Why I Grow a Garden

I grow a garden for many reasons, but none of them are about perfection. The garden is not something I control as much as something I participate in. Each year, it invites me back into relationship with the land, with my body, and with the passing of time.

I grow a garden because it slows me down. In a world that moves quickly and demands constant output, the garden insists on patience. Seeds do not rush. Weather cannot be negotiated. Growth happens on its own schedule, and I am reminded, again and again, that my job is to tend, not to force.

I grow a garden because it teaches me to pay attention. To notice when something is thriving and when it is struggling. To learn from failure without shame. Some years are abundant. Others are humbling. Both have something to offer if I am willing to listen.

I grow a garden because it feeds more than just our bodies. Yes, it fills our table with food, but it also feeds something deeper. It grounds me in the season I am living in. It connects me to generations before me who planted and waited and trusted that something would come of it.

There is a quiet faith woven into gardening. You place something small into the soil and believe that life will follow. You water, you wait, you show up consistently, even when nothing seems to be happening. Gardening reminds me that much of life works this way too.

I grow a garden because it brings beauty into ordinary days. Tomatoes warm from the sun. Greens gathered in the morning. Dirt under my fingernails. These are small, tangible joys that ask nothing of me except presence.

I grow a garden because it reminds me who I am when everything else feels loud. It calls me back to what matters. To care. To stewardship. To hope.

And I grow a garden because, every year, I need the reminder that life continues. That growth is possible. That with patience, attention, and trust, something good can come from even the smallest beginning.