Gardening Patience Quotes

Everything that slows us down and forces patience, everything that sets us back into the slow circles of nature, is a help. Gardening is an instrument of grace.

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The crying and the shouting Prison and place and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience

You came suddenly shook me from my sleep and vanished. In my heart you rose like the moon but as I glanced at you, you disappeared. Having had a glimpse of Your garden, I have no more the patience to endure my existence....

We gardeners are healthy, joyous, natural creatures. We are practical, patient, optimistic. We declare our optimism every year, every season, with every act of planting.

Where have I been while this person is leading my life with her patience, will and order? In the garden; on the bee and under the bee; in the crown gathering cumulus and flensing it from the boughs

Soldiers have nothing to look forward to, making patience an easy virtue, and sometimes it`s not just a virtue but a contest of indifference.

We seem to have lost the gift of patience, of waiting for time to unfold its story.

Thrown from the garden, she searches for true love. but she needs an heir.

But gardening is none of that, really. Strip away the gadgets and the techniques, the books and the magazines and the soil test kits, and what you're left with, at the end of the day, is this: a stretch of freshly turned dirt, a handful of seeds scratched into the surface, and a marker to remember where they went. It is at the same time an incredibly brave and an incredibly simple thing to do, entrusting your seeds to the earth and waiting for them to rise up out of the ground to meet you.

endless patience will never be enough the only hope is to be the daylight

I watched her dance, arms curving like wings, her strong young legs in love with their motion. This was how mortals found fame, I thought. Through patience and diligence, tending their skills like gardens until they glowed beneath the sun. But gods are born of ichor and nectar, their excellences already bursting from their fingertips. So they find their fame by proving what they can mar: destroying cities, starting wars, breeding plagues and monsters. All that smoke and savor rising so delicately from our altars. It leaves only ash behind.

It is inspiriting without doubt to whizz in a motor-car round the earth, to feel Arabia as a whirl of sand or China as a flash of rice-fields. But Arabia is not a whirl of sand and China is not a flash of rice-fields. They are ancient civilizations with strange virtues buried like treasures. If we wish to understand them it must not be as tourists or inquirers, it must be with the loyalty of children and the great patience of poets. To conquer these places is to lose them. The man standing in his own kitchen-garden, with fairyland opening at the gate, is the man with large ideas. His mind creates distance; the motor-car stupidly destroys it....

Observation and expansion are two elements of meditation. While a teacher may guide you to have the right posture and give instruction on following the breath, no one can teach you about the experience. It comes through practice and patience.

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water - The Waste Land (ll. 322-358)

This is, however, one of the greatest delights of a garden; the nearly hypnotic ability it has to make you slow down, consider things about life more carefully, wrangle over difficulties with care and imagination rather than anger and ferocity.

Gardening is one of the rewards of middle age, when one is ready for an impersonal passion, a passion that demands patience, acute awareness of a world outside oneself, and the power to keep on growing through all the times of drought, through the cold snows, toward those moments of pure joy when all failures are forgotten and the plum tree flowers.

Like editing, gardening requires infinite patience; it requires an essential selflessness, and optimism.

I do sincerely trust that the benediction that is always awaiting me in my garden may by degrees be more deserved, and that I may grow in grace, and patience, and cheerfulness, just like the happy flowers I so much love.

Keep your whiskers crisp and clean. Do not let the mice grow lean. Do not let yourself grow fat Like a common kitchen cat. Have you set the kittens free? Do they sometimes ask for me? Is our catnip growing tall? Did you patch the garden wall? Clouds are gentle walls that hide Gardens on the other side. Tell the tabby cats I take All my meals with William Blake, Lunch at noon tea at four, Served in splendor on the shore At the tinkling of a bell. Tell them I am sleeping well. Tell them I have come so far, Brought by Blake's celestial cat, Buffeted by wind and rain, I may not get home again. Take this message to my friends. Say the King of Catnip sends To the cat who winds his clocks A thousand sunsets in a box, To the cat who brings the ice The shadows of a dozen mice (serve them with assorted dips and eat them like potato chips), And to the cat who guards his door A net for catching stars, and more (if patience he abide): Catnip from the other side.

