A Somatic Garden Experience

Three people are out in the garden this morning, learning the way Hamakua teaches best, through the body, not the mind.

---

Diya is cutting a trail through the overgrowth. She looks up at me and says, "I am finding my own path." She means the trail. She also doesn't. The land has a way of letting you say the true thing while doing the ordinary thing.

Michelle is planting. With each seedling she settles into the earth, she is quietly sending care to someone she loves, a small, private ceremony repeated with every hole she digs. The garden will hold more than plants by the end of the morning.

Fernanda carries fire, though it isn't the kind you'd see from the outside. It lives quieter than that, somewhere underneath. And this morning, in the middle of her noticing it, really noticing it for what felt like the first time, she realized what she actually needed most wasn't more fire. It was water.

---

Watching the three of them, I found the word for what I was seeing. Not visitors. Not guests. Wayfinders, all three, each finding their way through something, in their own shape of it.

These are the kind of mornings that take a while to finish revealing themselves.

As for me, I'm out here learning the same lesson they are, just in my own shape of it: to trust the flow of life, and to let myself be a creator inside of it.

The garden doesn't teach in lectures. It teaches in mornings like this one.