If you have ever found yourself worrying over a dream, checking constantly for signs of progress, or wondering whether your efforts have amounted to anything at all, then I suspect this little tale may be for you.
I was standing beneath the awning at Scarlette Rose Cottage some time ago, doing nothing particularly remarkable, merely tidying a planter and pulling away a few tired leaves, when I found myself laughing over a small discovery.
You see, there is a pot of ivy tucked away there that receives very little attention from me. I do not hover over it; I do not inspect every leaf; nor do I spend my afternoons wondering whether it is content with its circumstances. I offer water when needed, remove the occasional brown leaf, and then leave it to its own affairs.
And it thrives, not merely survives; thrives.
Meanwhile, there have been other plants to which I have devoted far more attention. I have shifted them from one place to another; worried over every blemish; adjusted their surroundings; examined their leaves; pondered their future; and, if I am entirely honest, nearly loved them to death.
The ivy beneath the awning simply grows.
The observation followed me indoors and settled beside me for the remainder of the day, for I realised that this little pot of ivy had quietly taught me something about personal growth, manifestation, slow living, and the curious art of trusting the process.
The phrase that came to mind was one I had not heard in years: benevolent neglect.
The words lingered with me long after I had set down my gardening gloves.
For much of my life, I believed that devotion required constant attention. If something mattered deeply, surely one must think about it continually. One must worry over it; labour over it; and must keep a vigilant eye upon it lest it somehow slip away unnoticed.
There is something rather curious about our inclination to interfere with the very things we most dearly hope will flourish. We plant a seed and almost immediately wish to uncover it, merely to reassure ourselves that it has remembered how to grow. Yet nature has never been persuaded by impatience.
The gardener prepares the earth with care; she plants faithfully; she waters when the season requires it; and then, with remarkable good sense, she leaves the matter in gentler hands than her own. The baker places the loaf within the oven and trusts the warmth to perform its quiet office. Even the tide, faithful as an old friend, slips away from the shore only to return without invitation, without coaxing, and without ever consulting our anxious hearts.
Very little in this world responds kindly to being tugged at every few moments.
I have begun to wonder whether what appears to be neglect is sometimes nothing more than trust wearing gardening clothes; a calm willingness to provide what is needed, and then to resist the peculiar temptation of constant interference. It is not indifference at all, but affection tempered by wisdom.
As I stood beneath the little awning and watched the ivy making its patient ascent, I found myself thinking of the many quiet hopes that have accompanied me through the years; this little cottage with its stone walls and lace curtains; the books that continue to gather themselves one page at a time; the paintings waiting patiently upon the easel; the gatherings I dream of hosting for kindly women who long for beauty and gentleness; and all the unseen seeds that have found their place within the soil of ordinary days.
We are so often persuaded that every dream requires continual inspection, when perhaps many possess the sturdy constitution of ivy rather than the delicate disposition of an orchid. They ask for roots; a little nourishment; honest light; and the grace of being left undisturbed whilst they attend to their own becoming.
It seems to me that every worthwhile thing observes its own season. There is a time when our sleeves ought to be rolled high, and our hands made gloriously untidy with honest work; yet there is another, no less important, when wisdom quietly folds those same hands together and waits without complaint. The difficulty, I suspect, lies not in labouring faithfully, but in recognising when labour has finished its part.
The most important work is so often hidden from view. Roots deepen where no audience gathers. Branches strengthen long before they offer shade. Beneath the surface, where applause never wanders, life goes steadily about its business, asking neither permission nor praise.
The world, of course, delights in urgency. It urges us to strive more loudly, hurry more quickly, and measure our progress against every passing soul who happens to cross our path.
Nature offers no such counsel. The oak keeps no account of its rings; the rose does not concern herself with tomorrow’s bloom whilst opening today’s; and the ivy, dear steadfast thing that it is, simply continues upward with quiet determination, asking nothing of anyone except a wall willing to receive her.
Perhaps that is why I found such unexpected comfort beneath that humble awning.
The ivy was not attempting to impress me. It was not glancing toward the neighbouring flowers to see whether they had climbed farther. It was not fretting over yesterday nor borrowing tomorrow’s concerns. It simply accepted the day’s small work, fastening one tender leaf after another, trusting that enough small faithfulness would one day become abundance.
There is a lesson tucked quietly inside such ordinary things, though nature seldom raises her voice to deliver it. She merely continues her patient demonstrations until, one ordinary afternoon, we are finally still enough to notice.
Perhaps our task is not always to accomplish more, but to tend what has been entrusted to us with faithful hands; then step back with equal grace and allow the unseen work to unfold in its appointed season. There is a curious peace in such an arrangement; almost a covenant between ourselves and the dreams we have planted. We shall do our part with glad hearts, and leave the growing to life itself.
If we listen very closely, I rather believe the ivy has been whispering the same counsel all along. Grow steadily; reach gently; trust the season before you; and let tomorrow concern itself with tomorrow, for today’s quiet faithfulness is already enough.
Most affably yours ’til my next enchanting swim,
Lady Raquel