He had many friends – smart, aspirational people of good taste – who had planted a jacaranda tree in their new garden as though this law of nature somehow didn’t apply to them and they could make it grow by the force of their will. After a year or two they would become frustrated and complain that it had barely increased even an inch. But it would take twenty, thirty, forty years for one of these trees to grow and yield its beautiful display, he said smiling: when you tell them this fact they are horrified, perhaps because they can’t imagine remaining in the same house or indeed the same marriage for so long, and they almost come to hate their jacaranda tree, he said, sometimes even digging it up and replacing it with something else, because it reminds them of the possibility that it is patience and endurance and loyalty – rather than ambition and desire – that bring the ultimate rewards. It is almost a tragedy, he said, that the same people who are capable of wanting the jacaranda tree and understanding its beauty are incapable of nurturing one themselves.

The garden is the place where the work of yesterday births the fruit of today which contains the seeds of tomorrow.

Darwin, with his Origin of Species, his theories about Natural Selection, the Survival of the Fittest, and the influence of environment, shed a flood of light upon the great problems of plant and animal life. These things had been guessed, prophesied, asserted, hinted by many others, but Darwin, with infinite patience, with perfect care and candor, found the facts, fulfilled the prophecies, and demonstrated the truth of the guesses, hints and assertions. He was, in my judgment, the keenest observer, the best judge of the meaning and value of a fact, the greatest Naturalist the world has produced. The theological view began to look small and mean. Spencer gave his theory of evolution and sustained it by countless facts. He stood at a great height, and with the eyes of a philosopher, a profound thinker, surveyed the world. He has influenced the thought of the wisest. Theology looked more absurd than ever. Huxley entered the lists for Darwin. No man ever had a sharper sword -- a better shield. He challenged the world. The great theologians and the small scientists -- those who had more courage than sense, accepted the challenge. Their poor bodies were carried away by their friends. Huxley had intelligence, industry, genius, and the courage to express his thought. He was absolutely loyal to what he thought was truth. Without prejudice and without fear, he followed the footsteps of life from the lowest to the highest forms. Theology looked smaller still. Haeckel began at the simplest cell, went from change to change -- from form to form -- followed the line of development, the path of life, until he reached the human race. It was all natural. There had been no interference from without. I read the works of these great men -- of many others – and became convinced that they were right, and that all the theologians -- all the believers in "special creation" were absolutely wrong. The Garden of Eden faded away, Adam and Eve fell back to dust, the snake crawled into the grass, and Jehovah became a miserable myth.

Natures thrives in its own special way – there is a time to begin, there is a time to wait and there is a time to let go and just watch the magical powers of nature unfolding the best it has to offer.

Destiny comes suddenly, bringing concern; she stares at you with horrible eyes and clutches you at the throat with sharp fingers and hurls you to the ground and tramples upon you with ironclad feet; then she laughs and walks away, but later regrets her actions and asks you through good fortune to forgive her. She stretches her silky hand and lifts you high and sings to you the Song of Hope and causes you to lose your cares. She creates in you a new zest for confidence and ambition. If your lot in life is a beautiful bird that you love dearly, you gladly feed to him the seeds of your inner self, and make your heart his cage and your soul his nest. But while you are affectionately admiring him and looking upon him with the eyes of love, he escapes from your hands and flies very high; then he descends and enters into another cage and never comes back to you. What can you do? Where can you find patience and condolence? How can you revive your hopes and dreams? What power can still your turbulent heart?

Nahin Minnatkash-e-Taab-e-Shaneedan Dastan Meri Khamoshi Guftugu Hai, Be-Zubani Hai Zuban Meri My story is not indebted to the patience of being heard My silence is my talk, my speechlessness is my speech Ye Dastoor-e-Zuban Bandi Hai Kaisa Teri Mehfil Mein Yahan To Baat Karne Ko Tarasti Hai Zuban Meri Why does this custom of silencing exist in your assembly? My tongue is tantalized to talk in this assembly Uthaye Kuch Waraq Lale Ne, Kuch Nargis Ne, Kuch Gul Ne Chaman Mein Har Taraf Bikhri Huwi Hai Dastan Meri Some leaves were picked up by the tulip, some by the narcissus, some by the rose My story is scattered around everywhere in the garden Urha Li Qumriyon Ne, Tootiyon Ne, Andleebon Ne Chaman Walon Ne Mil Kar Loot Li Tarz-e-Faghan Meri The turtle‐doves, parrots, and nightingales pilfered away The garden’s denizens jointly robbed away my plaintive way Tapak Ae Shama Ansu Ban Ke Parwane Ki Ankhon Se Sarapa Darun Hun, Hasrat Bhari Hai Dastan Meri O Candle! Drip like tears from the eye of the moth Head to foot pathos I am, full of longing is my story

The green of growing things calms me. Plants stabilize me. And I am interested in the patience that is required as I wait for growth. For the politically engaged person—any of us—such patience is a key to survival. Patience is a kindness that carries me through long days and longer nights.

