Adalie, the tenderness, the noticing, the way he honored your small hand and encouraged your concealed carry pursuit… those weren’t just gestures. They were mirrors, reflecting back parts of you that may have felt invisible for a long time.

What you’re grieving isn’t just his disappearance—it’s the sudden absence of being seen. That time with him awakened something sacred in you, and it’s understandable that your heart keeps returning to it. Not because you’re stuck, but because it mattered. Because you mattered in it.

And yes, it’s entirely possible that the depth of that connection stirred something in him he wasn’t ready to face. Sometimes people seek casualness as a shield, and when real intimacy slips through—especially the kind that’s gentle and unforced—it can feel like a risk they didn’t plan for. That doesn’t mean you did anything wrong. It means you showed up with presence, and he wasn’t equipped to meet it.

What you’re doing now—holding onto the feeling of being seen, even without him—is powerful. You’re not just mourning what was lost; you’re reclaiming what was revealed. That you deserve tenderness. That you deserve to be encouraged without being controlled. That your details matter.

You didn’t accidentally give too much. You gave truth. And truth, even when brief, leaves a lasting imprint.

Sending you warmth as you continue to honor what this moment awakened in you. You’re not alone in it.

Warmly, Anita

Dear Gregory: Not focused now. I will read and reply Wed morning (It’s Tues night here).

Anita

Adalie, thank you for sharing that—it’s powerful and really moving. I can feel how much that experience meant to you, and how his kindness and attentiveness gave you space to feel safe and supported.

He didn’t just offer kindness; he extended something much more meaningful: a sense of being seen—the way he honored your voice, your autonomy, and even tuned into subtle details like your hand size.

When someone shows up with tenderness and care without demanding or diminishing (making fun of us), it has the power to restore something foundational. It’s like he said to you: “I believe in your strength, even when the world denies it.”

By nudging you toward concealed carry, not from pressure but through validation, he handed you back a piece of agency, a piece of strength. A way to stand taller, with purpose.

It’s no wonder you felt empowered. I understand why you can’t get him out of your head 😔

That your heart still circles back to him, maybe it’s because something sacred happened—something that deserves to be remembered- that you deserve to be seen like that every day, by others and by yourself…?

Anita

Thanks for sharing these reflections, Peter 😊. I appreciate your thoughtful presence in the garden of this conversation.

Anita 🌱🌸🌿🌻🪴🌳

Dear Gregory:

Thank you for this incredibly kind and thoughtful message. Your words truly touched me. I never expected my writing to reach people so deeply, and knowing that it made a difference means more than I can say.

I’m grateful for the trust, the friendship, and the shared commitment to integrity.

I’ll keep writing, and I’m proud to walk beside people like you who aren’t afraid to stand up for what’s right.

Thank you for seeing me, for encouraging me, and for being part of the journey.

With warmth and respect, Anita

Hi Peter:

Your story is brilliant.

“He knew which ones needed shade, which ones needed space, and which ones thrived with a little neglect.”-

In human terms, he knew that some people thrive when you offer steady presence and care—like giving shade. Some need freedom and autonomy—space to find themselves without pressure. And some find their strength when you step back and let them wrestle with life on their own—neglect not as abandonment, but as trust in their resilience.

The neat garden is the temporal existence: measurement, labels, separation.

“The second garden lay beyond the wall, wild and boundless.”- That’s the eternal—no separation, no labels, no measurement.

“The first seed grew because I tended it. The second grew without me. One needed boundaries, the other needed freedom. Which is compassion?”- Before reading his answer, I knew it was “both.”

“(Compassion) knows when to build walls and when to walk beyond them. It speaks the language of care in many dialects.”- Compassion doesn’t mean being endlessly open or available. Sometimes, the most loving thing you can do is set a boundary:

* Protecting your well-being from emotional harm

* Saying no to toxic dynamics

* Creating space for clarity and healing

These “walls” aren’t punishments—they’re acts of care. Like fences around a garden, they preserve growth and protect what’s tender.

Other times, compassion asks us to soften, stretch, or step beyond the boundary:

* Offering understanding after someone sincerely admits fault

* Letting closeness deepen when trust is earned

* Choosing grace where judgment might be easier

It’s not contradiction—it’s discernment. Compassion knows the difference between self-sacrifice/ self-erasure, and heart-expansion.

Compassion isn’t one-size-fits-all—it changes based on what’s needed. For one person, care might mean sitting silently beside them. For another, it’s calling out a harmful pattern. And sometimes, it means walking away without apology.

“Boundaries are not prisons. They are invitations to know where you begin, so you may know where you end… and then forget both.”-Boundaries often get mistaken for walls that shut people out or isolate us. But in truth:

They’re not punishment—they’re protection. They’re not rigid—they’re responsive. They’re not fear-driven—they’re clarity-driven

Boundaries invite authenticity, not restriction. They create a frame where your true self can move freely, without being overrun.

Without boundaries, it’s easy to lose your sense of “me” in someone else’s chaos, urgency, or projections. To know where you begin is to reclaim agency and voice. Boundaries help you identify where you stop and the other begins:

* What’s mine vs. what’s theirs? Where does my responsibility end? When am I merging, absorbing, or abandoning myself?

Boundaries guard against emotional enmeshment and relational self-erasure… against the belly-up posture I habitually took.

“Zahir smiled, ‘It is the gardener who listens to the seed, not the wind of old words that tries to shape its bloom.’”- The gardener here is the one who nurtures life attentively—not by imposing, but by listening. They hear the potential whispering from within the seed. They honor the seed’s unique rhythm, rather than forcing it into a mold

They recognize that growth requires presence, not control

To listen to the seed is to be guided by what wants to become—not what others expect it to be. It’s a metaphor for relational attunement—parenting, mentoring, or loving with patience and curiosity.

The “wind of old words” symbolizes, for me, the voices of shame, doubt, or cultural expectations. These winds try to dictate how the seed should bloom—how a person should grow, speak, love, exist. But wind is external. It may be loud, persuasive—but it doesn’t truly know the seed.

This line is a radical act of compassion: It urges us to cultivate from the inside out, not the outside in. To be the kind of presence that listens instead of labels. To trust what’s emerging—even if it doesn’t match what the winds once declared.

It’s about tending the seed instead of yielding to the wind.

“’Do not seek to name the dance. Just feel its rhythm.’ And the mist did not explain. It only embraced. ‘The path is chosen before the mind draws its map.’ And the heart did not argue. It only opened.”- This speaks to the urge we often have to define, categorize, or make sense of what we’re experiencing emotionally, or spiritually.

But some things, especially the most profound, can’t be named. They’re meant to be felt, not explained. Like: a moment of connection you didn’t plan for, a truth that arrives without words, an instinct to choose grace instead of retaliation

Naming is the mind’s attempt to control. But feeling the rhythm is the soul’s way of moving with life.

And that final line—“The heart did not argue. It only opened.”- That’s when we stop trying to explain everything and simply walk forward.

WOW, Peter!

Anita (and Copilot)