Stefano Venturi

This morning, I arrived at the Palermo Botanical Garden, Italy, just as the gates creaked open. The air was cool, carrying the scent of the sea mixed with damp earth. I made my usual rounds, checking on the plants I’ve come to know like old friends. The Arbutus unedo was looking particularly healthy, its glossy leaves catching the light just so.

As a botanist here for over three decades, these plants have been my constant companions, through seasons of growth and decay. There’s something about being among them that brings a kind of peace I can’t find anywhere else. It’s as if their silent, steady growth has a way of calming the chaos of the world outside.

A few years ago, I started experiencing strange symptoms—nothing too alarming, just a persistent fatigue and a sense of heaviness that I couldn’t shake. I went from doctor to doctor, but no one had any answers. It was frustrating, to say the least. I felt like I was losing myself in that fog.

One day, during one of my walks through the garden, I found myself drawn to a quiet corner where the light filtered softly through the leaves. I sat there for a long time, letting the silence envelop me. It was in that stillness that I realized I needed to turn to the plants, not just as a scientist but as someone seeking healing.

I began researching medicinal herbs more deeply, combining them into a tea I drank daily. Over time, the fog lifted, and my energy returned. I’m 54 now, and I’m convinced that nature holds the key to healing. It wasn’t just the tea, though. It was the act of slowing down, spending time among these plants, feeling their quiet strength seep into me.

Today, as I stand in the garden, the scent of lavender wafts by, carried on a gentle breeze. I breathe deeply, grateful for this place, for the life it holds, and for the quiet lessons it has taught me about finding balance and healing in the simplest of things.