The gardener worked a narrow stretch of land outside a town.
The soil was good, but the seasons were long. Seeds went into the ground weeks before anything showed, and months passed before there was anything to harvest. Most of the work happened underground, unseen.
The town had watchers.
They stood on the walls and watched the fields. When something happened, they rang bells.
When a shoot appeared, a bell rang.
When fruit was picked, a bell rang.
When storms approached, bells rang.
Waiting made the watchers uneasy.
When nothing happened for a while, they rang bells.
When time stretched without news, they rang bells.
When doubt crept in, the bells rang again.
People leaned over the wall and called down to the gardener:
“Are you sure this is right?”
“How long is this supposed to take?”
“Shouldn’t there be signs by now?”
“Maybe you should plant something faster.”
At first, the gardener explained seasons.
Roots before shoots.
Planting, tending, harvesting.
The bells kept ringing.
Soon, it wasn’t just the sound of bells that mattered.
It was the anticipation of them.
The gardener began to work while listening for bells.
To adjust timing to avoid them.
To dig up seeds early, just to be sure.
To plant more than the soil could reasonably hold.
The waiting, shaped by the watchers, began to affect the garden.
One day, the gardener stopped explaining and paused long enough to notice something simple.
The bells were not wrong.
They had a purpose.
They marked moments.
They carried information.
They helped people orient.
But bells were not soil.
They were not water.
They were not food.
No matter how often they rang, there would never be fruit from bells alone.
The gardener changed how he listened.
He learned to feel the vibration of a bell without reacting.
To notice which bells carried information and which carried anxiety.
To let some rings pass without changing direction.
A few watchers noticed the shift.
They stopped calling down for outcomes.
They began asking different questions.
“How is the soil today?”
“What are you tending this week?”
“What did the last season teach you?”
“Is there anything the garden needs time for right now?”
Sometimes they rang the bell once — softly — to mark the passing of a phase.
Sometimes they didn’t ring it at all.
The waiting changed.
It became shared, rather than urgent.
Observant, rather than demanding.
The gardener stopped asking whether the garden would thrive.
Instead, he asked:
“What is this cycle teaching me?”
Some seasons were generous.
Some were sparse.
Some required rest.
Each offered feedback.
The gardener kept planting.
Kept tending.
Kept learning.
And when fruit came, it came quietly — not because the bells demanded it, but because the cycle completed.
Reflection
Bells are signals.
They are not nourishment.
In cyclical systems — sales, relationships, learning, trust — effort comes long before evidence. Waiting is not empty; it is part of the work.
A healthy conversation during waiting does not demand results.
It asks about conditions, learning, and timing.
We cannot know if a garden will thrive.
We can only learn from each cycle.
And remember…
There will never be fruit from bells alone.
⛩️🌿
