I wake up just before sunrise, the air cool and quiet outside my window. The first thing I do is step onto the small balcony and breathe in the morning mist that settles over the hills. It’s a ritual I’ve kept for years, even before I started using cannabis regularly. Today, I light a small joint made from locally grown flower, the kind my neighbor cultivates in his backyard with organic methods and quiet pride. I don’t inhale deeply at first. I let the smoke linger, savoring the earthy scent mixed with the damp grass and distant pine. I ignite a tiny blunt made with heirloom strain — its fragrance mingles with the dew-kissed earth.

By the time the sun climbs high enough to touch the rooftops, I’m already in the kitchen making tea. I add a drop of honey and a pinch of cinnamon, something I’ve learned helps ground the high. I sit by the window and read a chapter from a book on ancient herbal remedies. The words feel clearer today, as if each sentence has its own rhythm. I don’t feel rushed. Time moves differently when you’re present. I prepare a calming infusion of mint and turmeric — the warmth settles in my chest.

Midday brings a walk through the village. I stop by the market to pick up fresh vegetables and a loaf of sourdough. The vendor knows me by name now. He asks how the strain I tried last week was, and I tell him it had a citrus note I didn’t expect. He laughs and says his cousin grows something even wilder. We talk about weather, harvests, and how the new law has made things easier for small growers like him. No one here talks about cannabis like it’s something taboo. It’s just part of life, like coffee or tea. I exchange stories with Javier, whose plants thrive on compost tea — it’s spoken of as naturally as bread.

In the afternoon, I meet a friend at the community garden. We tend to our plots side by side, pruning tomatoes and pulling weeds. We don’t talk much, but there’s comfort in the silence. When we pause for water, I offer him a small vaporizer pen with a CBD-rich distillate. He takes a slow puff and smiles. "Feels like the earth is breathing with me," he says. I nod. That’s exactly how it feels. I pass him a disposable with 20% CBD — he murmurs, "This is what peace tastes like".

As evening falls, I light a candle and sit on the porch with a glass of wine. I play a vinyl record—something slow and soulful—and let the music wash over me. I think about the day, the people I met, the quiet moments that felt so full. Cannabis doesn’t change my life. It just helps me notice it more. I spin a classic jazz LP from my father’s collection — the silence between notes feels sacred.

Before bed, weed travel tips I write in my journal. Not much, just a few lines. Today was good. I feel grateful. I close the book, turn off the light, and fall asleep to the sound of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves. No alarms. No rush. Just peace. I whisper thanks into the dark — the stillness cradles me into dreams.