Chapter 3: The Well Designed Pause

There is a kind of rest that doesn’t ask for a plane ticket or a reservation.

There is a kind of rest that doesn’t ask for a plane ticket or a reservation.

It lives closer than that.

It lives in the slow mornings with bare feet on the cool kitchen floor.

In the quiet cup of tea you drink while everyone else is still sleeping.

In the nap you take in the hammock without apology.

The tomatoes are starting to split on the vine. A sure sign we’ve reached the heat crest of summer—the kind of heat that slows everything down, whether you plan for it or not. I found myself standing barefoot in the kitchen yesterday, fingers sticky with juice, thinking: maybe the earth is wiser than my calendar.

In this season of heat and movement and noise, I find myself coming back—again and again—to the medicine of stillness. Not the kind that numbs or hides, but the kind that returns you to your rhythm. Your root. Your own pulse beneath the world’s.

You don’t need two weeks off.

You need an honest pause.

Something true to your nature.

Rest isn’t something we earn, like a badge after a hard push. It’s something we remember. Like basil under the fingernails, or the low hum of bees in the yard—rest has always been part of the cycle. We just forgot how to listen.

In our modern world, we schedule vacations as if the rest of life can be thrown into a block. But real rest is more ancient than that. It begins with asking: What does this body, this spirit, this season need?

For me, that might look like a Saturday spent tending the herb garden, letting my hands remember something my mind has forgotten. Or curling up with a book I’ve already read three times, because the language knows me and I know it back.

Some of us need physical stillness—the kind of rest that feels like soil going fallow. Others need sensory softness—cool water, simple meals, no screens. And some of us need to wander in our own backyards, letting our curiosity guide us toward delight again.

The kind of rest I’m talking about isn’t always easy.

It takes courage to stop.

To say: I’m worth a weekend that nourishes rather than drains me.

But oh, what opens when we do.

You don’t have to go far.

You just have to go in.

So let me ask you:

What would your version of pause look like?

Today it’s Monday, which means it’s the perfect time to start planning. Not a trip. A rhythm. Think about it a little bit every day, and by the time Friday comes, maybe you won’t have to flee your life—you’ll just let it breathe.

And be ready to receive the quiet.

If you’ve been circling this rhythm in your own life, longing to feel more grounded, more nourished, more you…

I’d love to invite you to become a paid subscriber.

Every other week, I share my favorite seasonal recipes, simple rituals, and soulful reflections designed to help you live closer to the land and closer to yourself. This is the rhythm that holds me. I hope it holds you, too.

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This chapter is scented with rosemary for remembrance—of what restores you.

With sage, to clear the old stories that say you must earn your rest.

With parsley, bright and green, for fresh beginnings and a clean sweep.

With basil, heart-opening and sun-kissed, calling in joy and summer’s sweetness.

And with wild garlic, grounding, fragrant, a reminder that rest is not a pause from life,

but a deeper return to it.

These are not just flavorings.

They are companions.

Each one a whisper from the garden that says:

Let the kitchen be your altar.

Let your rest be a ritual.

Let the ordinary become extraordinary.

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