You've stepped into soil I hold dear. Not because it is polished or certain, but because it is the place where I learned to listen. To dreams. To the small aches. To the slow work of becoming.

This was never meant to be a loud space. It is not a stage. It is a garden. A quiet one. A place where questions can rest and wonder can grow at its own pace.

Here, I gather what has been entrusted to me. Stories that rise from sorrow. Poems born in the stillness. Dreams that speak truth in a different tongue.

Some bloom quickly. Others stay seeds for a long time.

I do not write from a mountaintop. I write from the ground. My hands are still stained with earth. If you are here, maybe you are searching. Or maybe you are tired.

Either way, stay as long as you need. There is room for you. Nothing must be solved today. Sometimes the waiting is the growing.

Welcome to the garden.

 

With dirt under my nails,
The Gardener