We’re standing in a seasonal transition. Can you feel it? The grounding of fall is here. Kids are back to school, we’re in a flow of family rhythms that feel different than the full activation of summer, and the length of sunlit evenings is shortening.
I haven’t had the freedom to linger in the garden as long as I want to, but I was called to wander this evening. With the sun low and the breeze cool, the invitation was clear. I wanted to walk with God in the coolness of the day.
Enjoying a summer sigh
The butterfly pea calling me out to the garden every day with its deep purple-blue hue, inviting me to prune. To pick every open flower so its energy could pour into a fresh flush of flowers the next morning.
I’ve come out every day to collect the blooms. At one point, I thought the season was coming to an end. Days went by without blooms. And I had concluded that this must be when energy begins to shift for her. But I think she was waiting for the transition. A little burnt out from the summer heat and anticipating the pending shift. A late summer rain, temperatures beginning their seasonal descent, and in this liminal space, fresh blooms began to disperse with abundance. At least 40 flowers every day. And today was my largest harvest, 56 butterfly pea (Clitoria ternatea) flowers. Signaling that the seasons don’t just end and begin. There’s a progression of tiny changes…
Days become shorter
The sun rises a little later
It sets a little sooner
The heat drops a couple of degrees
A series of rains water the landIt’s a beginning and an end happening simultaneously. And this exact transition in Central Texas brings what I think of as a second spring. Exhausted plants find new life. Resurrected. For a moment. It’s like the land offers its last full sweep of abundance and harvest before the winter season. Like Yahweh pronouncing, “I will give you abundant provision.”
And the gardens, once feeling the exhaustion that the end of summer brings, find resurgence in the liminal.
The Tulsi is at its peak. Leaves big, flowers erect. It’s abundant in this garden. It’s such a gift, such an ally, that I imagine it’s inviting me to harvest. An opportunity to capture its essence. To cut, process, and dry it so I can enjoy its benefits far after its growing season has ended.
Lemongrass sends a message too. Standing tall throughout the intensity of summer. Reminding me that even in harsh seasons, there’s still beauty. If Tulsi is a reminder of Psalm 23, Lemongrass points me back to Philippians 4:8.
And these 3 herbs: Tulsi, Lemongrass, and Butterfly Pea have become my final medicine of place this summer. An herbal tea blend that encapsulates transitions and transformation. “In the Liminal,” perfectly captures what it means to be in between. That late summer transition into early fall. Feeling like neither and both all at the same time. Do you ever feel like you’re in that transition? Haven’t fully come out of the last season but not fully walking in the next…
When you make a cup of this tea, it’s a vibrant blue color. It’s almost like the electric blue hue is representing the now, but with a squeeze of lemon, the shift in pH causes the tea to transform. It becomes this beautiful hazy purple. And a reminder that we’re always becoming something new. Never to be the same again, season after season. We sprout, grow, change, transform, shift, die, and come back as a new thing.
I love seeing these cycles in the garden. Wisdom is woven within it, and when I slow down enough, I’m able to recognize the lesson for myself.
And the amazing part is that life is constantly shifting in the garden…
Mid-September is bringing
Pods of cotton bursting open like popcorn
Robust bursts of growth for the Pericon
Our first Jamaican Melon has birthed fruit from the vine
An abundance of Passionflower. Patiently waiting to be utilized as medicine.
Zinnias beginning to dull and transition to seed
And a singular bloom of Yarrow.Each plant cycling through its own transition. And with it, bringing transformation…
to the garden
To the plant itself
And to me. Forever shifted by the season.I’ll always look back on Summer 2026 with so much remembrance. The beginnings embraced, the endings we trusted. And all of the medicine made. A capsule of the season. A testimony of the land.
Scripture:
Philippians 4:8
“Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.”
Until next time,
Jasz
A lot of life was lived in my thirty-fifth year around the sun.
I thought this was going to be my year of transformation.
I could feel something on the brink, on the edge, ready to take flight.
But this year became less about transformation and more about emergence.
After spending so much of my life thinking about how others viewed me, I made the intentional decision to shut out the world for a while.
I remember the lead-up to this.
In January 2025, I began what was supposed to be a four-week fast from social media.
But the weeks continued to pass, and I felt no urgency to return.
Without realizing it at the time, it became the beginning of my cocoon phase.
Shutting out the shouts from the world.
Dimming the need to compare myself to the path of others.
Turning down the volume of the outside so I could finally hear what was happening within.
It was in the quiet moments…
Alone, but never fully alone.
On the land, with the land.
In fellowship with God.
Fully present with my own thoughts, my own convictions.
Learning to forge my own path instead of measuring it against someone else’s.
Comparison had become a hindrance, and I knew I needed to hear my own voice again.
So I spent this year pursuing what made me come alive.
Finding my voice.
Or maybe not finding it at all.
It had always been there.
This year was about finding the confidence and clarity to express it.
Instead of trying to do things the way I always had, I stepped into something entirely new.
I began my very first herbalism apprenticeship.
It felt life-changing.
Being surrounded by a group of women who were deeply committed to the plants, to observation, and to their own becoming gave me permission to become more fully myself.
To mirror the garden.
