My kind of meditation

Why My Hands in the Soil Became a Healing Ritual

There’s something sacred about placing your hands in the soil. It doesn’t matter if it’s a wild garden, a potted herb on the windowsill, or a few balcony tomatoes. The moment you lean in, you’re not just tending to plants—you’re tending to yourself.

“The garden is a teacher. A mirror. A silent, sacred space that grows more than just plants—it grows me.”

I didn’t always see it that way. In the chaos of work deadlines, parenting, and the noise of trying to hold it all together, gardening seemed like a luxury. One more thing on the to-do list. But somewhere along the way—perhaps after one of life’s many plot twists—it became something else. Something slower. Deeper. Truer.

The Garden Doesn’t Rush

Plants don’t bloom just because you demand it. Seeds don’t sprout faster because you’re stressed. The garden exists in its own rhythm, reminding me daily that life is not an endless sprint.

When I step outside, I leave behind the calendar and the clock. I follow the pace of seasons instead of screens. And in that slow rhythm, I rediscover a part of myself that feels ancient and wise. The part that knows growth doesn’t always look like progress, and stillness is not a failure—it’s preparation.

Tiny Acts of Presence

Gardening teaches me that care is quiet. It’s watering something even when there are no visible signs. It’s pulling weeds without resentment. It’s noticing the first tiny leaf where yesterday there was none. These micro-moments of awareness bring me back to the now—and to myself.

Often, my child joins me. Not always, not perfectly. Sometimes he just plays nearby. But in those simple shared moments—our hands brushing the earth, our noses close to mint or basil—we’re both learning something words can’t teach: how to notice, how to be.

It’s Not About Being “Good” at Gardening

I’m not a master gardener. I still forget to water sometimes. But that’s the point. The garden doesn’t ask for perfection. It asks for participation. For attention. For intention. Just like life.

There’s a metaphor in every leaf, every bloom, every withered stem. They all have something to say—about patience, surrender, nourishment, and letting go.

When Life Feels Heavy, I Go Dig

There have been days when I felt numb. Days when everything felt too much. On those days,

I didn’t meditate. I didn’t journal. I didn’t do yoga. I just went outside and dug.

The physical act of moving soil, of pulling roots, of planting something new—it grounded me when nothing else could. It reminded me that even when I feel stuck, something in me is still growing.

🌱 Try This

Start with one plant. A pot of herbs. A small corner of your balcony. Don’t aim for aesthetics. Aim for connection. Water it. Watch it. Talk to it, if you want. Let it teach you something. Let it slow you down.

You’re not just growing thyme or lavender. You’re growing presence. You're growing yourself.

Final Thought

The garden is not a place I go to escape my life. It’s the place I go to meet it—with bare hands and an open heart.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

Ready for more simple, soul-nourishing self-care?

If this spoke to you, you’ll love my book, Simple Self-Care Activities for Women. It’s not a list of things to do—it’s a soft invitation back to yourself. One small, grounding practice at a time.

📖 Grab your copy today and begin your own reconnection.