Lessons my days are revealing...
Good morning friend,
What activities are filling your days these days?
And maybe even more importantly...
What are they teaching you?
Sometimes the lessons are obvious. Other times they're quietly unfolding beneath the surface.
It could be something as simple as gaining deeper clarity about what you want—or don't want—to be doing with your time.
But often we don't discover those lessons until we pause long enough to ask.
For the past couple of months, I've been spending most of my days in the garden. And whether I intended it or not, it's been teaching me lessons in patience, persistence and faith.
This spring, Curt and I embarked on a huge backyard transformation project.
What was once a hillside choked with invasive honeysuckle and tangled vines has been cleared away. Curt used our little tractor to create more lawn space, carve out a flat area for a garden, and make room for an intimate fire pit area.
My role has been creating beauty on the remaining hillside through plants and flowers.
Back in February, I purchased 80 bare-root ferns on Etsy for what I hope will someday become a woodland garden.
If you've never planted anything bare-root before, you're essentially buying a small piece of root and trusting that it will eventually become a thriving plant.
It requires patience. A lot of patience.
For quite a while, nothing appears to happen. At least not where you can see it.
But growth is taking place.Energy is being directed toward the roots. A foundation is forming for what's next.
And I couldn't help but wonder...Is there an area of your life that feels like this right now?
Perhaps a dream.
A relationship.
A new chapter in your life.
A healthier lifestyle.
Or maybe it's something happening within you—quietly shaping who you're becoming.
Eventually, most of those bare roots sent up tiny curls of green. One by one they unfurled into beautiful fern fronds reaching toward the sky.
It felt almost magical.
Then it was time to plant them. I spent many long days digging into hard clay soil to get those little plants into the ground. There were moments I grew tired of the work.
But I'd already nurtured them for months. I couldn't quit now.
Persistence.
Then came another lesson.
Soon after planting, many of those beautiful green fronds turned brown. Some disappeared altogether.
According to my AI search, this is a perfectly normal response to transplant shock.
The roots are busy adjusting.
Recovering.
Establishing themselves.
So now I continue watering what often looks like lifeless soil. And the truth is, I may not know until next spring whether some of those ferns survived.
Patience.
Persistence.
Faith.
Fortunately, many of the other plants on the hillside are showing signs of recovery and growth. In my mind, I can already see what this space will become.
A lush woodland garden on one side. A hillside of colorful native flowers on the other.
But if someone else looked at it today, they might not see much at all.
Most of the plants I've carefully chosen will need two or three years before they truly fill out and come into their own.
Patience.
Persistence.
Faith.
Maybe that's the lesson I've been learning all along.
Not everything beautiful happens quickly.
Some of the most meaningful transformations spend a long time developing beneath the surface before anyone can see the results.
And perhaps our own growth works much the same way.
So if there's an area of your life where progress feels slow right now, don't be too quick to assume nothing is happening.
Roots may be growing.
Foundations may be strengthening.
And something beautiful may be quietly becoming.
Wishing you a slow and meaningful day,
Julie
I trust the growth that is happening beneath the surface.
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