09/05/2025
The Garden Whisperer
(for the ones who talk to the tomatoes)
My patients are sensitive souls—
because they had to be.
To survive the unspeakable,
they grew antennae instead of armor.
And in the quiet of the therapy room,
they say things like:
“Don’t laugh,
but I talk to my garden.
I talk to my tomato plants.”
And I nod,
because I know—
they are speaking to something sacred.
They say,
“I talk to them every day,
and because I do,
they grow.”
And from one gardener to another,
I feel their words root into my chest.
Their garden blossoms inside me.
One patient, this year,
couldn’t do it.
The garden.
The planting.
The ritual of bloom.
“I’m running on empty,” she said,
and her voice trembled
with silent judgment.
As if rest were failure.
As if empty meant broken.
But my soil heard her soul—
crying out in the language of depletion.
And I said:
“Maybe the earth is telling you something.
Maybe your garden is your mirror.
Maybe you need to rest.”
Let the soil lie fallow.
Let the soul lie fallow.
Let the energy replenish
in silence,
in stillness,
in trust.
“You don’t have to garden this year,” I said.
And her breath softened.
A pause.
A flicker of choice.
Of freedom.
Because when you are no longer on autopilot,
when you can say yes or no,
not from obligation—
but from alignment—
you are returning home to yourself.
Maybe next year, there will be tomatoes.
Maybe not.
That’s not the point.
The point is:
we trust the rhythm of the earth.
We trust the rhythm of the soul.
We rest when rest is holy.
We return when we’re ready.
And the garden will wait.
Because the gardener
is finally listening
to the soil within.
