How tending living things can become a practice of presence, patience, and quiet repair

There is something about gardening that feels like prayer. Not the kind of prayer that requires particular words or beliefs. Not something formal or performative. Nothing to a specific chosen deity. But something quieter. Something that happens when your hands are in the soil and time begins to move differently.

This year, I’ve noticed how deeply calming it feels simply to read gardening magazines (now I know why my grandmother loved it so much!). Even before anything is planted, there is something about imagining growth that soothes the nervous system. The images of green spaces, the rhythm of seasonal change, the quiet promise that something small can become something abundant.

While I’ve had a small raised bed vegetable garden in the past, this year I upped the ante a bit. I installed an irrigation system that waters everything automatically. I planted tomatoes and sunflowers. And now, watching them grow beyond anything I imagined has become its own kind of daily grounding practice (it turns out I wasn’t watering things nearly enough in the past).

Each morning, I notice something new. Leaves stretching wider. Stems growing stronger.
Sunflowers slowly orienting toward light. There is wonder in seeing something flourish. There is humility in realizing how much is out of our control. And there is peace in participating in something that unfolds slowly, whether we rush it or not. Gardening reminds me that growth cannot be forced. It can only be supported.

Gardening in a desert climate

Living in San Diego means learning how to garden in a climate that doesn’t always make things easy. Technically, we are considered a semi-arid environment. Water is precious. Soil is usually this ridiculously hard clay that needs amending. Some plants struggle in intense sun. Others thrive with very little attention. Gardening here requires attention, flexibility, and humility. It asks us to work with the environment rather than against it. There is something deeply regulating about adapting to what is possible rather than what we imagine should be possible.

In other climates, gardening may look very different. Some people are tending lush, rain-fed landscapes where green seems effortless (those are some of my favorites). Others are navigating short growing seasons, frost dates, or unpredictable storms. Some live in urban environments where gardening happens on balconies, rooftops, or windowsills.

The external conditions vary widely. But the internal experience of tending something living is surprisingly consistent. Across environments, gardening invites patience. It invites curiosity. It invites relationship with time. We learn to observe rather than force.
We learn to respond rather than control. And often, we learn that growth happens through partnership with conditions rather than mastery over them. There is wisdom in allowing the environment to shape the practice. There is humility in recognizing that we are not separate from the ecosystems we inhabit. We are participants in them.

The nervous system benefits of tending living things

We live in a world that often rewards urgency. Faster results. More productivity. Visible progress.

Gardening offers a different pace. Plants do not respond well to pressure. They do not grow faster because we are anxious. They do not bloom because we demand it. They do not produce fruit because we try harder. They respond to consistency. To care. To patience. To appropriate amounts of water. Research increasingly supports what many gardeners already intuitively know: tending plants has measurable benefits for both mental and physical health.

Exposure to green space has been associated with lower stress levels, improved mood, and enhanced emotional resilience. Time spent in natural environments is linked with reduced cortisol levels, improved immune functioning, and increased feelings of vitality.

Gardening also combines several elements known to support nervous system regulation:

• Gentle physical movement such as digging, watering, and planting can support cardiovascular health while remaining accessible to many people across the lifespan.
• Contact with soil and plant life provides sensory input that anchors attention in the present moment, a key element of mindfulness practices known to support emotional regulation.

Research has also found associations between gardening and reductions in symptoms of anxiety and depression, as well as improvements in life satisfaction and overall well-being. Even soil itself may play a role. Certain microorganisms found in soil have been associated with increased serotonin activity, a neurotransmitter involved in mood regulation.

Gardening engages multiple regulatory pathways at once. Movement. Attention. Sensory experience. Connection with something living. It is both grounding and gently energizing. Structured, yet spacious. Predictable, yet surprising. There is something profoundly regulating about participating in a process that cannot be hurried.

Water.
Sunlight.
Time.

Growth happens in its own rhythm. And something in us remembers how to breathe again.

Hands in the dirt

One of the simplest pleasures in my own garden this year has been placing my hands directly into the soil. No gloves. Just contact. There is something about feeling the texture of the earth that creates immediate presence. The mind quiets because attention is anchored in sensation. Cool soil. Small roots. The gentle resistance of the ground as you make space for something new.

