Hello, fellow lovers of all things green.
Recent rains washed away the late-fall trifecta of snow that had so festively decorated our world. It felt curious to have snow arrive ahead of schedule, but everything has its season. And sometimes, seasons come early. Now winter has officially arrived. Nature never apologizes for timing. She simply unfolds. And in that unfolding, I’ve learned, lies one of our greatest teachers.
Lessons Hidden in Plain Sight
Thank you to those of you who reached back after last week’s post and podcast episode When The Garden Teaches Letting Go. Your messages warm my heart more than you know. A few of you mentioned that you hadn’t noticed the Mr. Beach and bonsai analogies at first — and that made me smile.
There are so many parallels between our lives and what lives in nature, if we slow down enough to notice.
Bonsai, for instance, is turning nature into art — guiding and shaping rather than allowing a tree to grow wild. It isn’t natural in the truest sense, and yet there is a lesson tucked into the practice: patience, care, and quiet attention.
The Lesson of the Leaf — Ours, Not Mine
As I shared those reflections, I didn’t realize they might become the epilogue of my book, The Lesson of the Leaf. Recently, I had another opportunity to submit a revised book proposal to Hay House Publishing. Whether the book finds its home there, with another publisher, or through self-publishing, I feel deeply called to bring it into the world.
So much of what I’ve written has grown from our weekly conversations — from what you’ve shared, from what we’ve noticed together in gardens and in life. For those who are new here, I shared an Overview of The Lesson of the Leaf, which is also featured in Episode 180 of the podcast. Today, I’d like to begin sharing reflections from Part Two — a collection of interconnected essays drawn from these conversations about how nature and gardens help heal and grow our lives.
Still Water, Clear Seeing
One chapter is titled “Still Water, Clear Seeing.” It explores how stillness becomes a doorway to clarity — through quiet rivers, winter woods, resting gardens, and moments when nothing appears to be happening at all.
There’s an image from the Tao Te Ching, the teachings of Lao Tzu written over 2,500 years ago, that speaks of muddy water. If left alone, the sediment settles, and the water clears — not because we stirred it, not because we fixed it, but because we waited.
Nature understands this instinctively.
Streams settle when undisturbed. Gardens rest beneath the snow. Birds negotiate shared space without meetings or manuals. Healing and growth follow the same patterns — though in modern life, when something feels uncomfortable, we’re quick to fix it, rush it, or “get over it.”
Stillness, I’ve learned, asks something different of us.
Stillness Is Not Stagnation
Stillness is not giving up. It is not falling behind. It is not stagnation.
When we listen to silence, we begin to notice subtle shifts — the way light moves across water, the moment a bird lands nearby, the quiet knowing that arrives without explanation. Healing and growth need not be fast or dramatic to be real.
We are not broken because we need time.
We are not late because we don’t yet have answers.
Nature’s pace, and our own, is already perfect.
The Grace of Letting Go
Another chapter is titled “The Grace of Letting Go.” In it, I explore the idea that letting go is not an act of loss, but an act of trust.
Through falling leaves, early acorn drops, and small signs that arrive just when they’re needed, this chapter reflects on how release allows life to continue in new forms. We often equate holding on with love — yet sometimes holding too tightly creates suffering, not because we care too much, but because we fear what comes next.
Discussing Worms with Mom, who gave me my garden start! November 2014
I write about moments when surrender felt terrifying, and how, on the other side of release, there was space — space for breath, peace, and something new to take root.
There’s a scene walking with my mother around the parking lot of a nursing home — the best we could find. Acorns were falling from a large oak tree. My mother was in an advanced stage of dementia, rarely speaking clearly. I filled the air by talking about those acorns — how they would become trees, which would one day drop more acorns, and how life does not truly end.
Trying to assure her that it was okay to let go, like the acorns, she said — clear as a bell — “I don’t understand.”
And in that moment, I learned how confusion can be held tenderly, without answers.
Soft Strength and Invisible Threads
Another chapter, Soft Strength, Tender Courage, explores resilience without resistance. We often misunderstand strength, equating it with toughness and endurance. But nature tells a different story.
Moss and lichen thrive under stress. Ancient trees endure through adaptation. Plants bend, spread quietly, or wait patiently for conditions to change. Softness is not weakness — it is intelligence.
Then there’s The Threads We Cannot See, a chapter about connection. Trees that appear solitary are deeply linked underground. Roots share resources. Fungi transmit nourishment. What looks alone is rarely alone.
Connection doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it’s felt rather than seen, sensed rather than spoken. Loneliness, I’ve come to believe, is often a misunderstanding. We are not truly alone.
A Moment of Light
I’ll close with a small moment.
Yesterday, while skiing around the yard and dictating notes, I wandered down by the brook. Clear ice crystals dangled beneath the rocks — delicate, bulb-like shapes catching the light. After admiring them, I looked up and saw Ellie’s memorial tree. The star topper caught the sun just right, blazing with light.
Just look at the light. Let it register in your heart.
The phone couldn’t capture what I was seeing, and I smiled — thinking of my brother Bill, who gave me the lesson of the leaf. One lyric from his song Hope Road, debuted just days before he passed, says: “Put down your phone and follow Hope Road.”
And I imagined him saying, Just look at the light. Let it register in your heart.
So that is my wish for you — this season and always.
Mother Nature has a perfect pace. While sadness comes with loss, new beginnings follow. And in the cycle of seasons, there is deep trust — if we allow ourselves to stand back and observe the beauty and not resist the flow like a leaf in the water.
Thank you for walking alongside me for so many years now. May your holidays, whatever you celebrate, be filled with love. Every season, every celebration, is about love.
Garden Dilemmas? AskMaryStone@gmail.com and your favorite Podcast App.
There’s more to the story in the Garden Dilemmas Podcast:
Links to Related Posts and Podcasts:
Overview of The Lesson of the Leaf, which is also featured in Episode 180 of the Podcast.
Wisdom in the Rhythm of Water also featured in Episode 89 of the Podcast.