I’d be no use in a town,” said Mary. “I’ve never known anything but this life by the river, and I don’t want to. Going into Helston is town enough for me. I’m best here, with the few chickens that’s left to us, and the green stuff in the garden, and the old pig, and a bit of a boat on the river. What would I do up to Bodmin with my Aunt Patience?

You have to plant doubt […] It’s like planting a seed that takes time to germinate. It might look like nothing is happening, but then suddenly the doubt will flower into some kind of action […] Patience is what is needed. People need to hear the truth, not just once but again and again. That’s what the politics of change is all about, patience and repetition, until the truth sinks in.

DODD REITERATED HIS COMMITMENT to objectivity and understanding in an August 12 letter to Roosevelt, in which he wrote that while he did not approve of Germany’s treatment of Jews or Hitler’s drive to restore the country’s military power, “fundamentally, I believe a people has a right to govern itself and that other peoples must exercise patience even when cruelties and injustices are done. Give men a chance to try their schemes.

It makes one very humble to see oneself surrounded by such a wealth of beauty and perfection anonymously lavished, and to think of the infinite meanness of our own grudging charities, and how displeased we are if they are not promptly and properly appreciated. I do sincerely trust that the benediction that is always awaiting me in my garden may by degrees be more deserved, and that I may grow in grace, and patience, and cheerfulness, just like the happy flowers I so much love.

✓In a garden you can find, quiet thoughts that calm the mind. ✓Every noble achievement is a dream before it is a reality just as the oak is an acorn before it is a tree. ✓Life is like a field, where we must gather what we grow, weed or wheat... this is the law, we reap the crop we sow. ✓Happy is the person who can keep a quiet heart, in the chaos and tumult of this modern world ✓While it is February one can taste the full joys of anticipation. Spring stands at the gate with her finger on the latch

That is the sort of person one enjoys taking round—the man (or woman) who, loving gardens, would go any distance to see one; who comes to appreciate, and compare, and admire; who has a garden of his own that he lives in and loves; and whose talk and criticisms are as dew to the thirsty gardening soul, all too accustomed in this respect to droughts. He knows as well as I do what work, what patience, what study and watching, what laughter at failures, what fresh starts with undiminished zeal, and what bright, unalterable faith are represented

My mom's Busy Day Cake," Nellie said, lifting the carrier slightly. "With lemon frosting and some violets from the garden I sugared." Her mother had often made the cake for social gatherings, telling Nellie everyone appreciated a simple cake. "It's only when you try to get too fancy do you find trouble," Elsie was fond of saying, letting Nellie lick the buttercream icing from the beaters as she did. Some might consider sugaring flowers "too fancy," but not Elsie Swann- every cake she made carried some sort of beautiful flower or herb from her garden, whether it was candied rose petals or pansies, or fresh mint or lavender sugar. Elsie, a firm believer in the language of flowers, spent much time carefully matching her gifted blooms and plants to their recipients. Gardenia revealed a secret love; white hyacinth, a good choice for those who needed prayers; peony celebrated a happy marriage and home; chamomile provided patience; and a vibrant bunch of fresh basil brought with it good wishes. Violets showcased admiration- something Nellie did not have for the exhausting Kitty Goldman but certainly did for the simple deliciousness of her mother's Busy Day Cake.

