I found myself in my garden, surrounded by the flowers my mother once loved.

This garden is mine—planted in my time, in my rhythm—but still, she’s here.

Listening to the birdsong, I heard her laughter, soft and familiar.  She was there in the dancing of the bees.

Not in shadows, but in sunlight on petals, in the tender way certain blooms return,
year after year, like memory.

I loosen the soil. I placed each seed. But it was her love of beauty, her quiet way with growing things,
that taught me how to begin.

Now, as I move through the rows, pulling weeds, brushing past the lavender, I feel more at peace than I’ve felt in a long time. Not because the work is easy—but because it’s honest. Grounding.
And somehow, it brings me back to myself.

This is where I hear my own thoughts. Where I pray without words. Where her voice drifts in softly—
not instructing, not correcting, just reminding me:  to slow down, to notice, to care.

In this little patch of earth, I am learning to bloom again. Not as who I was, but as who I’ve become.

Until next time, be kind to each other

xoxo

Cindy

Proverbs 31:25-26