A Day In The Apothecary
My counter is ridiculous right now. Oils stacked on one side, dried petals scattered across the other, and this tiny square of space cleared just big enough for me to keep working. It’s chaos, but it’s my kind of chaos. Cozy, messy, alive. Today it’s chamomile floating on golden oil, calendula petals slowly dyeing everything this deep, honeyed orange. Being from Washington, I miss the rain here in Utah — so when the room smells earthy, like a garden after a storm, I feel at home.
Before I even get to the petals and oil, the jars need to be ready. There’s a pot boiling on the stove, lids rattling softly against glass. Steam curls up as I lift each one out, setting them on clean towels where they fog and clear, fog and clear, cooling down just enough for the next step. I check the herbs as I go, running them through my fingers, holding them up to the light. Chamomile still sweet and buttery, calendula still bright as sunshine. Anything dull or faded gets set aside. If it’s going to steep for weeks, it has to start vibrant.
Filling the jars is slow and quiet. A scoop of petals here, the warm pour of oil there. The sound of glass clinking, the way dried herbs whisper and the oils bubble as they settle. Each jar feels like I’m tucking something in for a long rest. Once the lids are on, they’ll sit for weeks — no rushing, just quiet magic happening out of sight.
Some of these oils will go into Zen Reset. Some into Boo Boo Balm. I’ll use them like I always do — for scraped knuckles, for winter hands and taming inflamation. It’s not about selling or stocking shelves. It’s about having what I need, and making enough to share. It’s slow work, but it feels like the right kind of slow. As I close the door to the apothecary tonight I feel grateful. For the plants, for the work of my hands, for the use of my body and the slow rituals that keep me connect to myself.
Thanks for hanging out with me here today. When you open a jar or bottle from Blossoming Botanicals, I hope you feel a little of this space too — the patience, the care, and the quiet intention poured into every batch.
Rest well,
Dena