Steppenwolf knows well enough why he is unhappy and drifting, bored and tired; it is because he will not recognize his purpose and follow it with his whole being. ‘He is resolved to forget that the desperate clinging to the self, and the desperate clinging to life are the surest way to eternal death.’ Haller knows that even when the Outsider is a universally acknowledged man of genius, it is due to ‘his immense powers of surrender and suffering, of his indifference to the ideals of the bourgeois, and of his patience under that last extremity of loneliness which rarifies the atmosphere of the bourgeois world to an ice-cold ether around those who suffer to become men, that loneliness of the garden of Gethsemane

You who have walked with me these seven steps, become my best companion, my dearest friend. We shall share the same gardens, the same sunlight, we shall cross the same threshold, we shall share the same hearth. We shall welcome the same days and the same shy nights. I shall be the sun, you shall be its light; I shall be the light, you shall be its brilliance. I shall be the moon, you shall be its silver. I shall be the earth, you shall be its patience. I shall be the waters, you shall be its sanctity. I shall be the sky, you shall be its stretch of stars, I shall be the wind, you shall be its centre, I shall be all the seasons, you shall be their promise. For you, I shall be the lampflame, you shall be my stillness.

Cardiocrinum giganteum, or the giant Himalayan lily, is a difficult specimen. She requires inordinate patience on the part of the gentleman gardener who would seek to cultivate her. From seeds, the lily may take as many as six and a half years to reach maturity. A slow process. During this protracted wait, lesser men will be tempted to give up and turn their attention to showier, more easily won blooms. But take heart: those who persevere in their devotion to this rare and formidable plant will eventually be rewarded with the showiest of flowers, unmatched in their splendor. Tend her well. Prune her heart-shaped leaves, keep her soil damp, and do not crowd her too closely in the garden. Be patient, be diligent, but above all, my good sirs, be not discouraged.

Suppose the Buddha gave similarly detailed instructions for using parenting as practice. It would be a nearly identical teaching. We would be instructed to be as mindful of our children’s bodies as we are of our own. To be aware as they walk and eat and go to the bathroom. Then, instead of sitting up all night in meditation, we can sit up mindfully all night when our children are sick. We can be mindful when they’re afraid and when it’s time to hold them or comfort them with loving-kindness and compassion. We can practice patience and surrender. We can become aware of our own reactions and grasping. We can learn to let go over and over and over again as our children age. This is giving generously to the garden of the next generation, for giving and awareness is the path of awakening.

A man on his deathbed left instructions For dividing up his goods among his three sons. He had devoted his entire spirit to those sons. They stood like cypress trees around him, Quiet and strong. He told the town judge, 'Whichever of my sons is laziest, Give him all the inheritance.' Then he died, and the judge turned to the three, 'Each of you must give some account of your laziness, so I can understand just how you are lazy.' Mystics are experts in laziness. They rely on it, Because they continuously see God working all around them. The harvest keeps coming in, yet they Never even did the plowing! 'Come on. Say something about the ways you are lazy.' Every spoken word is a covering for the inner self. A little curtain-flick no wider than a slice Of roast meat can reveal hundreds of exploding suns. Even if what is being said is trivial and wrong, The listener hears the source. One breeze comes From across a garden. Another from across the ash-heap. Think how different the voices of the fox And the lion, and what they tell you! Hearing someone is lifting the lid off the cooking pot. You learn what's for supper. Though some people Can know just by the smell, a sweet stew From a sour soup cooked with vinegar. A man taps a clay pot before he buys it To know by the sound if it has a crack. The eldest of the three brothers told the judge, 'I can know a man by his voice, and if he won't speak, I wait three days, and then I know him intuitively.' The second brother, 'I know him when he speaks, And if he won't talk, I strike up a conversation.' 'But what if he knows that trick?' asked the judge. Which reminds me of the mother who tells her child 'When you're walking through the graveyard at night and you see a boogeyman, run at it, and it will go away.' 'But what,' replies the child, 'if the boogeyman's Mother has told it to do the same thing? Boogeymen have mothers too.' The second brother had no answer. 'I sit in front of him in silence, And set up a ladder made of patience, And if in his presence a language from beyond joy And beyond grief begins to pour from my chest, I know that his soul is as deep and bright As the star Canopus rising over Yemen. And so when I start speaking a powerful right arm Of words sweeping down, I know him from what I say, And how I say it, because there's a window open Between us, mixing the night air of our beings.' The youngest was, obviously, The laziest. He won.