To be in full expression of the season I was living.
I think Medicine of Place has spoken to me so deeply because that’s the season I’m in.
Learning that every season carries its own medicine.
And that this version of me, today, isn’t unfinished.
She is the medicine for this season.
I also began building Naturally Boundless.
Not like a business.
But like a home.
Each offering became its own room.
An invitation to gather and become, just as I was.
The dream finally became so clear.
The home I was building was one of nourishment.
A place to nurture the women who had spent so much of their lives caring for everyone else but themselves.
The Apothecary carries the medicine.
The Gatherings create space to experience it together.
The Births hold women through one of the most sacred transitions they’ll ever journey through.
These became the rooms of the home.
And in this year, one of the greatest gifts I received was the ability to observe.
To move through each season with curiosity.
To notice what the land was doing before asking what I should do.
Yahweh instilled so much wisdom into creation.
I simply wanted to become a student.
To slow down long enough to recognize that what my body was feeling, what my mind was carrying, and what my heart was holding often mirrored what creation was already revealing.
The garden taught me to trust timing.
Not to rush blooming.
Not to force fruit.
Not to mistake hidden growth for the absence of growth.
Observation became an invitation into the presence of the Spirit.
And there, I saw His glory.
I emerged.
In every way.
For so long, I felt like there were multiple versions of me.
The entertainer.
The wisdom keeper.
The mother.
The free spirit.
The believer.
I spent years trying to separate them.
This year, I stopped dividing myself and began embracing all of me.
Now my voice feels clear.
Not perfect.
But rooted.
There is a deep knowing that I’m showing up the way God has always intended me to.
My thirty-fifth year became my Butterfly Year.
It wasn’t the year I became someone new.
It was the year I stopped hiding the person God had been forming all along.
My vision became clearer.
My voice grew stronger.
My prayers became bolder.
And somewhere between a new moon in June and my thirty-sixth birthday, the garden gathered its own testimony in shades of pink and green.
She Speaks was born during this season.
The garden seemed to whisper, “You are becoming.”
I chose Monarda, Lemon Balm, and Tulsi because they were blooming around me.
They were the plants expressing themselves most fully in that moment.
Then came Rose, Estafiate, and Echinacea.
Softer.
Protective.
Grounding.
Together, they captured this season of my life.
Bright and beautiful.
Soft and strong.
Finding my voice.
Strengthening my prayers.
Clarifying my vision.
They became more than herbs.
They became witnesses.
Witnesses to a year of emergence.
She Speaks wasn’t simply a tincture I created.
It became a testimony.
A reminder that God had been cultivating something beneath the surface all along.
And when the time was right…
It emerged.
Scripture:
Psalm 139:13-14
“For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”
Until next time,
Jasz
The day before the full moon in May, the garden was in full expression.
As I walked through, like I normally do, I was so excited to see the abundance that comes after a heavy rain.
We got days,
like back
to back
to back
days of heavy downpours.
At least 10 days of rain within a two week span.
And the mulch was there to act as a living sponge, soaking it all up to release it back slowly into the soil. It holds the water in the soil instead of allowing it to runoff.
Moving through the garden, seeing all of this medicine, sparked an idea…
One of my favorite ways to make medicine is to create blends that are considered “Medicine of Place.”
This form of medicine making occurs when you harvest, not for a particular ailment, but by allowing the land to guide you.
It’s like a testimony of the land. Like a time capsule. You’re capturing a moment, not chasing a cure.
The garden was showing out and I became an observer. Gathering medicine that seemed to call out to me. The wisdom of God, so vibrant, so clear, so loud.
So I began to harvest…..
Starting with Monarda. Those beautiful tall stalks of purple blooms were practically singing out to me to be included.
The Lemon Balm, so green and vibrant, and growing fuller and fuller each day, had to be included. I love working with this herb! It’s like liquid sunshine: Bright & uplifting, both in it’s physical form and in the way our bodies respond to it.
Next, was Tulsi. Oh how I love me so Holy Basil. It withstands the heat of Texas, without batting a bloom. It feels like Psalm 23 in plant form. Refreshing my soul and all.
Those 3 became the base of this new formulation…
And then my eyes wandered to
Yarrow
the clusters of white flowers, looking both delicate and resilient
Calendula
thick yellow flowers, looking like sunshine, adding a special vibrancy to the garden
Lemongrass
tall and long, dancing in the breeze
Mullein
with its fuzzy sage colored leaves, growing in abundance
These were the plants that called to me
These were the blessings and provisions that Yahweh allowed me to steward
These were praise offerings
The name came quickly….
I’d call this blend, Breath of Life
I didn’t realize it as I was harvesting, but that’s what the formulation is doing
It’s a bright, aromatic medicine that opens the lungs, awakens circulation, and invites the breath of life.
It feels like summer. It’s bright. It’s uplifting. It’s activating. Telling you to breathe deep and see the beauty that’s all around you.
Scripture:
Psalm 23
The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing.
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
He leads me beside quiet waters, He refreshes my soul.
He guides me along the right paths for his name’s sake.
Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
I will fear no evil, for you are with me;
Your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.
Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.Until next time,
Jasz
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