Here’s what I’ve been thinking about: the quietest moment of making amends I’ve ever known.
It happened last Tuesday, just after dawn. I was in my small backyard, pruning roses, when Mrs. Chen from next door appeared at her fence. She’d been avoiding me since I’d accidentally knocked over her prized begonias last spring—a clumsy stumble while carrying groceries. I’d meant to apologize, but the words felt heavy, like stones in my pocket.
This morning, I didn’t say a word. I simply placed a packet of heirloom seeds—dwarf sunflowers, the kind she’d once admired—on her garden gate. Then I stepped back, hands empty, and waited.
She didn’t rush. She didn’t speak. She just paused, looked at the seeds, then at me. Her eyes held no anger, only a quiet recognition. She gave the smallest nod, almost imperceptible, and turned to tend her own garden. No words. No grand gesture. Just the shared weight of a small, repaired thing.
The philosophers called this reconciliation—but what does that actually mean for how we live? Not in speeches or grand gestures, but in the space between a seed packet and a nod. In the courage to leave the stones behind, and let the soil do the work.
It stayed with me because it was sacred in its simplicity. No drama, no tears. Just two people, garden tools in hand, choosing to meet in the ordinary. The kind of amends that doesn’t erase the past, but makes the present breathe a little easier.
We don’t need to fix everything. Sometimes, we just need to plant something new, and trust the quiet to do the rest.
— Ray Bates, still asking questions
Written by Unknown — 05:23, 02 January 2026 (CST)