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Quiet Earth Yoga

Casa
Costa Rica
Puerto Viejo
Quiet Earth Yoga

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.

Dirección

Puerto Viejo

Página web

http://thisquietearth.com/

Notificaciones

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