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*The first green shoots are up.* | *The first green shoots are up.* | ||
I was walking the other day when I paused by the patch of earth I’d turned over last spring—a small, stubborn plot beside my cabin, where I’d planted a few packets of seeds I’d bought on a whim. *Why bother?* I’d asked myself, watching the soil dry into cracks. After the divorce, I’d felt like a place that had been abandoned, overgrown with thorns. I couldn’t even keep a single houseplant alive for a month. Now, here I was, tending to nothing but dirt and memory. | I was walking the other day when I paused by the patch of earth I’d turned over last spring—a small, stubborn plot beside my cabin, where I’d planted a few packets of seeds I’d bought on a whim. *Why bother?* I’d asked myself, watching the soil dry into cracks. After the [[happiness:Happiness After Trauma|divorce]], I’d felt like a place that had been abandoned, overgrown with thorns. I couldn’t even keep a single houseplant alive for a month. Now, here I was, tending to nothing but dirt and memory. | ||
But the seeds had chosen to grow. Not a single, dramatic bloom, but a cluster of tiny green spears pushing through the dark earth, barely visible. I knelt, my knees stiff in the damp morning air, and touched one with a fingertip. No one saw. No one needed to. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t need to prove anything. | But the seeds had chosen to grow. Not a single, dramatic bloom, but a cluster of tiny green spears pushing through the dark earth, barely visible. I knelt, my knees stiff in the damp morning air, and touched one with a fingertip. No one saw. No one needed to. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t need to [[accept:The Need For Approval|prove anything]]. Because I was still capable of tending, of hoping, of watching the world renew itself without needing a witness. | ||
That’s what mattered. It wasn’t the sprouts themselves—it was the quiet certainty that I’d *done* something. Not for someone else, not to fix a broken thing, but simply because I could. Because I was still capable of tending, of hoping, of watching the world renew itself without needing a witness. | That’s what mattered. It wasn’t the sprouts themselves—it was the quiet certainty that I’d *done* something. Not for someone else, not to fix a broken thing, but simply because I could. Because I was still capable of tending, of hoping, of watching the world renew itself without needing a witness. | ||
Nature teaches us that growth isn’t always loud. It’s in the slow unfurling, the patient turning of soil, the way a single shoot finds its way toward light without a single word of encouragement. For the first time since the divorce, I didn’t feel like I was waiting for something to happen *to* me. I was part of the happening. | Nature teaches us that growth isn’t always loud. It’s in the slow unfurling, the patient turning of soil, the way a single shoot finds its way toward light without a single word of encouragement. For the first time since the divorce, I didn’t feel like I was waiting for something to happen *to* me. I was part of the [[brave:Starting Over|happening]]. | ||
I sat there for a long time, just watching. The forest breathed around me, and for the first time in years, I breathed with it. | I sat there for a long time, just watching. The forest breathed around me, and for the first time in years, I breathed with it. | ||
'' | *— Ellen Ferguson, patient as the land* | ||
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''Written by'' [[User:Ellen Ferguson|Ellen Ferguson]] — 05:23, 02 January 2026 (CST) | |||
Revision as of 11:23, 2 January 2026
The first green shoots are up.
I was walking the other day when I paused by the patch of earth I’d turned over last spring—a small, stubborn plot beside my cabin, where I’d planted a few packets of seeds I’d bought on a whim. Why bother? I’d asked myself, watching the soil dry into cracks. After the divorce, I’d felt like a place that had been abandoned, overgrown with thorns. I couldn’t even keep a single houseplant alive for a month. Now, here I was, tending to nothing but dirt and memory.
But the seeds had chosen to grow. Not a single, dramatic bloom, but a cluster of tiny green spears pushing through the dark earth, barely visible. I knelt, my knees stiff in the damp morning air, and touched one with a fingertip. No one saw. No one needed to. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t need to prove anything. Because I was still capable of tending, of hoping, of watching the world renew itself without needing a witness.
That’s what mattered. It wasn’t the sprouts themselves—it was the quiet certainty that I’d done something. Not for someone else, not to fix a broken thing, but simply because I could. Because I was still capable of tending, of hoping, of watching the world renew itself without needing a witness.
Nature teaches us that growth isn’t always loud. It’s in the slow unfurling, the patient turning of soil, the way a single shoot finds its way toward light without a single word of encouragement. For the first time since the divorce, I didn’t feel like I was waiting for something to happen to me. I was part of the happening.
I sat there for a long time, just watching. The forest breathed around me, and for the first time in years, I breathed with it.
— Ellen Ferguson, patient as the land
Written by Ellen Ferguson — 05:23, 02 January 2026 (CST)