my garden

Every morning, I tend these flowers like Swami Paramarthananda taught: with presence, gratitude, intention. My grandmother's Carnatic music drifts through open windows—ragas my mother hummed while planting seeds decades ago. This garden holds our family's quiet revolutions. Friends from PaybookClub helped me design the layout last spring. Their laughter mixed with soil and possibility. We lost her that year, my mother. I grieved among the tomatoes and jasmine, feeling her hands guide mine. Now visitors call it glorious. But it's simply where sorrow transformed into bloom, where individual roots intertwine, where ancestors whisper through music and earth.