Lao Tzu

Hello friend,

It’s Gary here. I’ve spent most of this morning staring out the window at a patch of particularly stubborn mud that used to be my lawn. If you’re feeling that familiar itch to get your hands in the earth—only to be met with a biting wind or a sudden downpour—then this issue is for you. We’re leaning into the "wait" today.

There is a specific kind of restlessness that arrives in the weeks between the end of winter and the true beginning of spring. I call it "The Grey Wait." It’s that period where the calendar says it’s time to be productive, the seed packets on my kitchen table are screaming for attention, but the ground remains a cold, waterlogged sponge.

Last Saturday, I walked out to my borders with a trowel in hand, convinced I could at least start clearing the debris. I took three steps and felt that sickening squelch—the sound of soil structure being crushed underfoot. In the gardening world, we’re taught never to work soil when it’s too wet. If you dig it, walk on it, or try to plant in it while it’s saturated, you squeeze out all the tiny air pockets. You turn what should be a fluffy, breathable home for roots into something resembling unbaked clay bricks. Once that damage is done, it can take years for the worms and the weather to fix it.

So, I retreated to the patio, feeling defeated. I sat on a damp bench and realised that my frustration wasn’t really about the mud. It was about my own inability to sit still.

We live in a world that values "doing" over "being." We are rewarded for hustle, for early starts, and for "making things happen." But the garden doesn't care about my schedule. It operates on a timeline of temperature, light, and drainage. It requires a specific kind of patience—not the passive patience of someone waiting for a bus, but the active patience of a guardian watching over a process they cannot control.

This wait is a form of resilience. It is the ability to hold our energy in reserve, trusting that the sun will eventually draw the moisture out of the earth, and that when the time is right, the work will be easier, more effective, and far more joyful.

The Turning Point: The Lesson of the Clump
I picked up a handful of that wet earth, intending to throw it back into the border, but I stopped. I squeezed it. It stayed in a tight, anaerobic ball—lifeless and heavy. It struck me then that I often do this to myself. When I’m in a "season" of life that feels heavy, cold, or stagnant, my instinct is to force a breakthrough. I try to "fix" my mood or "grind" through my exhaustion.

I realised that by forcing growth before the conditions are right, I’m just compacting my own spirit.

Navigating the Seasons of the Self
Just as the garden needs the water to drain away before it can breathe, we need our own periods of "drying out." We have seasons where we are saturated with grief, or stress, or simply the mental "grey" of a long winter. During these times, our foundations are fragile. If we push ourselves to perform, to start new projects, or to "bloom" on command, we risk damaging our inner structure. We risk burnout—the human version of compacted soil.

The lesson the garden is whispering to me this week is about honouring the threshold. The earth isn't being lazy; it’s busy filtering, processing, and holding. It’s preparing for the massive caloric explosion of spring growth. If it doesn't have this time to sit in the wet and the cold, it won't have the strength to sustain the roses in June.

I’m learning to look at my own "waiting rooms" with more kindness. If I’m not ready to start that new habit, or if a project feels like I’m pushing a boulder uphill, maybe it’s not a lack of willpower. Maybe the soil is just too wet. Maybe I need to wait for a bit more internal sunshine before I start digging.

There is a profound peace in saying, "The conditions aren't right yet, and that is okay." It takes the pressure off. It allows us to be like the seeds currently sitting in the dark earth—not dead, just waiting for the signal to wake up. When the weather finally breaks—and it always does—we won't be exhausted from fighting the mud. We’ll be rested, ready, and capable of breaking through the surface with ease.

The Takeaway
Respect the Foundation: Just as walking on wet soil destroys its structure, forcing yourself to be "productive" during a personal low can cause long-term burnout. Protect your inner architecture.
Patience is Active, Not Passive: Waiting for the "right time" isn't procrastination; it’s wisdom. It’s the resilience to stay still when the world tells you to move.
Trust the Cycle: The sun always returns to dry the earth. Your period of heaviness or "muddy" thoughts is a season, not a permanent state.

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Did you know that just 30 minutes of gardening has been shown to significantly lower cortisol levels? Whether you're pulling weeds or pruning roses, the act of nurturing a plant provides a unique form of "biophilia"—our innate biological connection to nature that reduces anxiety and boosts serotonin.

As you head outside this week, remember: you aren't just growing a garden; your garden is growing you.

Until next time Embrace Gardening 🌱