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Quiet Earth Whole Living with Amy Jirsa She's a sucker for mystery novels, hot chocolate, anything green, long winters, and wild weather.

Amy is the author of The Herbal Goddess Guide), blogger, herbalist, massage therapist, yoga instructor, homesteading girl from Maine. She is a teacher and a student and believes that, with enough practice, anything is (probably) possible.

09/10/2025

Costa Rica drop—days 3&4

08/10/2025

Mini Costa Rica drop with

01/01/2025

2024: the gratitude collection

15/07/2024

Petals,

You are allowed to mourn the plans you made, dreams you’ve coddled for a lifetime.

I moved around so much as a kid (and as an adult, tbh) that the only thing I ever wanted was a home base, a place I could settle into, adventure out of, and always return. My own home was something I remember dreaming of when I was ten, and never seemed like *that* crazy a dream.

Ha. Well.

Now I’m in my 40s and let me tell you—I feel like such a massive failure for not being where I wanted to be, or even where others my age “should” be (and have been). That I will probably never realize that dream? To say it’s heartbreaking doesn’t even come close to describing the meltdown-on-the-kitchen floor feeling of abject failure I get when I let myself think about what “otherwise” looks like.

But I know it’s an opportunity. An opportunity to embrace that freedom I’m always on about and redefine my idea of “home” (and yes, it pains me to say that—doesn’t mean it’s not true). And, yes, I know, I have a roof over my head (at least, at least, at least—you know how I feel about at least), but this defeat (my words) is something I have no choice but to roll over, redefine, and move on from.

All that’s to say—you are allowed to be disappointed. You are allowed to be wrecked by disappointment. You can feel like a failure, despite other so-called wins. You had pinned your fragile, expansive heart on a thing. That deserves to be mourned. Grieve, yes, but then redefine. Slant your hope (essential to life) and send it toward some other, more tangible star.

11/07/2024

Island time

16/06/2024

A bit o’ Charleston

02/05/2024

And sometimes you realize your shell isn’t quite as porous as you believed (or remembered), that the liminal spaces aren’t quite as abandoned as they appeared, and that you really do have some control here, in the mad clockwork chaos that we spin in (or that spins us) from day to day.

Maybe it seemed hopeless because it was chemical. Or situational. Or maybe you were coming to terms with something you hadn’t seen. But you know what? I don’t care how much the evidence stacks against us—I choose hope. And I will choose it every day until I can’t physically choose anything anymore.

You can’t tell me there isn’t always a way around or through. I will spin, and I will adapt.

10/02/2024

A few weekend-y things that make gratitude easy.

24/01/2024

Petals—

I know how impenetrable it can seem—shadows are long
and we are so very small.
But shadows shift, light gets through.
And isn’t it funny how often we forget
to look up?

We have one way of looking
at the world until we do something
that scares the s**t out of us
and maybe leaves us dazed for a while
until we settle and realize
how much of a habit the shadows have become
and how (maybe) the light has been there
for longer than we’d noticed.

09/01/2024

It’s very hard to tell the truth, not because we don’t want to. We do want to. We want that more than anything—to be seen, to be heard, to have someone remember that throw-away thing we said because, for whatever reason, it mattered.

How wonderful that is, to matter. We’re so conditioned to believe otherwise, that we’re just here taking up space, and we keep apologizing for it. But the thing is, if we were brave enough to be present, if we were brave enough to look at each other the way we wish we could be seen, we wouldn’t doubt our importance—or anyone else’s.

Small gestures take presence—a hand on their back as you walk by because touching them is so much better than not. A full-body hug because it’s the only way to telegraph how much it means to you that they’re here. A text because a ridiculous song came on the radio and you can’t NOT tell them ( 👀). Not just remembering how they take their coffee, but grabbing one en route because you can.

This isn’t about judging someone for not doing what we never ask for—that’s a conversation we can have another time. This one is about grace and the indescribable, phenomenal gift of being seen.

22/12/2023

Petals,

It’s been a while, but here’s what I’ve been considering lately—and I see it in our feeds, so I know I’m not alone. We spend our lives protecting ourselves, avoiding vulnerability. Like, I will always refuse to admit that I’m a romantic, worried that any hint of sensitivity would brand me “a girl,” or that I would take up too much space. Gender labels aside, none of us are allowed to be as sensitive as we are. None of us feel welcome to take up the space we deserve, to ask for what we need.

So let’s start a vulnerability movement. We’ll go small, ease our way in.

I have a playlist that makes me cry every time I listen (and it’s why I listen 😜). I have a deep, embarrassing affinity for anguished love songs. John Cusak and a boom box will always be the epitome of romance. In my nomadic life, everyone stays in this old-school card catalog in my head—the way one person loses book covers because they hate the hassle of them; the way another is always at least seven minutes late; the way one responds to my ridiculously long-winded, overthought texts with a precise and poetic two words; the way one person’s voice completely changes when they talk to their dog; the way someone will start a song over on their guitar if they make a mistake; the full-on way another hugs.

The inherent romance of people breaks my heart, and I’m so grateful. How else can we allow ourselves to be seen without vulnerability? How else can we connect? When did we get so reticent? So afraid? When did we learn it, and how can we unlearn it now?

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http://thisquietearth.com/

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