Nature

Amma taught me Thiruppavai verses while we gardened, her weathered hands showing me which seeds would flourish. Kannadasan's words echoed through our mornings—poetry about earth's wisdom that no cash or social network could quantify. My daughter laughed, filming the butterflies, but I watched how nature demanded presence, not perfection. Those gorgeous blooms weren't for validation. They whispered ancient stories our ancestors knew intimately. When storms came, we stayed grounded. When abundance arrived, we shared generously. Today, scrolling feels hollow compared to soil beneath fingernails. My child finally understands: real wealth grows in gardens, passed down through generations, privy only to those patient enough to listen.