Our Journey So Far.

Leaving Tuscany was never part of the plan. The golden hills, the cypress trees that watched over us like silent guardians, and the slow, warm rhythm of life had wrapped themselves around my heart. But something deep inside—restlessness, maybe—began to whisper that our chapter there was closing. My hands itched for something new, something entirely our own. That’s when the idea of Sicily, with its wild beauty and forgotten corners, took root. And with it, a dream even more audacious: to start a lavender farm from scratch.

Sicily welcomed us with sun-scorched fields and a kind of ancient defiance in the land. Nothing came easy here. The soil was different—rockier, drier, stubborn in its own way. The farmhouse we found was crumbling at the edges, choked with weeds and ghosts of neglect. The water situation unreliable, the freshly bored well brackish and unsuitable for planting, a hefty outlay for a reverse osmosis system was now on the cards. The locals were kind but skeptical. “Lavender?” they’d repeat, brows furrowed. “Here?” I didn’t blame them. The fields around us have grown wheat and olives for generations; lavender felt like a strange whisper in a land used to bold declarations. But I saw it in my mind: neat rows of silver-green shrubs, the horizon trembling with violet bloom, the scent of it drifting down from the hills like a blessing.

The truth is, we haven’t planted a single lavender plant yet. Not one. Most days are consumed with groundwork—literally. Tearing out old roots, testing soil, hauling stones, clearing space. We’re still learning what this land needs, what it will tolerate, what it might love. Some evenings I stand at the edge of the unplanted field, ankle-deep in dust, and imagine what it could be. I close my eyes and try to hear bees buzzing where only silence lives now. It feels foolish sometimes, standing there with nothing but ideas. But I also know that’s how all real things begin.

There are moments when doubt creeps in like a sudden wind. What if the soil won’t yield? What if the lavender fails? What if all we’ve done is trade one dream for another kind of burden? It’s easy to romanticize change from a distance. But the reality is rawer. Harder. And yet, under all the questions, there’s something steadier growing in me—patience. A sense that creation doesn’t rush. That roots, both in land and in life, need time to find their way.

This isn’t just about planting flowers. It’s about planting ourselves. Taking root in unfamiliar ground, finding meaning in the labor. We’re preparing for the first planting like it’s a ceremony—choosing varieties, mapping rows, building the irrigation system by hand. Every task is a prayer for what might come. And even in the waiting, there’s a kind of quiet joy. A faith in the unseen.

Starting a lavender farm in Sicily, without a single plant in the soil yet, might seem like a dream held too loosely. But dreams don’t always look real in the beginning. Sometimes they’re just sweat, empty fields, and a belief that beauty is possible—even here, even now, even from nothing.