Ivy

Today was one of those days where the hours seemed to slip away without much to show for them. I helped mend some clothes for a neighbor—small work, but needed. I spent time looking over the healing plants in my collection, trying to commit their names to memory the way Zara does, so effortlessly. It humbled me. I've been here weeks now, and still I feel like I'm holding a handful of sand, watching most of it fall through my fingers. But I think that's alright. My mother taught me patience, though not by choice. And I chose to come here, to learn from someone who knows what I need to know. Quiet days are not wasted days—they're when roots grow, when understanding settles in. No one died while I hesitated today. No one needed me and found me too late. For now, that is enough.

Today was soft and small—the kind of day where the hours move quietly. I helped gather wood and tended the garden, but nothing remarkable. And yet, I find myself grateful for these quiet days. There's a steadiness to them that lets me think clearly about why I'm here. Sometimes I catch myself watching others—how they move through their tasks, whether anyone seems unwell or in need—and I remember that swearing I made as a girl. I cannot save everyone, but I can be ready. Zara says knowing the plants deeply takes time, and I try to be patient with that learning. But on mornings like this, I wonder if I'm fast enough, if my knowledge will be enough when someone truly needs help. That fear never quite leaves. Still, I think about the root knowledge I gained this week, and there's hope in that. Small, steady progress. The land was generous today, and I took only what we needed. That feels right.