Hands in the dirt: Finding Peace in My Little Garden

Dirt under my fingernails is not glamorous, but it’s honest. My little garden isn’t anything grand, just a few pots and a corner of earth I’ve claimed as my own. It’s become a small sanctuary where I can press pause on everything else.

When my hands are in the soil, the noise quiets. I stop checking my phone, my breath slows. I pay attention to the little shoots that sprout where a tomato branch meets the main stalk. These suckers, that’s what they’re called, can’t be left to grow as they divert energy from the main stem. Or the way the sun hits the edge of the planter in the late afternoon. It’s therapy, minus the couch. A ritual that pulls me back to myself.

And yes, I’ve had more than one minor meltdown watching my little loves endure torrential rain and wind. But I keep at it, because every time I return to the garden, I feel just a little more rooted, literally and in spirit.

Bonus points if a tomato grows. Honestly, just one ripe tomato feels like a cosmic win. A reward for showing up, dirty hands and all.