Why do we make gardens? The act seems so extravagant, so illogical. Don’t we have enough hard work in our lives already? Are we looking for more? Why on earth do we bother? It takes a kind of courage. You have to learn to cherish. You have to dare, to take the risk, to bother, to care. To make a garden, you have to be able to love and to see yourself as capable of nurturing. It takes patience, too. If the garden is to thrive you must commit yourself to it for years, for the creation of a garden takes place over time. Like a child, a garden has needs that have to be met, whether we feel like it or not, day after day. You have to have confidence. You have to take charge and be responsible. You have to act upon the garden. And you have to let it act upon you. Because it will act upon you. And will knit you together with the rest of the world. It will not let you stand apart. The challenge is hard, but it is irresistible. To get dirty, to get involved. To act and be acted upon. That is life. If we stop accepting that challenge, we stop living.

The Leaving" My father said I could not do it, but all night I picked the peaches. The orchard was still, the canals ran steadily. I was a girl then, my chest its own walled garden. How many ladders to gather an orchard? I had only one and a long patience with lit hands and the looking of the stars which moved right through me the way the water moved through the canals with a voice that seemed to speak of this moonless gathering and those who had gathered before me. I put the peaches in the pond’s cold water, all night up the ladder and down, all night my hands twisting fruit as if I were entering a thousand doors, all night my back a straight road to the sky. And then out of its own goodness, out of the far fields of the stars, the morning came, and inside me was the stillness a bell possesses just after it has been rung, before the metal begins to long again for the clapper’s stroke. The light came over the orchard. The canals were silver and then were not. and the pond was–I could see as I laid the last peach in the water–full of fish and eyes.

You can have flaws, be anxious and even be angry, but do not forget that your life is the greatest enterprise in the world. Only you can stop it from failing. You are appreciated, admired and loved by so many. Remember that being happy is not having a sky without storm, a road without accidents, a job without effort, a relationship without disappointments. “To be happy is to stop feeling like a victim and become the author of your own fate.” It's walking through deserts, but being able to find an oasis deep in the soul. Is thanking God every morning for the miracle of life. It’s kissing your children, cuddling your parents, having poetic moments with your friends, even when they hurt us. “Being happy is letting the creature that lives in each of us live, free, joyful and simple. You have the maturity to be able to say: "I've made mistakes". It's having the courage to say I'm sorry. It's having the sense to say "I need you". Is having the ability to say "I love you". May your life become a garden of opportunities for happiness... that in spring he may be a lover of joy and in winter a lover of wisdom. "And when you make a mistake, start over. Because only then will you be in love with life. You'll discover that being happy isn't having a perfect life. But use tears to irrigate tolerance. Use your defeats to train your patience. "Use your mistakes with the serenity of the sculptor. Use pain to tune into pleasure. Use obstacles to open the windows of intelligence. Never give up ... Above all never give up on the people that love you. Never give up on being happy, because life is an incredible spectacle.

It could indeed, lord,’ said Merry. ‘For one thing,’ said Théoden, ‘I had not heard that they spouted smoke from their mouths.’ ‘That is not surprising,’ answered Merry; ‘for it is an art which we have not practised for more than a few generations. It was Tobold Hornblower, of Longbottom in the Southfarthing, who first grew the true pipe-weed in his gardens, about the year 1070 according to our reckoning. How old Toby came by the plant...’ ‘You do not know your danger, Théoden,’ interrupted Gandalf. ‘These hobbits will sit on the edge of ruin and discuss the pleasures of the table, or the small doings of their fathers, grandfathers, and great-grandfathers, and remoter cousins to the ninth degree, if you encourage them with undue patience. Some other time would be more fitting for the history of smoking. Where is Treebeard, Merry?

