I enjoy tending my garden; its simplicity gives me joy. A profusion of wildflowers that wave in the gentle breeze and shine through the sun-dappled leaves; casting a sweet fragrance to the aura of tranquillity. Here my heart refreshes itself and my spirit is content. It is my haven.

But it was not always so. When I first found my garden it was withered, weed-choked, with burnt, barren patches scattered about. Its desolation and neglect were palpable to my gentle senses. Few would undertake its restoration, but I innately knew it would be beautiful once again. I began my work.

I started with a tiny seed and carefully chose a spot of dirt that was somewhat weed-free and unburned, planting it within the loamy soil. I would occasionally water that spot and gently push back any encroaching weeds, waiting for that first spark of green. My patience was rewarded with a slender shoot and a single pale green leaf. Soon the tiny plant developed a bud that yielded a small, delicate white flower. I smiled.

Still, I tempered myself, for the flower would not last, and I sighed when its petals dropped. Failure; indeed not, because I let this plant reach maturity, not grasping for its fine bloom. So tiny seeds were scattered by the breezes to other locations within my garden and some took root. Time passed and I would glance at my garden, looking for new life. Soon, more tiny shoots would peek above the grasses and flowers would form. So it began.

Over time I added other seeds for diversity of color, height, and time of bloom. The weeds held at bay and the burnt patches were once again green and colorful. Birds and bees became frequent guests, helping to transform my garden into nature’s own mosaic. I have no desire to tame my garden; its wildness is a balm to my soul. I long to stay within its confines; never again will I yearn to wander alone amongst the countryside. I am home.