The Garden of Becoming

I plant no seeds in soil bare, But in the unseen breath of air— Where roots of dreams reach deep, unknown, And blossoms grow from seeds unsown. Each learner walks a secret path, Winds shaping sails with gentle math. No single map can guide them all, For some must rise, and some must fall. I weave the light through shadowed space, With tools of play, with time and grace. A dance of minds, a whispered call, To build, to break, to stand, to fall. The garden’s heart is not control, But freedom’s gift to every soul. Where creativity takes flight, And darkness births the softest light. I tend with care, yet yield the day— For growth will choose its own true way. Each question, pause, and quiet gleam Becomes the thread within their dream. Some bloom with color fierce and wild, Some take the time of a wondering child. Some lean toward sun with open face, While others rise from shaded place. I do not rush the growing root, Nor force the tree to yield its fruit. I offer soil, I offer rain— And wait with joy and not with strain. I read their stories, line by line, Unfolding truths in word and sign. Their laughter writes the morning breeze, Their silence shapes the evening’s peace. They do not always understand The care I hold within my hand. But someday they may look behind— And see the garden they did find. The lessons here go past the page, Beyond the rule, the score, the stage. They live in how we pause and hear, In how we hold another near. For teaching is not just to know, But how to let the spirit grow. To guide, to witness, to step back— And trust what flowers in the cracks. This work is more than craft or art, It’s tending life’s eternal heart— To kindle wonder, still unknown, And leave them rooted when they're grown. So let the world outside be loud— This sacred work need not be proud. It hums beneath each breath I take, The garden I am blessed to wake.