Inner Garden

There are beings made for cliffs.

They love storms, sea spray, love stories that shatter windows, and winds strong enough to uproot everything in their path.

And then there are those who resemble hidden gardens nestled in the Mediterranean hills.

Silent gardens.

Protected by a few tired cypress trees.

With white stones still warm from the day’s sun.

Wild herbs growing between old walls.

The scent of rosemary rising softly into the evening air.

Places that do not love extremes.

Not because they are fragile.

Quite the opposite.

Because they feel everything.

The wind when it becomes too strong.

The humidity settling into the roots.

The heat burning the earth.

The sudden shifts in the sky.

So naturally, they search for places where life can breathe without constantly being at war with the elements.

I believe some human beings are like that.

They already carry so much weather inside themselves that they simply long for a little gentleness around them.

Their silence is not empty.

It is inhabited.

Filled with thoughts, intuitions, memories, sensations invisible to others.

They feel the pressure in the air before the storm.

The change of energy in a room before a single word is spoken.

The trembling hidden behind polite smiles.

The weight of unspoken things.

So they become selective.

Not out of coldness.

Out of organic necessity.

They no longer want relationships that feel like permanent storms.

Nor places where one must survive instead of breathe.

They long for presences that feel like the shade of an olive tree in summer.

Conversations that force nothing.

Eyes that do not invade.

Silences that calm the nervous system instead of alarming it.

They want to be able to bloom slowly.

Like those Mediterranean gardens hidden among the hills, where nothing seems spectacular at first glance.

And yet…

When evening falls, when the crickets begin their ancient song and the wind finally softens, everything becomes profoundly alive.

The thyme releases its fragrance.

Tall grasses dance without violence.

White flowers emerge in the darkness like little wild moons.

And then one understands something essential:

perhaps true strength is not about resisting every storm.

Perhaps true wisdom is choosing the climate in which the soul can finally stop defending itself.