed as things to be fixed. Instead of patching over our pains, Kira has been exploring what it would  mean it focus on nourishment and flooding our body with all the goodness that it so craves. What if we stopped viewing our pain as brokenness and started seeing it as a helpful message of imbalance? …And so began Little Sister Apothecary.

I know a question Kira get’s a lot from people is “What does that medicine do?” or “What does it address?” And the answer is not simple. Yes, these plants contain herbal actions that target certain symptoms (of which I’ve experienced first hand), but what I’ve found is that it’s the relationship with the plants that acts as the vehicle for healing. 

I’m not an expert on this stuff, but here’s what I have experienced: Taking time out my busy life to start my day with a cup of oat straw infusion (which I did daily for a year), meditating over a cup of infused schissandra berries, or slowly sipping a spicy adaptagenic elixir has put me right back where I need to be—in the moment and in my body. I’ve also noticed my anxiety dip, my hurt murmurs subside, and my energy increase.

Little Sister Apothecary was born out of the mission to help people connect back to themselves and their communities. I’ve seen it help our friends and family. It’s really powerful. The medicine is infused with intention and care, all done in ceremony. To all of our loved ones who have come to our home and shared a cup of tea or a home-cooked meal from Kira, you know her gift. I’m so grateful she now gets to share it even with more people.

www.littlesisterapothecary.com

overwhelmed by the giving

Last night I had a spoonful of local whipped honey and I couldn’t believe how incredibly lucky we are to live at the same time as honey bees and to taste their life’s work. The light, airy ambrosial flavors danced from the tip of my tongue, all the way to the core of my body and I wanted to cry of gratitude. Kira reminded me the other day that a bee makes less than a gram of honey in their lifetime. That’s a drop of honey. And there I was spooning it into my mouth in my kitchen and passing the jar around with Kira and Rebeca. Occasionally I can’t help but trip out over how strange this all is. I’ll get overwhelmed by the beauty and interconnectedness. Simple foods remind me that I’m home and I reminisce on the hands, wings, antennae, seasons, and cycles that delivered the spoonful of honey to me. To remember all of those steps is to bring them back to life. I think of the quote I read a few years ago, “You are eating a little bit of sunlight every time you eat food.”

let's walk

Let’s walk. Let’s cut down an alley I’ve never been down before. I want to show you a house that I’ve loved since I was a kid. And over there, where I used to skate, behind the bookstore when the security guards got off. The courtyard too, an eden in the middle of the city, where I shot my first photography assignment. Everything changed that year, when I was given my grandpa’s camera, the city was rewritten, reborn right before my eyes. So much has changed since I was here, so much has changed since yesterday. But the streets still hold my footprints and I see the faces of people I remember. My old neighbors, tending their front yard, raking their leaves and gently nodding with a smile. It’s good to be back, and I’m grateful to share it with you.

mornings

9/14/2024

I enjoy the date stamp I use in my journal because each time I sit down to write I can see the last time I formally visited with myself. Most of my entries start with an apology for not having stopped by lately. It’s been 10 weeks since my last entry, which was 2 days before Abby ended her life. Maybe she had already decided to move on, and maybe I knew it too. I wrote, “so many questions, some of an uncertain future and some of a mysterious past.” There was so much I wish I would have known on that day, but I work hard not to let hindsight take the drivers seat.

This morning I slept alone in the bed, Kira took the couch, and I woke up feeling rested for the first time in weeks. I sleepily wandered into the den and cuddled up with Kira on the couch. After she left for her early shift I laid back in bed and read Sy Safransky’s “Many Alarm Clocks,” a loving companion of a book that has been a teacher of how to juggle my thoughts. Work stress floated into my head. I let it pass me by. I fed Olive. I chugged Nettles, took vitamin D, brushed my teeth, made the bed, and opened all the blinds. It’s rainy today but I like to pretend that the sun and the plants are my good friends from different circles, and that every morning I get to introduce the two of them— “You’ll love each other!” and then they hang out all day without me because they hit it off so well.

I’d like to open this channel up again, finding my words, leaning into a way of expression, a releasing, a shaping or sculpting of my inner landscape. It’s a lot to carry on the inside. It’s also a lot to release. Maybe my mornings can be for this.

one day

Maybe one day our kids will look at these and ask about the porch we were sitting on. We’ll tell them about the duplex we rented, and turned into a home, with plants that seemed to mysteriously appear every other week (the Calendula and Monstera over our shoulders are swaying in agreement). Maybe they’ll ask, “Did you spend a lot of time sitting out there?” Honestly, less than we would have liked to, but so many nourishing meals were created on that grill that I hauled 5 blocks from your old place, pausing in the middle of Arctic to take a proud photograph. It’ll be funny to them to see us holding wine glasses, and we’ll tell them that sometimes it’s important to make-believe that you’re a grownup. Occasionally we would light an herbal cigarette that you made, in both times of celebration and struggle. We’ll have rolls and rolls of photos that we took in our home, because at some point we realized that every “ordinary” day was what became our life. About two weeks ago I heard someone say, “We’re living life as if it’s a rerun,” So I’ve decided to start counting my days linearly (today is day 16 of the rest of my life). I wonder what day it will be when our kids see these photos. Sometimes the memories were captured, and often they weren’t. I wonder if they’ll know what we mean when we explain that all of those moments are still with us, even the ones we don’t remember, and that they’re a part of them too.

inner dialogues 3

Life is so surprising yet so inevitable. Maybe I meant Death

I’ve been trying not to cover my face when I cry alone. Who am I hiding from?

The loss creates a vacuum, and at a certain moment there is a stillness, a peace. Maybe that’s their gift to me from beyond.

I used to think resilience was hardening to life but I think it’s knowing how to soften time and time again.

The second wave of grief is going back to normal life.

That’s what’s so hard about facts—facts are flat. They just are what they are, palatable to the mind but not the right consistency to move through the body.

My biggest hurdle in relationships is unconditionally loving myself.

Social media is a placebo for conversation.  It is a place of statement.

Why are horizon lines so enticing? Clean, angular perfection, it’s a rare thing to find in nature.

Pain is from the heart, suffering from the head.

Yesterday I lined the broken edges of a seashell with golden beads. I’m experimenting with drawing attention to brokenness.

Death of mystery - how much of our story will be forgotten? It feels like not much, but we forget the delicateness of the internet.

Instead of trying to pack a bunch of experiences into one, I’m trying to remember that it’s really just one experience.

Kira tells me, “Life is too damn short to hide yourself”

Gratitude is the people’s catalyst.