The Garden Gate
There was once a young woman who inherited a beautiful garden from her mother. The garden had always been a place of joy — a patchwork of colours, scents, and memories. Her mother had tended it with care, knowing the names of every flower and when each would bloom. But now, the garden felt different. The once vibrant flowers seemed duller, and weeds crept through the cracks in the soil. The young woman walked its winding paths, her chest heavy with sorrow. Without her mother’s hands to guide it, the garden seemed to lose its purpose.
One morning, she came across an old wooden gate at the back of the garden. It had always been there, though she’d rarely paid it much attention. Ivy twisted around its frame, and the hinges groaned as she pushed it open. Beyond it lay a patch of untamed earth — wild, uneven, and overgrown. She hesitated, the thought of tending it alone overwhelming. But then she remembered her mother’s words, spoken long ago: “A garden doesn’t need to be perfect to grow. It only needs care, a little patience, and someone willing to try.” So, she knelt down and cleared a small space. She pulled the weeds and loosened the soil. It was hard work, and the patch still looked rough. But as the days passed, she planted seeds — some familiar, others new. Slowly, green shoots began to rise. She often thought of her mother as she worked. And though the ache of loss remained, it no longer weighed her down. It was as if the love that had once tended the old garden now flowed through her hands, helping her shape something new.
Years passed. The once-wild patch beyond the gate had transformed. Flowers of every colour swayed in the breeze, mingling with climbing vines and fragrant herbs. Some plants she recognized from her mother’s garden — favorites she had chosen to grow again. Others were new, their blooms unfamiliar but no less beautiful. The young woman no longer worked alone. Friends had brought her cuttings from their own gardens, and she’d welcomed them with care. Birds nested in the trees she planted, and bees hovered lazily from flower to flower.
Yet, the old garden remained. She still tended it, cherishing the memories it held. The flowers her mother had planted continued to bloom, though the beds had changed with the passing seasons. She no longer felt the need to keep everything exactly as it had been. Some plants had gone, but others had grown in their place. And the spirit of her mother — gentle and enduring — seemed to linger in the rustle of the leaves and the warmth of the sunlight.
One day, a young neighbour passed by, pausing at the gate. “Your garden is beautiful,” they said, eyes wide with admiration. “I wish I knew how to grow something like this.” The woman smiled, remembering how uncertain she had once felt. “You will,” she replied softly. “All it takes is a little patience, and the willingness to begin.” She handed the neighbor a small bundle of seedlings, ones that had grown strong in her own soil. As the young neighbor walked away, the woman felt a quiet warmth rise within her. The garden had not only grown — it had been shared.
And in that simple exchange, she understood something she had always known but never fully seen. Her mother’s love had never truly left. It had taken root within her, blossoming in every choice to nurture, grow, and begin again.
Why am I telling you a story?
Our brains are metaphorical things. Our unconscious mind - the thing that REALLY guides our every thought and feeling, understands just about everything via metaphor - stories and mental images. They might seem simple, maybe even a bit corny, but they have real power when it comes to communicating ideas and making changes to your health.
Hope you enjoyed this tale. If nothing else, it's a chance to take a few minutes and enjoy a moment's reading and reflection.
I have lots of stories to tell you....come and find out what your story might be!