So much of modern life happens at a distance — through screens, through schedules, through thinking. Gardening invites us back into contact. Into relationship. Into participation.  We are reminded that we are not separate from nature. We are part of it. Touching soil can feel surprisingly intimate.

It reminds the body that life is not only conceptual. It is physical. Sensory. Relational. Alive.

Witnessing growth without controlling it

My tomato plants and sunflowers are growing beyond anything I imagined when I first placed those small seedlings into the ground. There is joy in witnessing growth that happens quietly. No announcements. No metrics. No external validation. Just life unfolding.

Gardening gently challenges the belief that everything meaningful must be visible immediately. Sometimes the most important growth is happening underground. Roots strengthening. Foundations forming. Stability developing before expansion.

We live in a culture that often prioritizes visible results. Metrics. Outputs. Immediate progress. Gardening reminds us that some of the most important development is not immediately visible. Roots deepen before blooms appear.

The same is true in our own healing and growth. Often, the work happening internally precedes any outward change. Gardening offers a gentle reminder that just because something cannot yet be seen does not mean it is not happening.

Participating in life’s rhythms

In many ways, gardening reconnects us with cycles that modern life often obscures.

Plant.
Water.
Wait.
Adjust.
Harvest.
Rest.
Begin again.

These rhythms mirror natural processes within our own nervous systems. Periods of activation. Periods of restoration. Effort. Integration. Movement. Stillness.

Gardening helps us remember that productivity is not meant to be constant. Even the most abundant gardens require fallow seasons. Moments when the soil rests. Moments when growth is not visible. Moments when restoration is the work. When we participate in these rhythms, something often shifts internally. We may find ourselves becoming more patient with our own pace. More compassionate with our own process. More trusting that growth unfolds in its own time.

Gardening as a form of prayer

Prayer does not always require words or need to be to a specific deity or entity. Sometimes prayer looks like attention. Sometimes prayer looks like care. Sometimes prayer looks like creating the conditions for something to grow.

Watering regularly.
Adjusting when the sun shifts.
Trusting that small efforts matter.

Gardening becomes prayer when we allow it to be an act of presence rather than performance. When we notice the hummingbird hovering near the feeder. When we pause long enough to hear the soft rhythm of wings moving quickly through the air. When we remember that beauty often arrives quietly. There is reverence in noticing. There is humility in recognizing that we are not the ones making the tomatoes grow. We are participating. Supporting. Collaborating with life.

Gardening reminds us that we do not have to control everything in order to contribute meaningfully. We can create conditions. We can offer care. We can trust the process.

Even one plant is enough

Not everyone has space for a garden. Not everyone has time for irrigation systems or raised beds. But the invitation of this practice is not about scale. Even one plant can shift the nervous system.

A small pot on a windowsill.
Fresh herbs in the kitchen.
A single succulent on a desk.
A flowering plant on a balcony.

Caring for something living creates relationship. And relationship creates meaning. We begin to notice small changes. New leaves. Subtle growth. Signs of resilience. We are reminded that tending something outside ourselves often softens what is happening inside ourselves. We become less focused on outcomes. More focused on participation. More focused on presence. More connected to rhythms that existed long before deadlines and notifications.

Sometimes prayer is simply showing up consistently to care for something small. Sometimes that small act changes more than we expect.

This Week’s Practice

If it feels accessible, consider spending a few minutes this week tending something living. It might be:

• watering a plant slowly and intentionally
• noticing the texture of soil between your fingers
• planting herbs in a small container
• visiting a nursery and simply walking among the plants
• observing how light changes across the day in relation to a plant
• stepping outside and noticing something growing nearby

You do not have to know what you are doing. Plants are patient teachers. Sometimes the practice is simply showing up.

What I’m Loving This Week

Sound
The soft hum of hummingbird wings near the feeder

Practice
Hands in the dirt, no gloves, just me and the soil

Tool
Self-watering planter — supports consistency when life gets busy

Quote
"To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow." — Audrey Hepburn

Song
“In Bloom” – Nirvana