The Art of Patience

Sometimes a month feels like a day, and other times it feels like a lifetime.

When I’m making oils, tinctures, and glycerites, I’m reminded of everything I’ve felt and everything I’ve moved through during that month. I remember the mindset I was in when I first made them. I remember what I was dreaming about, what I was working toward, what I was struggling with, and all the things I was hoping would come to fruition.

Then, weeks later, when it’s finally time to strain them, I get to look back and realize just how much can change in a month.

Sometimes, the things I was dreaming about are already beginning to take shape. The things I was pushing for are happening. And sometimes, I realize that I’ve changed just as much as the plants have.

There is something about working with plants that has taught me the art of patience in a way nothing else really has. I can’t rush an oil that needs time to infuse. I can’t force a tincture to be ready before it’s ready. I can’t convince a glycerite that it should have finished extracting yesterday.

I simply have to let them be.

And somewhere in that waiting, I’ve learned to let myself be, too.

Plants have a way of reminding me that not everything needs to happen immediately. That growth can be happening beneath the surface even when I can’t see it yet. That sometimes the most important part is simply showing up, tending to what I’ve started, and allowing time to do what time does.

They remind me to enjoy my life while I’m living it. To slow down. To notice the little things. To smile at the beautiful moments and appreciate how far I’ve come.

Yes, even the shitty learning experiences.

Because when I finally strain those preparations, I’m not just holding an oil, a tincture, or a glycerite in my hands.

I’m holding a little reminder of who I was when I began—and who I became while I waited.

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