Where the Dragonfly Paused

There’s something deeply grounding about working with soil barehanded—the rich texture, the earthy scent, the quiet life it holds. Yesterday, I spent the whole day in my greenhouse, planting and repotting most of my plants. A few empty pots got a fresh mix of loamy soil enriched with a bit of vermicompost. Into these, I tucked woody cuttings of lavender and rosemary, just the right season for them to take root and begin their journey as new plants. The trick is to choose cuttings with a firm, woody base rather than tender green shoots, and to plant them deep enough so at least three nodes rest beneath the soil. I rarely use rooting hormones, though I wouldn’t mind if they were on hand. Living in a village without instant deliveries or online shops has a way of keeping my gardening simple, resourceful, and deeply satisfying.

Coming back to working with soil—it’s my shortcut to a calm, quiet place inside. The simple act of digging, planting, and feeling the earth between my fingers draws me into a state of relaxation and leaves me with a quiet sense of accomplishment. It makes me happy because it connects me to nature, awakens my senses, and gives me the purpose that comes from nurturing life.

Soil even has its own kind of medicine. Certain natural microorganisms in it can strengthen our immune system, reduce inflammation, and lift our mood by encouraging the brain to release serotonin. One of the most fascinating is Mycobacterium vaccae, a beneficial bacterium found in healthy soil that has been linked to reduced anxiety, improved mood, and better immune regulation.

Plants are also quiet teachers. Their slow, steady growth is a gentle reminder that meaningful progress doesn’t happen overnight—it unfolds at its own pace, in its own time. They show me the value of patience, the beauty of consistency, and the quiet strength in simply continuing, day after day. Every leaf that unfurls, every root that deepens, is proof that even the smallest daily efforts can create something lasting.

Every tiny bit of nature carries its own wisdom, but it only reveals itself when we slow down enough to notice. By observing and truly paying attention, we begin to understand not just the plants, but also ourselves—our rhythms, our needs, and our place in the greater cycle of life.

While tending to the plants, my thoughts drifted in and out—wandering from quiet philosophies to the simple peace of the moment. A dark red dragonfly drifted in through the open door. It hovered for a breath, the soft patter of raindrops tapping on the glass roof above and the distant music of a blue whistling thrush filling the warm air. With the lightest touch, it settled on the rim of a freshly planted pot, as if inspecting the tender cuttings for signs of life. For a moment, time slowed—the rain’s rhythm, the bird’s chirping, the dragonfly’s stillness all folding into the hush of the greenhouse. Then, with a sudden flicker of its thin glass like wings, it lifted off and slipped back into the open garden. It felt as though it had come to inspect my work, to make sure all was well. And it was. So was I—happy, content, and quietly proud as the day drew to a close.

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