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It was the third time that week that my garden looked… wrong.
Wilted shoots, dry soil. I had followed every instruction in the book, even scheduled the watering down to the minute.
I stood there, clippers in hand, frustrated. “Why won’t you grow?”
Then I noticed an elderly woman walking by. She paused, smiled, and said, “Are you gardening the plants, or gardening yourself?”
I blinked. “What does that mean?”
She pointed at a crooked little marigold. “You’re trying to control the growth. But the garden listens to more than rules—it listens to care. To rhythm. To trust.”
That night, her words played over in my mind. And for the first time, I didn’t water on schedule. I just sat. I felt the breeze, noticed the changing leaves, breathed in the scent of the earth.
Over the weeks, something shifted—not just in the garden, but in me. I stopped trying to perfect. I started listening. I trimmed less and observed more. I began letting go of my need for control—not just with plants, but with my life.
By autumn, the garden still wasn’t perfect. But it was alive. Real. Flourishing in its own time.
And so was I.
That’s when I finally understood:
“A true gardener doesn’t force things to grow.
They create space, offer love, and trust the seasons to teach.”
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