Gentle, Gentle

In the garden, everything small is listening. Do you know the garden’s rule?

Gentle, gentle.

Here is a new leaf, just born, still folded like a little green letter. Touch it with one finger. Gentle, gentle. Don’t pull — leaves are still holding their mother’s hand.

Here is a snail, carrying its round house. We don’t pick up the snail’s house — someone lives there! We watch. Watching is a way of touching, the gentlest way of all.

Here is the marigold. Smell it — mmmm! The flower gives its smell for free. It can stay on its stem and still give you the present.

Here is a busy line of ants, going to ant-work. Big feet step OVER. Careful… careful… there! The ants say thank you in ant language, too small to hear.

Here is Mili the cat, asleep in the sun. Pat her the slow way, head to tail, head to tail. Gentle, gentle. Hear that? The rumbly sound? That’s a cat saying more, please.

And here is the tulsi, thirsty in her pot. Tip the water slowly… slowly… glug, glug, glug. Not a flood. A drink.

Small things. Soft things. Growing things. The garden is full of them, and every one of them is being very brave, letting a big person like you come close.

That’s why the rule is the rule.

Gentle, gentle.

Now the sun is going down, and the garden is going to sleep — the leaf, the snail, the flower, the ants, the cat, the tulsi.

Goodnight, small things. You are safe in this garden.

The gentle hands are going to bed.