In a quiet village ringed by trees, there lived an old woman who kept the most beautiful garden anyone had ever seen. Not because the flowers were grand or the hedges trimmed perfectly\u2014but because the garden always glowed, softly, like starlight in the morning dew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Travellers would visit and ask, \u201cWhat\u2019s your secret?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The woman would smile and reply, \u201cI plant only what is real.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No one understood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One day, a weary young man arrived. He had travelled far, searching for purpose. \u201cCan you help me?\u201d he asked. \u201cI don\u2019t know who I am anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She handed him a small trowel. \u201cThen dig,\u201d she said. \u201cPlant something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So he did. Every day, he returned. Sometimes he planted joy. Sometimes sorrow. Sometimes doubt. Sometimes hope. The garden welcomed it all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But the old woman always reminded him, \u201cPlant with awareness. Tend with love.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Seasons passed. One day, the young man looked around and realised: the light wasn\u2019t coming from the flowers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was coming from him<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The old woman, now faded with age, gently touched his shoulder and said, \u201cYou\u2019ve remembered who you are.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He looked down at his hands and smiled. And from that day forward, wherever he went, wildflowers grew in his footsteps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI am the garden. I am the gardener. I am the light.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\naudio version:<\/h2>\n\n\n\n