The Garden Remains: A Parable

There once were two neighbors: Haven and Hollow.

Both owned expansive gardens filled with fruit trees and rows of vegetables. From the outside, their plots looked nearly identical—rich soil, the same sun, the same seasons. But the way they tended to their gardens could not have been more different.

Haven rose with the sun each day to walk the rows of his field. He tilled the soil, plucked weeds while they were still young, watered each plant with care, and watched for signs of growth—or decay. His hands were always in the dirt, his eyes attuned to the subtle language of the garden.

Hollow, on the other hand, visited his garden only once a week. He worked hard when he showed up—pulled the weeds, poured the water, and checked the vines—but by then the pests had already taken root, and the leaves had begun to curl. Still, he reasoned, a weekly tending should be enough for any garden that wanted to grow.

Seasons passed.

Haven’s garden flourished—vibrant, overflowing with produce, fragrant and alive. Hollow’s began to wither. The vines bore little fruit, the soil dried, and insects made their home among the roots. Wildlife passed through unchecked, helping themselves to what remained.

One morning, frustrated by his failing field, Hollow stood at the edge of his property and looked over to Haven’s. The difference was undeniable. Envy crept in. “He must have better soil,” Hollow muttered. “Or maybe he’s using harmful additives. There’s no way a garden grows like that on its own.”

Eventually, unable to shake his resentment, Hollow crossed the fence and approached Haven, who was kneeling by a row of tomatoes, checking the undersides of the leaves.

“What are you doing to make your garden grow like this?” Hollow asked. “Mine is withering, but yours looks untouched by anything but blessing.”

Haven smiled, stood, and brushed the dirt from his palms.

“I tend to it daily,” he said. “I walk the rows. I listen. I notice. Every plant speaks in its own way, and I try to respond before it’s too late. I provide for her, and in turn, she provides for me.”

Hollow scoffed. “Who has time to be in the garden every day?”

Haven’s smile softened. “Every day is an opportunity to grow and to see growth. Even when I’m not in the garden, I’m thinking of her. And when I return, she welcomes me with newness. Where else would I go?”

“But what about the pests? The deer? The weather? My garden is torn apart by things beyond my control,” Hollow pressed. “And yet yours looks untouched.”

Haven laughed gently. “Oh, they come. If I leave her alone, the garden is theirs in a matter of days. But if I remain near, they learn to take only what I allow. I give them what I cannot use—and they leave the rest.”

For the first time, Hollow paused not out of anger, but curiosity. “What about winter? Or the drought? Surely you don’t come out here then.”

Haven looked toward the horizon. “The garden has her seasons. In winter, I prepare the soil and rest. During drought, I shelter the roots and pray for rain. There are days when all I can do is wait—but the waiting is not wasted. When the storms have passed, and the seasons shift, I begin again. I prune what has died, and two new vines are born. Spring always comes. The garden remains—and I remain in her.”

Hollow turned and looked at his own field, brown and brittle beneath the morning light. Then he looked back at Haven.

“Will you teach me?” he asked quietly.

“There’s nothing I would enjoy more,” Haven replied.

-The Storyteller