September Reflections: Learning to Love Ourselves Through the Garden
It’s already September. The air carries a softness, as though summer is exhaling her last breath and preparing us for the quieter rhythm of autumn. August was kind to us here on the Delmarva Peninsula—we escaped storms and tornadoes, and instead received a gift of calm after the sharp blaze of summer’s heat.
Walking through the gardens this week, I noticed how differently I now see the plants I’ve passed by a thousand times before. Perhaps it’s the shifting light, maybe it’s the way the seasons make us pay attention, or perhaps it’s me—changing alongside them.
For most of my life, I’ve measured plants by their performance: did they bloom, did they stand tall, did they deliver what I expected? In truth, I’ve often measured people the same way—including myself. Productivity, resilience, perfection—these became my yardsticks. Yet nature whispers a different story. Plants falter, leaves yellow, stems bend, and still they are worthy. Still, they belong.
That same truth has become more evident in my own home life. I’ve watched my husband, Robert, move from years of turmoil, stress, and despair—into something deeply transformative. It has not been an easy journey, but one of courage, of releasing toxins both chemical and emotional, of learning to live lighter, more consciously, more connected. It has been like witnessing a perennial rise from dormancy: new shoots, new strength, unexpected blooms.
And as I’ve grown alongside Robert, I’ve realized how long it has taken me to learn the lesson of self-love. For decades, I poured myself into gardens, teams, projects, even strangers—while often neglecting my own roots. But slowly, the garden has taught me: to love oneself is not selfish. To love oneself is to love all life.
Whether you’re tending acres of meadow, a few pots on a balcony, or simply nurturing your inner landscape, the same principle applies. The divine shows up in every seed, every sip of water, every act of care. When we choose to love ourselves—with rest, with kindness, with nourishment—we create space for others to thrive.
This September, I invite you to pause and reflect. Notice the plants that are fading with grace, the ones surprising you with a second flush of flowers, the soil that waits patiently for renewal. Ask yourself: where can I offer myself the same patience? Where can I honor the season I am in, rather than force myself into perpetual bloom?
The garden teaches us balance. It teaches us impermanence. Most of all, it teaches us that love—whether for a partner, a plant, or ourselves—is the most enduring legacy we can cultivate.
And perhaps that is where all our stories begin: not in the expectations of others, nor in the trophies of productivity, but in the quiet, radical act of learning to love ourselves.
This is a new style of writing for me—more personal, memoir-like, and reflective. If it speaks to you, I’ll be sharing more of these pieces and sometimes linking to longer posts. I’d love to hear your thoughts, your reflections, even your constructive criticism.
Nature is my teacher, and so I share to learn and grow. 💕Stephen 🍂