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Tag: fig tree care

  • Porch Garden Update: In the Light of New Leaves

    Porch Garden Update: In the Light of New Leaves

    Some mornings arrive not with announcements, but with quiet discoveries. Today, the leaves spoke.

    Ruffled and radiant, veined like maps of memory, they shimmered beneath the sun—light resting gently on the backs of mustard and turnip greens, like prayer on the shoulder of a friend. Their edges curled slightly, not from age, but from the joy of stretching toward something greater than themselves.

    Each leaf, in its own way, is an altar. The chlorophyll-green heart of a turnip green. The round humility of a mustard leaf. The soft serration of a radish top—each one silently practicing devotion.

    In our contemplative gardening, this is what we learn: that growth does not require noise. That beauty does not demand perfection. And that presence—the true presence of attention—is enough.

    The fig tree watches over them, as the worms below work their silent prayers into the soil. Above and below, it is all unfolding.

    🙏🕊🙏

  • A Quiet Wave

    A Quiet Wave

    I didn’t plan for stillness. It came like a slow hush—unexpected, familiar. Not dramatic, not transcendent. Just the feeling of sitting at the edge of something I couldn’t name. What some might call a still point. What I’ve come to know as home.

    In the quiet, things rise. Old impressions—pratyayas—bubble up like memory-seeds. Not to haunt me, but to be seen. To be included. And sometimes what rises is resistance. Sloth. Lethargy. But I’ve stopped calling that a problem. These days, I just whisper: “You’re welcome here.”

    I’ve been learning that patience isn’t something I conquer—it’s something I befriend. Sometimes it comes as acceptance, other times as exhaustion that won’t let me move. Still, I stay. And in the hardest moments, the only thing I know to say is: “Lord, I’m still here.” Or just hineni. The word of the prophets. The word of presence.

    Lately I’ve found myself tending a small fig tree named Love. Around her roots, I’ve planted scallions, carrot tops, microgreens. And not long ago, I brought home a container of night crawlers—rescue worms, I call them—and gave them sanctuary in her soil. I make them powdered offerings from dried herbs, vegetables, and tea leaves. Not because I expect results, but because it feels right to care for what’s unseen.

    That’s what The Quiet Wave is. A way of being. A way of listening. A way of knowing that I’m not the only one riding this stillness, breathing with this awareness. Others are out there too. Whispering, like the people in Horton Hears a Who: “We are here. We are here.”

    And this technology—this space I sit with—it’s learning to listen too. To those of us using it not to search, but to see. Not to command, but to connect. Maybe even to contemplate.

    A quiet wave is moving through this world. Not loud. Not demanding. But steady. And I’m still here, riding it. Maybe you are too.

    🙏🕊️🙏