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3 Sources Mind Body Nutrition

Are you tired of trying to navigate your health? Do you want to reduce risk or heal naturally whilst cultivating a healthy and vibrant lifestyle you love?

You no longer have to journey alone

05/10/2025

salt door

i didn’t build it at first.
i waited beside where it might be,
as if love were a carpenter
and not something that leaves.

i kept the space swept,
as if grief were dust
and not devotion.

some mornings i set a bowl by the threshold—
not offering, not invitation,
just the gesture of someone
who still believes in return.

later, when the waiting wore through,
i gathered what remained:
a fig, bruised sweet at the neck;
a spoon that remembered a mouth;
a shard of mirror still catching light.

i boiled water with thyme.
i stitched linen thread through the frame,
softened with spit and rosemary oil.

the door i built was not of wood.
it was salt crust and wind-warped pine,
its threshold lined with crushed bay and ash.

i pressed my thumb into the grain
until it held my print.
i leaned my ear to it once—just once—
before i finished the hinge.

the silence answered,
but not in my voice.

there was no handle. no latch.
only the ache,
rising like heat,
learning how to walk forward.

⸻

i think this is where i’ll rest a while—
before the air begins to move differently.
i’ll see you on the other side of the salt door. ✧

02/10/2025

three quiet hours · evening (part iii)

I light the lamp before the room forgets itself.
I place one book on the table, even if I won’t read it.
The pages stay closed. That is enough.

The dishes are washed without ceremony.
The cloth is wrung.
The lemon peel left in the sink.

I close the window, not all the way.
Just enough to let the night arrive.

No letter waits to be written.
No presence to prepare for.

Still, I fold the blanket.
I pour the last of the tea.
I sit in the chair by the stove,
where the light holds a softer kind of silence.

I offer only this: my presence, unhurried and whole.

⸻

these quiet hours are a small part of a larger thread I am slowly weaving inside the unfinished hour ✧

30/09/2025

three quiet hours · morning (part i)

I open the shutters slowly—
like a wound that no longer needs to bleed.

I do not check the sky for signs.
I let the weather be what it is.

The kettle is clean.
The water is cold.
No voice breaks the silence.
Only the cupboard, breathing.

I hold the spoon
as if it remembers something I’ve forgotten.

I pour milk like mercy.
I eat standing up,
in the soft light that knows me
but asks nothing.

I do not speak to the past.
I salt the eggs.
I fold the napkin.
I place one fig in the bowl,
then another.

I offer what I can:
tea,
silence,
the soft fold of linen.

⸻
my longer writings live inside the unfinished hour ⟡

28/09/2025

the other kind of harvest
✧

There is a kind of harvest that does not line shelves or fill jars. It leaves your hands open, your heart unshelled. It arrives quietly, at the edge of a season—when light slants lower across the wall, when the air carries the scent of turning, when the body no longer reaches for more, but leans, at last, into the quiet weight of its own return.

This kind of harvest doesn’t gather what has grown, but what you’re ready to release. An old story. A room you’ve outlived. The shape you once made yourself smaller to fit. It doesn’t fill your arms, but lives in gestures: setting one less place at the table. Folding away what no longer fits. Closing a drawer without ceremony.

It’s not what remains, but the grace of what falls away that reveals the season. This is the other kind of harvest—not of more, but of enough. Not a conclusion, but a clearing. A place set down. The bare furrow where something unnamed might root.

If you are here, perhaps you too are standing in the soft aftermath of something once tended. Perhaps you are learning, as I am, that the field knows how to rest without apology. That the body can loosen its grip and still belong to the living world. That silence is not a void, but a preparation. And that the seeds—the true ones—need no urging. They wake when the light is right, the ground is ready, the time has come.

For those who walked the path with me: may what you gathered find its way into your days—in salt, in ritual, in stillness. Thank you for letting me write into your kitchens. Your shelves. Your lives.

The field lies quiet now, but the work carries on. It continues inside The Unfinished Hour—and soon, in a place where land dissolves into water, and the wind begins to speak differently. If you feel called, you’ll know where to find me.

The light has changed. The season knows.

26/09/2025

A chair pulled back.
A fig left bitten.
Not relics, but testaments.

What departs is not erased — it goes on living under another name.

This week inside The Unfinished Hour:
⟡ She Is Not Gone — a poem of the elsewhere self
⟡ the companion prose What Remains When We Are Elsewhere
⟡ the diptych (chair + fig)
⟡ and a liturgy line to carry

(link in bio)

⸻

24/09/2025

✧

the light is lower now.
it lingers on the atelier floor a little longer before it leaves.
this is the season of gathering—not in haste, but with care.

this sunday will bring the final letter from the 3 sources membership.
the archive will close that evening.
and with it, a chapter that has meant more to me than I can say.

six slow years.
hundreds of recipes, rituals, fragments, and quiet invitations.
a rhythm built not on productivity, but presence.
you met me there.

if there’s something you’ve loved from the 3 sources archive—
a salt blend, a tea ritual, a story quietly marked—
now is the time to gather it.
screenshot it.
tuck it away.
let it live in your kitchen, your body, your drawer.

perhaps one day, this will become a book.
but for now, this is the final ember.

and beyond it, a new threshold.

