This is a letter to the one who feels their garden will never bloom.
It won't be written well, or in proper syntax.
There comes a time when none of that matters.
To the dreamer that is tired of the never ending chase,
To the heart that's heavy, and the soul that's crushed by the weight of rejection,
There comes a time when the only thing that matters is putting one foot in front of the other.
One seed at a time.
The vision of your garden is yours, because only you were meant to have it.
It's grand, unique, complex, and nourishing.
Cultivating it is going to be a cumbersome task, my friend.
To the fingers worked into bloody, gnarled claws,
there will be months,
there may be years, where the only reign is silence and the only growth is doubt.
The urge to wallow in the muddy rows will be great.
As long as you make friends with the earth worm, this is fine.
Pay attention to those creatures closest to you while you toil.
They are more important to your blooms than you realize.
Some will help, some will harm.
Do away with the aphids and get yourself some ladybugs.
Then, dust off your hands and get back to work.
Weed.
Fertilize.
Sow.
The silence will try to stiffen you. You must not let this happen. You must sing.
You must dance. You must write. You must act. You must paint. You must, you must, you must,
you must,
sow.
Every single creation is a seed.
It is a prayer.
It contains life.
It will give life to another.
Every unanswered prayer is still echoing.
It will sing for years to come.
It will find its ears.
Keep sowing.
