Layla’s Last Season

Layla’s days were growing quiet.

The garden she had planted, part wild, part tended had grown into a place of peace. Children still played beneath the branches, the wind still carried stories, and the soil still held secrets.

She sat beneath the tree she had once planted with trembling hands. Now its roots ran deep, its shade wide. She looked out over her garden and smiled.

Though it was small, it was big enough.
Though it was simple, it had enough for everyone.

She remembered the faces of those who had come Sami, the restless student; Mira, who planted in spirals; the old woman who wept beside the thorns. And she remembered Zahir, her teacher, who had once walked between two gardens: one walled, one open.

In the stillness, Layla heard a voice beneath the silence.

It laughed.

And in the laugh, she heard Zahir’s warm chuckle… gentle, knowing, amused by the way of life, how a garden teaches.

In that moment, something shifted. Not a thought, not a conclusion, but a realization deeper than knowing.

Zahir had never tended two gardens. It was always one.

The wall and the wind, the order and the wildness, the questions and the silence… they were not separate. They were threads in the same tapestry. Her garden, too, was part of it. Not apart, but a part.

The web of life shimmered before her, not as an idea, but as a presence. Everything connected. Everything belonging.

Tears welled in her eyes, not from sorrow, but from the sheer beauty of it. She laughed, and her laugh was not hers alone. It joined the voice beneath the silence, the eternal chuckle of her teacher, the wind in the jasmine, the song of the soil.

Layla’s cry and laugh became one.

The wind stirred the leaves. A vine reached toward the sun. A bird sang from the wall. And Layla, the gardener who had once asked what compassion and freedom was, now rested in it.

Epilogue:

Long after Layla’s footsteps faded from the soil, her garden remained. It did not grow larger, but it grew deeper. The roots of her tree reached into the memory of the valley, and the wind carried her laughter like a song remembered.

Travelers still came to feel what she had felt. They sat beneath the branches, touched the soil, and listened for the voice beneath the silence.

Some planted seeds.
Some wept beside the thorns.
Some built fences, then gently took them down.

And all who came left changed, not by answers, but by presence. They learned, as Layla had, that freedom is not found in choosing between wildness and order, but in the courage to create something that holds both. That wisdom is not taught but grown. That the garden is not a place, it is a way.

And if you listen closely, in the hush between wind and leaf, you may hear a laugh… gentle, knowing….

And it welcomes you.
 

Layla’s Garden

Years passed since Layla planted her seed in the land between the gardens. Travelers came and sat beneath it drawn by something they couldn’t name.

Layla had become a teacher, not in title, but by presence. She did not preach, nor did she instruct. She tended her garden, listened to the wind, and welcomed those who came with questions.

One day, a young man named Sami arrived. He was restless, full of ideas and doubts. He had studied many books and followed many paths, but none had brought him peace.

He asked Layla, as Layla once asked, “What is freedom?”

Layla smiled and handed him a seed. “Plant it,” she said.

Sami looked around. “Where?”

Layla pointed to the edge of her garden. “Anywhere you feel it belongs.”

He chose a spot near a crooked stone, cleared some weeds, and planted the seed. He watered it and sat beside it.

Over the weeks, Sami returned. He watched the seed sprout, then struggle. He built a small fence, then removed it. He tried to shape the plant, then let it grow wild. He learned to listen, not just to the plant, but to himself.

One day, he said, “I think I understand. Freedom is not a place or a rule. It’s a relationship.”

Layla eyes shone bright. “Yes. Between care and release. Between knowing and not knowing. Between the seed and the soil.”

Others came. Some planted in rows. Some scattered seeds in the wind. Some built walls, others tore them down. Layla never corrected them. She only asked, “What does your garden teach you?”

And so, the valley changed. It became a place of many gardens, some wild, some ordered, some both. People came not to escape, but to create. Not to be free from, or free to, but to be Free With.

