The soil was moist and cool against her bare knees as she knelt at the garden’s edge. Untended, forgotten and depleted, the garden could offer naught but weeds and the soil of hope. As long as there was soil surely there was hope. If weeds themselves could take root in the soil, blossom and grow, surely wild flowers could find a home for their roots, if they had room.
Without gloves she proceeded to pull the weeds. Carefully, she shook the soil from the weeds’ roots back into the garden. As each weed was pulled they were given names. They were weeds because of what they were not, but what they were should not be dismissed. At first only her hands did the work. As time went on, the garden thinned, the soil breathing now tried to help and freely released the weeds.
Over time the garden was healed. The weeds were gone. Wild flowers found their home there. Color blossomed in the garden and many drew comfort from the beauty they found.
The gardener walked with the garden through the seasons. Each day at dawn she said good morning through the kitchen window. An unobstructed view of the garden, save for one potted plant that stood in the window sill. It was a clay flower pot she had made. Growing in the pot was one of the weeds she had pulled. As she would lean into the window to say “good morning,” her fingers touched the word painted on the pot. The garden and weed returned the “good morning” and the sun would begin to warm her paths.