Leisha I believe I am entering a newness.
Preparing for this retreat has been opening doors I never expected. I literally started moving the microscopes into the workshop room and thought, “Why not make this my office?” Suddenly, a space I had been viewing one way revealed an entirely different possibility.
My current office could become the private club room, complete with its own entrance. The workshop room, which has slowly been taking shape, somehow feels like exactly where I belong. It has been difficult to take an industrial space and make it feel warm, welcoming, and alive, but placing my office there seems rather perfect. It also opens up new possibilities for teaching, gathering, and sharing what I love with others.
The funny thing about creating physical spaces is that they often reveal what is happening inside of us. As the project site transforms, I realize that it is mirroring an inner transformation of me. As rooms become softer, warmer, and more inviting, something within me seems to be doing the same.
Perhaps this is what happens when I allow myself to begin again. I stop trying to force life into the shape I once imagined and become willing to listen for what is emerging.
Lately, I have been thinking about nourishment in much the same way. The modern world loves to tell us what to eat, when to eat, and how much to eat. Yet I wonder if we have forgotten that the body carries an ancient wisdom of its own. Hunger, thirst, satisfaction, cravings, and even aversions are all forms of communication. The body is constantly speaking. The question is whether we create enough space to listen.
No two days are the same. One day I spend hours in the garden, sweating, lifting, harvesting, and creating. Another day I sit, read, write, and barely move. Why would my body need the same food at the same time every day? The body knows what it needs. The challenge is learning to trust that intelligence again.
I think the garden teaches this lesson beautifully. When I walk among living plants, smell herbs between my fingers, taste a leaf directly from the plant, or harvest what is abundant in that moment, something awakens inside me. Food becomes more than nutrients. It becomes relationship.
As someone who spends so much time with the soil microbiome and the human microbiome, I find myself returning again and again to this truth: they are not separate systems. I am nourished by the very same living processes that nourish the plants. The microbes in the soil make nutrients available to roots, and the foods grown in living soil help shape and support the microbial communities within me.
Perhaps that is why this season feels different. I am beginning to understand that nourishment is not only about food. It is also about the environments we create, the relationships we cultivate, and the stories we allow ourselves to carry.
There are some stories that do not resolve neatly. There are relationships that remain incomplete and chapters that continue to unfold in ways I could never have predicted. For a long time, I believed that peace depended upon those stories changing. I am beginning to see that perhaps peace is something quieter. Perhaps it comes from accepting that I am a human being who has done her best, who has made mistakes, who has learned some things and still has much to learn.
This understanding feels like a new level for me.
I know I am not perfect. I know there are things I would do differently if I could revisit certain moments in my life. But I also know that I care deeply, that I keep showing up, that I continue trying to create beauty, nourishment, and belonging in this world. I know that the people who have become my family, whether by blood or by choice, see that in me. They know my imperfections and still pull up a chair at my table, share in my dreams, and walk beside me.
For that, I am profoundly grateful.
Perhaps this new office, this new workshop space, and this new chapter are all part of the same lesson. Maybe I am not simply rearranging rooms. Maybe I am creating spaces that hold a little more compassion, a little more warmth, and a little more acceptance because I have needed to learn how to offer those things to myself.
The room is not complete, but it is close.
In many ways, I think I am close too. Not finished. Not fully understanding it all. But close enough to recognize that growth does not always look like becoming someone new. Sometimes it looks like becoming softer, more peaceful with what is, and remaining open to what still wants to teach me.
I hope I continue to learn.
I hope I continue to get it. Life is always teaching.