And in the quiet of the evening, Layla would walk among them, her hands in the soil, her heart open to the wind and loved them Free.

Hi Alessa
As I’ve gotten older and look back on my quest to understand today I would say it may be enough to plant the seed… perhaps in both gardens.

As to Sufi teaching, I am a outsider looking in. My impression is that Sofi teaching is a gentle unveiling to guide the heart reveling truth and a ‘understanding’ through lived experience. Perhaps better seen in contrast to the Zen koan, the metaphorical slap to disrupt habitual thinking and provoke direct insight into reality, “jolting” the mind awake.

Despite their differences, both aim to dissolve illusion and awaken to the truth of unity. “Zen does it by cutting through; Sufism by drawing in. One strikes the mind, the other stirs the soul”. In hindsight I see that I needed the metaphorical slap of Zen to prepare me to be drawn into heart. Zen clearing the ground, Sufism planting the garden… Contemplation letting it grow…

I’ve been thinking about continuing the story of Layla and will see if I can add something to the question of teaching.

A story I’ve been working on over the last few days

The Boundary and the Boundlessness

In a quiet valley nestled between two mountains, there lived an old gardener named Zahir who tended two gardens.
The first garden was enclosed by a low stone wall. Inside, herbs and vegetables grew in neat rows. Zahir watered them daily, pulled weeds, and spoke to each plant by name. He knew which ones needed shade, which ones needed space, and which ones thrived with a little neglect. Visitors often came to admire the order and health of this garden.

The second garden lay beyond the wall, wild and boundless. Flowers bloomed in unexpected places, vines curled around ancient trees, and the wind carried seeds from faraway lands. Zahir never planted here. He only walked, listened, and sometimes sat for hours beneath the sky. Few visited this garden, for it had no path, no gate, and no map.

Sometimes, the mist would settle over the gardens like a veil, softening every edge. And sometimes, when Zahir sat still enough, he could feel the pulse of the earth beneath him like a heartbeat, slow and steady, reminding him that life moved even when nothing seemed to change.

One day, a young traveler named Layla arrived. She had heard of Zahir’s wisdom and asked to learn the secret of compassion.

Zahir smiled and handed her two seeds. “Plant one in the walled garden,” he said, “and one in the wild.”

Layla did as she was told. The seed in the walled garden grew strong and straight, nourished by care and protected from harm. The seed in the wild garden grew crooked and luminous, touched by moonlight and mystery.

After many seasons, Layla returned, confused.

“Master Zahir,” she said, “the first seed grew because I tended it. The second grew without me. One needed boundaries, the other needed freedom. Which is compassion?”

Zahir looked at her gently. “Both,” he said. “Compassion is the gardener, not the garden. It knows when to build walls and when to walk beyond them. It speaks the language of care in many dialects.”

Layla frowned. “But the wild garden has no rules. Doesn’t compassion dissolve boundaries?”

Zahir picked up a fallen leaf and held it to the light. “This leaf,” he said, “was once part of a tree. It fell, not because the tree rejected it, but because the wind called it elsewhere. Boundaries are not prisons. They are invitations to know where you begin, so you may know where you end… and then forget both.”

Layla sat in silence, watching the wind stir both gardens.

And in that silence, she understood: Compassion is not the absence of boundaries, nor the presence of them, this not a contradiction, only different petals of the same flower.

Zahir smiled, “It is the gardener who listens to the seed, not the wind of old words that tries to shape its bloom.”

She pondered this, and three voices rose beneath the Silence.

The first came as a breeze brushing the soil, asking gently, “Which seed will rise, and which will sleep?” And the soil did not answer. It only held.

The second shimmered like mist over the wild garden, whispering, “Do not seek to name the dance. Just feel its rhythm.” And the mist did not explain. It only embraced.

The third pulsed like a heartbeat beneath her ribs, murmuring, “The path is chosen before the mind draws its map.” And the heart did not argue. It only opened.