A small orchard —
well, actually.

Two pear trees and a fig tree gifted by a neighbour. An orchard it is, and I claim the word without apology.

"Each morning I visit my trees and wish them good morning. I touch their leaves the way a mother might gently nurture a small child. And most mornings, if I'm honest, I lean in and kiss them."

The fig is more self-possessed somehow. More assured of its own survival. The pears feel younger, needier, more responsive to encouragement.

There is something about tending fruit trees that strips the ego clean. You cannot hurry a pear. You cannot bargain with a fig. You simply show up, morning after morning, and make your small offerings of attention — and then you wait.

I think about this often when I'm writing. The garden has taught me that patience is not passive. Patience is a form of faith — the belief that what you are tending has its own timeline, and that your job is simply to stay present to it.

The medlar is already looking pleased with itself.