I did it! For the longest time I wasn’t happy with the stretch of land next to my garage. I had planted a few shrubs but it was mostly a much neglected stretch of land.
The same space where birds now gather, flowers bloom, and a winding path invites me to slow down.
The same garden that brings me so much joy.
I’m so glad I have a before shot, because I had completely forgotten what it looked like before.
The yard was mostly bare. A patch of grass. Fallen leaves. A few raised beds. Nothing remarkable.
And yet, somehow, the garden I love today was already there.
Not visibly.
Not physically.
But as a possibility.
Looking at the before and after photos side by side, I found myself thinking about how often we underestimate the power of small, consistent effort.
The garden didn’t appear in a weekend.
It took months.
Plants were moved.
Plans changed.
Mistakes made.
Some things flourished. Others didn’t.
There were days when it felt like nothing much was happening.
But little by little, the space transformed.
And that’s when another thought occurred to me.
Purpose grows the same way.
Many people imagine purpose as a lightning bolt.
One day you’ll suddenly discover exactly what you’re meant to do.
Everything will become clear.
You’ll feel inspired forever after.
At least that’s the story we’re often sold.
But in my experience, purpose rarely arrives that way.
More often, it begins as a quiet interest. A small seed.
A curiosity.
A skill.
A desire to contribute.
Something that keeps pulling at your sleeve.
Then comes the part nobody talks about.
Showing up.
Again and again.
Purpose isn’t found nearly as often as it’s cultivated.
Just this morning listening to a podcast, I was reminded that researchers have found a link between having a sense of purpose and a lower risk of cognitive decline as we age. While scientists are still learning exactly why, the finding resonated with me.
Purpose keeps us engaged with life.
It encourages us to learn.
To connect.
To contribute.
To remain curious about what is possible.
And curiosity may be one of the greatest gifts we can carry into later life.
I’ve seen this happen repeatedly in my painting classes. In my own life.
Students often arrive wanting to learn how to paint.
What they don’t expect is what happens along the way.
As they put brush to canvas, something else begins to emerge.
Confidence.
Playfulness.
Courage.
A forgotten dream.
A new interest.
Sometimes even a new direction.
The painting becomes less about producing a finished piece and more about discovering something that was quietly waiting beneath the surface.
Much like my garden.
And perhaps much like our lives.
There is a tendency, especially as we get older, to think our biggest chapters are behind us.
That growth belongs to the young.
That reinvention has an expiration date.
But I don’t believe that.
The older I get, the more convinced I become that growth simply changes shape.
A garden grows.
A painting evolves.
A person continues becoming.
The process never really ends.
Looking at the garden now, what strikes me most isn’t the final result.
It’s the reminder.
The reminder that beautiful things rarely appear overnight.
The reminder that small actions matter.
The reminder that what seems ordinary today may become extraordinary with enough care and attention.
And perhaps that’s the answer to the question I found myself asking when I saw that old photo.
What was hiding in plain sight?
Not just a garden.
Possibility.
The possibility that something beautiful was waiting to emerge all along.
Maybe that’s true for our gardens.
Maybe it’s true for our paintings.
And maybe it’s true for us.
Nurture what nurtures you! That was the message Hilton Carter, my deeply beloved son in law, wrote in his latest book that he gifted me. It’s so true. Direct your attention to where it matters most.
Possibilities are endless.
