May arrives in a flush of green here.  The trees leaf out almost all at once, the gardens stretch toward the light, and the whole sanctuary feels alive with movement and possibility.

As I shared in an earlier post, I was fortunate to grow up surrounded by nature—meadows, creeks, forests, and farm animals woven into the fabric of everyday life. Both sets of my grandparents, along with my parents, lived close to the land, growing most of what we ate.

My paternal grandfather was a remarkable gardener. His garden fed not only our family, but much of the surrounding community—produce sold to the local grocer, eggs delivered to nearby restaurants. I remember walking beside him, small hands helping gather and wash eggs, the rhythm of it simple and grounding. I still keep his old egg scale, marked in his own hand with S, M, L—a quiet heirloom of a life lived in devotion to the land.

As a young girl, I wandered the forest behind our home, pockets full of found treasures—lichen, bark, stones, bits of moss. I would press them into tree pitch, creating little pieces of art on bark.

I suppose I’ve always been this way—full of ideas, always making.  My mother would say I was messy… I like to think I simply left my ideas in progress. Truthfully, not much has changed.

Now, I find myself rooted here on this forested land that feels both like home and something sacred. The sanctuary hums with life—cedar and moss, birdsong and creek water, a barn full of animals that have shaped who I am. Goats, chickens, and cats have long been companions in this life, steady and familiar.

Lotus and her kid enjoying the lushness of May’s pasture

That early instinct to gather, to create from what the land offers, has followed me into everything I make today.

There is a quiet kind of wonder in placing a seed into the soil and witnessing what unfolds. A plant becomes nourishment. A flower becomes an infusion. A handful of blossoms becomes something that will touch the skin, carrying the season with it.

This is the rhythm that guides my work.

Spring, especially May, brings its own kind of magic. The barn fills with new life as baby goats arrive, and with them comes the return of warm pails of fresh milk foaming into the jars once again after the slower rhythm of winter. There is something deeply grounding about returning to this ritual each spring. It always feels like a beginning.

The gardens begin to offer its first true abundance, while the apothecary shelves slowly fill again with drying herbs and infused oils, capturing the vitality of the season. Chamomile from the meadow, lavender gathered in the warmth of summer evenings, dandelions glowing along the forest edges… each one slowly finding its way into the soap studio.

Each morning, I rise with the light. The sun moves through the trees in the east, and with it comes a quiet invitation—new ideas, new creations waiting to take shape.

And in between it all, there are the walks.

Out along the forest paths with my familiar, where the ground is soft beneath my bare feet and the air carries the scent of earth and green things growing. The creek moves steadily beside us, birds weaving their songs through the understory.

This is where so much of it begins.

These moments—simple, steady, alive—are what find their way into my work. Into each bar of soap, each balm, each small offering. Not simply as ingredients, but as feeling… as memory… as ritual.

The newest botanical soaps now resting on the apothecary shelves feel deeply rooted in this season of return—fresh milk, infused botanicals, soft florals, grounding woods, and the quiet beauty of the sanctuary waking fully again.

Everything I create is, in some way, a continuation of those early wanderings—gathering beauty, transforming it, and sharing it in a form that can be held, used, and experienced.

It feels good to begin again.