Our First Classes at Tree Likkle Herbs
Today was incredible.
Full of surprise and uncertainty, certainty and quiet magic — and I was present for all of it, in every sense.
I started the morning completely groggy. I barely slept the night before. The Lila arrived a little earlier than planned — maybe ten or fifteen minutes — and texted me while I was still fresh out of the shower. I threw on clothes, half-awake, still trying to gather myself and my Portuguese at the same time.
When she walked in, she moved through the apartment with pure wonder. Everything felt new to her. The space, the light, the rooms, the studio. She kept stopping to take things in — and I was still standing there blinking, trying to wake up.
She talked fast. Very fast. I gently told her I was still warming up — both my body and my language — and that my Portuguese would catch up in a few minutes. She laughed and said it was amazing that I sounded the way I did after only a few months. She was surprised I could follow her messages and stories. I told her I could — even if she spoke quickly.
While I finished getting ready, she began quietly documenting the space — the workshop table, the shelves, my painting corner, my easel, my work area. She kept repeating how beautiful everything was.
And something about that landed.
I realized I hadn’t really had anyone here to witness what I’ve built. To see what I wake up to every day. It felt strangely moving to have someone respond so openly to a space I’ve already grown used to.
That feeling became a quiet thread through the entire day.
As the morning unfolded, my Portuguese suddenly found its rhythm. I caught myself speaking fast, forming ideas quickly, moving between thoughts without stopping. It felt almost like I blacked out and woke up speaking from inside Brazil itself.
We talked about life, work, relationships, art, identity, family. She told me about her daughter, about how her child is navigating questions of race, beauty and belonging. About her own marriage ending. About dating. About how complicated commitment can feel here. It was intimate in the way brief encounters sometimes are — unplanned, honest, and surprisingly grounding.
Lila is a beautiful spirit.
Not long after, my first guest arrived with her daughter.
The child moved through the space like weather. She finished quickly. She wandered. She disappeared under the table. She tested every boundary. And yet — when I later looked through the images — all I could see was beauty. The butcher paper stretched across the wood table. The pigments laid out like small planets. Brushes, jars, light moving across hands.
Even the chaos read as tenderness.
There are photos of mother and child together. Portraits I promised everyone. There is a quiet image of me reading with her when she finally slowed down — illustrated books spread across the table. That moment softened everything.
I love children deeply. I always have.
After they left, it was just Lila and me.
We spoke about art. Her career. My past life as a designer. The way creative work moves through different industries. She told me that many clients tend to control every detail of a shoot — directing and correcting constantly — and how rare it is for her to have freedom to move the way she did today.
I told her, simply and honestly, that her work doesn’t need correction. That I could see her mastery not only in her portfolio, but in how she moves, how she observes, how she anticipates moments. That I trust her as a creative.
She became quiet for a moment.
The next morning, she messaged me to thank me for trusting her.
That stayed with me.
I know what it feels like to create without being trusted. To have your vision questioned even when it is your craft. Saying it out loud to another artist felt necessary — and tender.
Later in the afternoon, my second group arrived.
Two couples, staggered arrivals, strangers to each other — and mostly strangers to me. I realized how little I actually knew them. And somehow that made the openness easier. There was no history to manage. Only presence.
We talked about oxymels, vinegars, honey, fermentation, and medicine. The words came out of me effortlessly. The passion surprised even me. The questions were thoughtful. The attention felt real.
What moved me most was how quickly the guests connected with one another.
They began planning future gatherings on their own. Talking about returning. Creating together. Sharing skills. One of them even brought a candle from his own small business — and it happened to be scented with geranium.
That stopped me.
That morning, I had reached for my geranium oil and realized I had run out. Geranium was the scent of my first marriage — one of the happiest days of my life. And now it quietly returned on this day — which has become one of my new favorite days.
I can’t explain that kind of timing.
Later, I noticed how Lila captured every layer of my life — not only the workshop, but my veranda, my desk, my painting, even small quiet moments that no one usually witnesses. She suggested yoga poses when she saw my mats earlier. She asked me to move through the space as myself. To work. To paint. To sit. To be.
It went far beyond what I had hired her to do.
She captured my private rituals. My rhythms. My creative solitude.
That was her vision.
That was her magic.
When the medicine-making finished and I began cleaning up, no one rushed to leave. They stayed. They sat on the sofa. Gathered around the table. Drifted between Portuguese and English. Laughed. Rested into the space.
Steady hands.
Medicine making in action.
It was exactly what I dreamed of three years ago.
Community.
I didn’t know how these people would get along. I didn’t really know them at all. And yet they looked completely at ease together.
They marveled at the shelves of herbs. At the textiles. At the small objects filling corners I once worried felt unfinished. They joked about how expensive everything would be if it were sold in a shop. They took photos of jars, rugs, hanging fibers, colors.
In the end, the images from my first classes were warm, bright, gentle, and unpolished in the best way. They feel human.
When it was finally quiet again, I tried to name what I felt.
The first question that came to me was not “Was this good?” but:
What’s next?
That surprised me.
It all felt almost too easy.
And that unsettled me.
A day later, the feeling is still here — soft, full, and strangely open. I’m still trying to understand what it means when something you worked so long for finally arrives — and arrives gently.
If you’re curious about plant medicine — and you’re craving a slower, more human way of learning — I’d love to welcome you into the studio.
My workshops are small, intimate, and hands-on. We make real medicine together, move at a gentle pace, and leave space for questions, conversation, and quiet moments in between.
Come as you are, no experience necessary — only curiosity.
Join the next session and reserve your spot.
