Planting The Wild Again

$7.99

Night. That’s when the quake had started. Willow had been in her quarters writing, when the mastiffs began to growl. Not bark, growl, low and ancient. Then came the rumble. The earth sighed, then shifted, then shook with a ferocity that felt like a scream muffled under blankets.

Resha had burst in barefoot, shouting, “Mom, come on!” Her face was flushed, but her voice steady. Always steady.

They’d run barefoot together down the hallways, past trembling jars and swaying lanterns, out into the garden where others gathered, half-asleep, some sobbing, some silent. Hawke had appeared from the roof. “It’s not over,” he said. “Stay low. Check the structures when it stops.”

And when it did stop, that’s when the real work began.

Categories: Bitter Sweet School Series, Planting The Wild Again, The Apothecary Press

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This is not a tale of doom.

There are no zombies clawing at doors. No desperate raids. No fearsome militias imposing cruelty.

Instead, this is the story of something quieter. Something stronger.

A soft apocalypse, if you will, not because it wasn’t devastating, but because, in the absence of noise and power and the distractions of the old world, what rose was a whisper of resilience. A return to what matters most.

It began with a pandemic. Then came economic collapse. Then natural disasters that felt biblical in their precision and persistence. The world cracked open. But instead of crumbling entirely, some places, some people, chose to rebuild.
At the center of one such place was the Bitter Sweet Herbal School…

Journal Reflection:
Some things we build with hands.
Others we build with hope.
This place, Bitter Sweet, is not perfect.
But it is living. And that means it breathes, aches, adapts.
We are not here to return to what was.
We are here to become what might be.
I look around and see people who carry flame in quiet ways,
A girl who speaks to trees.
A boy who listens to birds.
A woman who braids story into bread.
A healer who still aches for his son and shows up anyway.
If this is the end of a season, let it be one that ends with truth.
If this is the beginning of another, let it be one that begins with trust.
The fire does not ask us to be fearless.
Only to stay.
Only to feel.
Only to tend it together.
And so we will.