Hi Everyone

The last few days I’ve been sitting under the tree wondering if I have planted the seed of fire or bottled it up. Or perhaps I have planted it but not tended it well? Digging it up looking for just the right garden, the right crack of light to fit through.

Words from the Lord’s Prayer: “Forgive us… as we forgive” and the ask that we love our neighbor as ourselves… arise. Words that feel less like a request and more like a mirror. A mirror I’m not sure I want to look into, knowing how I struggle to love myself. What if the soil of the self is dry, cracked, and hard?

I know the truth of the interconnection of the web of life: that what we do to earth, what we do to others, we do to ourselves. And yet, I also know how difficult it is to forgive myself, to offer grace inward.

That tension led me to the story ‘The Seed and the Soil’, the soil of self-love, and the rain of kindness. It’s not a solution, but perhaps a way to walk with the question.

The Seed and the Soil
In the quiet valley nestled between two hills, Teacher Zahir tended a small patch of earth behind his hut. It was not part of the two gardens he was known for. This soil was dry, cracked, and stubborn. Yet each morning, he knelt beside it, pressing a single seed into the ground and whispering something no one could hear.

One morning, Layla, the young seeker, returned to Zahir. She bowed and asked,
“Teacher Zahir, why do you plant in soil that does not grow?”

Zahir smiled gently. “Because the seed is forgiveness.”

Layla frowned. “But the soil is barren.”

Zahir nodded. “Yes. It is the soil of the self, untended, hardened by years of judgment and silence.”

Layla sat beside him. “And you believe the seed will grow?”

Zahir looked to the sky. “Not by force. But even dry soil softens when the rain comes.”

Layla whispered, “And what is the rain?”

Zahir closed his eyes. “Kindness. Patience. The quiet act of loving what we are, even when we do not understand it.”

Layla touched the soil. It was still dry, but not as hard as before.

Layla’s Reflection: The Soil Within
I sat beside Teacher Zahir today, watching him press a seed into dry earth. I asked why he bothered, why plant where nothing grows?

He said the seed was forgiveness, and the soil was the self.

I didn’t know what to say. I’ve tried to forgive. Others, yes, but myself? That soil feels too hard, too tired. I’ve buried things there I don’t want to name.

But Zahir didn’t speak of force. He spoke of rain, of kindness, patience, and the quiet act of loving what we are, even when we don’t understand it.

I touched the soil. It was still dry. But maybe not as hard as before.

I wondered: If I have not forgiven myself, have I ever truly forgiven others?

And deeper still: What I’ve done to myself I’ve done to others…

Maybe the rain has already begun.

A final reflection as I return to sit beneath the tree.

The Path Between

The morning mist still clung to the valley when Layla set out, her steps quiet on the dew-covered path. She had begun walking without a destination, only a feeling a pull toward something unnamed.

Near the bend where the cedar trees grew thick, she saw an older man sitting on a stone. His cloak was worn, his posture still. He did not look up as she approached, nor did he speak.

Layla paused. Something in his silence reminded her of herself… not the self she showed, but the one she had once carried quietly, before Zahir had taught her to listen.

She sat a short distance away, not too close. She did not speak. She did not offer a question or a metaphor. She simply waited.
The wind moved through the trees. A bird called once and was answered. The man remained still.
Layla closed her eyes and breathed. Not every silence needs filling, she thought. Not every pain needs naming.

Layla sat beside the stranger, the silence stretching like a thread between them. She did not reach for it. She let it be.

The sun had begun its slow descent behind the hills, casting long shadows across the path. Layla remained seated beside the stranger, her breath steady, her heart quiet.

After a long silence, the man turned slightly and looked at her. His eyes were kind, deep with time. And then, he smiled.
It was not a wide smile, nor one that asked for anything. It was the kind of smile that carries recognition, not of a face, but of a moment shared.

He stood slowly, as if the silence had given him something he hadn’t known he needed. He did not speak, nor did he reach for anything. He simply placed his hand over his heart, bowed his head slightly, and turned to walk away.

Layla watched him go, her own heart still. She had brought no bundle, no token, to give him. Only herself. Only the quiet.
And yet, she knew both had received something.

Just before the bend, where the cedar trees grew thick, he paused. Without turning, he raised one hand in silent farewell. Then he was gone.

Layla sat alone once more, but the silence had changed. It was no longer the silence of waiting. It was the silence of something completed.

She closed her eyes and listened not for footsteps, not for voices, but for the stillness that follows a gift given and received freely.
And in that stillness, she smiled.

The Old Man’s Heart (inspired by the movie ‘The life of Chuck’)

As a young man, he had once been given a seed of fire by a gardener whose eyes held both sorrow and joy. “Plant this in your heart,” the gardener had said. “It will burn away the thorns and grow into a tree whose fruit is peace.”

And so he had. He had once thought the fire would only burn away what was false. But over time, he learned it also revealed what was beautiful.

There were days though, like today, when the ache of the world pressed heavy on his chest. Days when he saw too clearly the pain people carried, the harm they gave and received without knowing why. On such days, he did not try to fix anything. He simply sat, letting the ache be what it was.

Only today, he did not sit alone.

The woman beside him had offered no words, only presence. And in that presence, he felt the ache held, not erased, not explained, but witnessed.

It reminded him of a moment long ago, walking down a city street. A busker had played a rhythm that matched a businessman’s steps, and the man had stopped, set down his briefcase, and danced. The music changed to meet him, and for a breathless moment, he did not know if the man was dancing to the music or if the music was dancing to him.

Here also a young woman had joined him, and the world had become rhythm and movement and grace. And he could swear he heard the world sigh in gratitude.

It was one of the most beautiful things he had witnessed so he was not surprised when he found tears had started to fall. Something in him had recognized a truth: that life, at its most honest, is a dance between souls. Sometimes we lead. Sometimes we follow. Sometimes we simply move together.

That was what he felt now. The ache remained, but it was no longer solitary. It was shared. And in that sharing, it became something else, not pain, not joy, but the quiet rhythm of love.

Hi Alessa

Thanks, the stories are personal, most coming for old journal entries, but I also think universal in away. Is it odd that sometimes I find that comforting and sometimes it ticks me off. 🙂

The notion of forgiveness has long been a puzzle to me. In the community I grow up in the word was used in a way I assumed everyone must naturally just understand it. In hindsight I know that wasn’t true. But it feels like it should be so I think we pretend.

I won’t go too far down that road here, but I’ll just say. I’ve come to see forgiveness as more than a virtue. I see it as the one tool we have to help shape the world, even when we feel small in it. That thought makes me uncomfortable, and sometimes breaks my heart, and sometimes gives me hope. But yes, not easy, and I don’t feel I’m alone in wondering if the hardest person to forgive, may be ourselves.

Hi Alessa
A question I often ask what myself, what if…