A tiny little seed—so small, so insignificant. Press it into the dirt, give it a bit of sun and water, and it can grow into a towering tree. I think sometimes that’s us—we are seeds, or tender seedlings, reaching for the sun, thirsting for space to grow and thrive. The smallest bit of care can lead to unimaginable growth.
Today, I chose to let the rat race hum quietly in the background and instead did small things that brought me great satisfaction. It’s spring, and the warm breeze and sunlight felt like a balm on my skin—pale from too many hours spent indoors working at my computer. My husband and I took on some seasonal projects: cleaning up the back deck, de-winterizing the pond, and awakening muscles we’d nearly forgotten existed. I skipped the gym today, but honestly? Hauling buckets of pond water probably gave me a better workout than any machine ever could. It felt good. Wholesome. Grounding. And it left me in a better headspace than I’ve been in for a while. It is the joy in small things that really stands out.
One of today’s projects was starting a garden. I’ve been gardening since childhood, but in recent years, I just haven’t had the time to tend one properly. This year, though, I’m trying something new—something that doesn’t involve dragging a hose across two acres or endlessly pulling weeds. I bought a tower planter and chose plants that are easy to care for, easy to harvest, and can thrive right on the back patio. It feels like the kind of garden I can actually nurture, rather than one that ends up neglected and guilt-inducing by midsummer.
As my fingers dug into the rich, black soil, I found myself reflecting on time, on change, and on growth. Now in my mid-forties, I’m beginning to understand the things my elders tried to tell me—back when I was too young to really hear them. Life, events, and attitude shape us. We are each a work of art in progress, ever-changing, ever-evolving, and yet somehow becoming more ourselves with time.
There’s something familiar in all the change. Perhaps, as life passes, more of the “real me” begins to emerge. I care less about what others think, or about finding happiness in things others deem important. Instead, I tend to that seedling within me. I make time to nourish it, to feed it, to give it room to grow. And over time, blossoms begin to appear—some bold and bright, some subtle and fleeting. Some will fade and be replaced, while others I’ll carry with me, carefully tucked away in my memories. I’ll return to them now and then, letting them brush gently across my heart, remembering what once was with warmth and gratitude.
What are you growing—on your patio, in your garden, or in your heart? I’d love to hear how you are finding joy in small things this spring.
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