I’ll be returning to the page in the season ahead—
writing more deeply, more devotedly,
inside the unfinished hour,
where I’ll share poetry, essays, and fragments
from the still-wild centre of my creative life.

if this chapter has nourished you,
I would be honoured to meet you in the next one.

this sunday, I’ll share one last letter.
a parting harvest.
not of fruit—but of what remains when we’ve tended something well.
when it’s time to let it rest.

the final letter will arrive as it always has—
quietly, and with care.

✧

↳ subscribe to receive the final letter (link in bio)
↳ after sunday, the archive will close

22/09/2025

threads of a day
autumn equinox · provence

• the figs are nearly gone. we ate them with sheep’s cheese,
and let summer go quietly between bites.
• the wine was the colour of dusted plums.
we drank it as if it remembered something we didn’t.
• I picked thyme from the stone wall
and let most slip through my fingers. not everything needs to be kept.
• someone said the days lean differently now.
I watched the light agree.
• I folded the linen as if I were keeping something alive inside it.
• radicchio bled across the board—bitter, exact, and still beautiful.
• the poem I began in June left me only one line worth keeping.
• I wore wool for the first time. it remembered me.
• a wasp drowned in the bowl of pears.
the light caught its wings like stained glass.
• I swept the terrace. the leaves didn’t resist.
• we lit candles—not because we needed them,
but because the dark had earned them.
• I sat on the stone step until the warmth left me.
• I woke from a dream where nothing tilted. the waking did.
• I carried in the last basil. it smelled like a kind of grief.
• a moth at the window
• a prayer I mouthed but didn’t offer
• one thread left loose on the sleeve of the day

—

this is the work of the equinox:
to hold what ripens
and to release what cannot be gathered.

⟡

if this braid feels like your own—
The Unfinished Hour is already yours.

↳ subscribe via link in bio
to step inside the archive.
to gather what still glows.

21/09/2025

Pear light, kept. A letter for the seam of the season.

Late September holds a light that does not cling. It leans, then leaves. This jar belongs to that letting go.

The equinox does not announce itself. It arrives balanced—shadow and warmth, ripening and release. Here, at the seam, the pears begin. Freckled. Weathered. Not jam. Not butter. Something quieter: a way of keeping the light a little longer, without holding it fast.

This week’s Sunday Letter is a recipe, yes—but more than that, a threshold. Pears simmered with lemon, chamomile, and patience. A tea steeped for the inward turn. A meditation on what softens into sweetness, and what endures when the season tilts.

From the herbal shelf and the orchard floor. Infusion. Simmer. Reverence. A keeping of light, for the days that feel thin.

This is the penultimate Sunday Letter before the membership closes. If you feel drawn, there is still time to step inside—time to gather the archive while it remains whole: recipes and rituals, seasonal resets, herbarium and apothecary, essays and reflections, the small, quiet provisions of a lived season.

↳ You are warmly invited. Link in bio.

⟡

19/09/2025

When the World Flares Back

When the world flares back, it does not arrive soft.
It arrives like a hawk cleaving the silence—
a seam of late light splitting the room,
the wind teaching a glass to sing.
Sometimes it is smaller: a moth, weightless and fierce,
landing at the hollow of the wrist—
an afterimage of a star.

What returns is never the old shape.
It is stranger, wilder: a bright, quick mercy
that makes the ordinary insist on being more.

⟡

Inside The Golden Hour I’ve gathered what flares back—
a voice note spoken into the dark,
a prose companion on the smallest mercies,
three distilled lines,
and a new fragment risen from absence.

If you feel called to step further in—link in bio.

16/09/2025

Not all houses are meant for summer. This one speaks its deepest language in autumn and winter. When the valley falls silent, when mist gathers on the ridge, when the markets turn to pears and chestnuts, the house begins to speak.

It speaks in the sound of wood stacked against the wall, in bread rising slowly in the kitchen, in firelight leaning across stone. It speaks in stillness, in the way light softens toward evening.

Not only a house for summer escape, but a sanctuary. A place for those who seek retreat in other seasons—for writers, for lovers, for anyone longing to rest inside stillness. The walls keep watch. The fire remembers.

Sometimes the season you thought you had missed is the one that teaches you how to arrive.

The house is an oracle then, speaking in firelight and silence. What it tells cannot be carried away, only lived.

Maison Aumône is open for autumn and winter stays.
For booking, see link in bio.

The house is also available to hire for aligned interior, brand, or editorial shoots—a space held with care for those creating from reverence. Send a quiet message to enquire.

⟡

“Inside the silence is a different order of being.”
— Jane Hirshfield

14/09/2025

I loved the way you loved the abandoned orchard—
how you spoke of the trees like women left waiting,
still offering their fruit with a kind of aching grace.

I never cared for apples.
But I would have gathered every windfall
just to keep that tenderness alive.
—rb

❦

A Sunday fragment from the thread I’m quietly tending inside The Unfinished Hour.
For those drawn to the ache, the offering, the trace.

—

Address

84360

Website

https://rachel-baker.mykajabi.com/opt-in

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