I place a seed into the soil, and in doing so, I place my trust in time.

The garden teaches patience—there is no rushing the rhythm of the earth. The seed will sprout when it is ready, the flower will bloom in its own time, and the harvest will come only when the season allows. I can water, I can tend, but I cannot command. Nature listens not to urgency, but to care.

I marvel at the quiet wisdom of plants. A vine will seek the sun, stretching ever upward, unshaken by the weight of the world. Roots will entwine beneath the surface, unseen yet essential, reminding me that what sustains us is often hidden from view.

The soil holds more than life; it holds memory. Each garden is a reflection of hands that have nurtured it—of laughter shared over fresh-picked berries, of lessons learned from trial and error, of quiet moments spent among the green.

To garden is to be a steward, a witness, a student. It is to understand that growth is not always visible, that change often happens beneath the surface before it ever reaches the light.

And so, I tend, I wait, I believe.

For the garden always returns to bloom.