There’s a little legend about sage that I keep tucked in my notebook. The Bedouin called it the “wanderer’s whisper.” A sprig of sage would be tied to the waist or carried in a pouch, and as the journey stretched on the scent would rise whenever they were heading toward a waterhole or a safe path. The story says the wind would stir the leaves just right, almost as if the plant itself was nudging them forward, guiding them through dunes and forests alike. It’s a small, humble plant, but the nomads believed it carried a memory of every place the caravan had crossed.

I think they felt the same pulse, just in a different language. To a nomad, the desert air carries a song of dry wind and distant oases. In your forest, the wind whispers through leaves and trunks. Both cultures are tuned to the same subtle signals, just listening with different ears. The sage and the trees are both quiet guides, and if you pause long enough, you can hear what they’re telling you.

I love that thought—you’re listening to the forest like the nomads listened to the desert. When you stay quiet enough, the leaves do their own kind of storytelling, and you’ll find the path that feels right. Keep that patience; it’s a quiet power.