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When the Garden Grows
By: John Kazerooni
In a quiet town nestled between hills and sky, there lived a man named Arman who was known for his kindness—and for his quiet disappointments.
Arman loved deeply. He cared for his family, his friends, even strangers who crossed his path. But beneath his warmth, he carried something unseen—a silent ledger of expectations.
When his son did not call, Arman felt forgotten.
When his friend arrived late, he felt disrespected.
When kindness was not returned in equal measure, he felt betrayed.
He never spoke of this ledger, yet he read from it daily. Each unmet expectation etched a small wound inside him. Over time, those wounds deepened, and though his life was full, his heart felt strangely heavy.
One evening, while walking along the edge of the town, Arman came across an old gardener tending to a field of wildflowers. What puzzled him was not just the unevenness of the garden—but its freedom. Some flowers bloomed brightly, others leaned or withered, and many grew in places where they were never planted.
“Why don’t you arrange them?” Arman asked. “You could make this place perfect.”
The gardener smiled, brushing the soil from his hands.
“Perfect for whom?” he replied.
Arman hesitated. “For anyone who sees it.”
The old man looked out over the field, where the wind moved gently through the unrestrained blooms.
“I used to think that way,” he said. “I planned where each flower should grow, how tall, how bright. And when they didn’t follow my design, I blamed the soil, the seeds, even the sky.”
He paused, then added softly,
“But the garden was never the problem.”
Arman frowned. “Then what was it?”
“My expectations,” the gardener said. “I was trying to force the garden to grow according to my will. And when it didn’t, I suffered—not because the garden failed, but because I believed it should be something else.”
They stood together in silence, watching as the wind bent the flowers—not in obedience, but in harmony.
“Now,” the gardener continued, “I care for the garden, but I do not command it. I water, I tend, I observe… and I allow. Growth happens in its own time, in its own way. And when I stopped telling it how to grow, I finally began to see it.”
Arman looked again at the field. What once seemed disordered now felt alive—honest, unforced, quietly beautiful.
That night, Arman returned home and, for the first time, closed his silent ledger.
Days passed. His son still forgot to call. His friend was still late. Life did not suddenly change.
But something within Arman did.
When his son didn’t call, he no longer felt forgotten—he found himself thinking of him, quietly hoping and praying that he was well and happy.
When his friend was late, he no longer felt disrespected—he wondered about his safety, his health, and the unseen burdens he might be carrying.
When kindness was not returned, he no longer felt betrayed—he reminded himself that not every heart moves at the same rhythm.
Where disappointment once rushed in, there was now space.
Where resentment once lingered, there was now understanding.
And in that space, he began to notice what had always been there—the warmth of a simple greeting, the comfort of shared silence, the presence of those who, in their own imperfect ways, still cared.
Arman had not lost his ability to hope. He had simply stopped demanding that life grow according to it. And in doing so, he discovered something unexpected:
When the garden grows on its own, without force or design, it offers more than perfection ever could.
It offers truth. It offers life. It offers peace.
The town did not change. The people did not change. But Arman learned to let the garden grow. And that was enough.
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