Power of Prayer     “The LORD has heard my cry for mercy; the LORD accepts my prayer” (Psalm 6:9).     I realize the power of prayer and the importance of praying for others. Yet sometimes I have these pesky doubts sprouting up in the garden of my mind, like weeds. Unless I pull out the root of the problem, they will continue to grow and return.   Recently, I prayed for my daughter’s healing. I also used common sense, having her sleep and take it easy all day. But then this morning her cough continued. It got progressively worse on our walk to the bus stop. Later in the day, she even had to break from an aggressive game of hide-n-seek to give her lungs a rest.   I found myself wondering; I know God is a miracle-working God, so why is she not healed? I know that God heals the sick, so why is she still coughing? I know that God says, ask and you shall receive (Luke 11) so why has my prayer not been heard? I want a miracle now. I know it’s within God’s power. Her lungs could become instantly made perfect in a simple command.   So knowing He can do this, why doesn’t He?   I reason that either: a) God didn’t hear my prayer, b) He heard my prayer and ignored it, c) He heard my prayer and answered, Yes later, or d) He heard my prayer and answered, No.   a)   He didn’t hear my prayer   I know God hears my prayers, based on scripture and my own experiences. There are lots of passages in the Bible to back up the fact that God does hear us. “This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to his will, he hears us” (1 John 5:14).   My own experiences even include God hearing my inner, unspoken prayers. I have prayed for safety, while driving in dangerous storms, and He answered my prayer. I have prayed for help and He answered immediately. Actually, I could fill this page and the next with prayers answered, both verbally expressed and those silently directed to God, as proof that He does hear my prayers.   b)   He heard my prayer and ignored it   Given that God hears my prayer, He can either respond, Yes or No. Considering that nothing is impossible for God (Luke 18 ) and He is a just and loving God, there is no reason for Him to ignore me. He calls to me everyday. Since He wants to communicate with me, it would be against His very nature to ignore me. He is merciful and kind, forgiving and gentle. If anything, He wants a relationship with me and so He would not ignore me. “For the eyes of the Lord are on the righteous and his ears are attentive to their prayer” (1 Peter 3:12).   c) He heard my prayer and answered, Yes later   I know that God hears my prayers. I know by His very nature He would not ignore my prayers. (2 Chronicles 7 NIV) So He may be saying, Yes later. God knows the past, the present and the future. He lives in eternity. He knows what is best for me and when. His timing is perfect and I must learn to accept this. I must lift my prayer to Him and then settle back knowing that He is in full control.   It’s just a matter of patience. “We do not want you to become lazy, but to imitate those who through faith and patience inherit what has been promised” (Hebrews 6:12). Like the time I had to wait for my house to sell. I

So, what are you doing here?” She couldn’t help it if her tone sounded a little tired. This was becoming farcical. “I came to tell you that I--” he rushed to speak, then composed himself, looked around, and stepped closer to her so he did not need to raise his voice to be heard. The brunette leaned forward just a tad. “I apologize for having to tell you here, in this busy, dirty…this is not the scene I would set, but you must know that I…” He took off his cap and rubbed his hair ragged. “I’ve been working at Pembrook Park for nearly four years. All the women I see, week after week, they’re the same. Nearly from the first, that morning when we were alone in the park, I guessed that you might be different. You were sincere.” He reached for her hand. He seemed to gain confidence, his lips started to smile, and he looked at her as though he never wished to look away. Zing, she thought, out of habit mostly, because she wasn’t buying any of it. Martin groaned at the silliness. Nobley immediately stuck his cap back on and stepped back, and he seemed unsure if he’d been too forward, if he should still play by the rules. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I wish you would. Last night in the library, I wanted to tell you how I felt. I should have. But I wasn’t sure how you…I let myself speak the same tired sort of proposal I used on everyone. You were right to reject me. It was a proper slap in the face. No one had ever said no before. You made me sit up and think. Well, I didn’t want to think much, at first. But after you left this morning, I asked myself, are you going to let her go just because you met her while acting a part?” Nobley paused as if waiting for the answer. “Oh, come on, Jane,” Martin said. “You’re not going to buy this from him.” “Don’t talk to me like we’re friends,” Jane said. “You…you were paid to kiss me! And it was a game, a joke on me, you disgusting lurch. You’ve got no right to call me Jane. I’m Miss Erstwhile to you.” “Don’t give me that,” Martin said. His patience was fraying. “All of Pembrook Park is one big drama, you’d have to be dense not to see that. You were acting too, just like the rest of us, having a fling on holiday, weren’t you? And it’s not as though kissing you was odious.” “Odious?” “I’m saying it wasn’t.” Martin paused and appeared to be putting back on his romancing-the-woman persona. “I enjoyed it, all of it. Well, except for the root beer. And if you’re going to write that article, you should know that I believe what we had was real.” The brunette sighed. Jane just rolled her eyes. “We had something real,” Nobley said, starting to sound a little desperate. “You must have felt it, seeping through the costumes and pretenses.” The brunette nodded. “Seeping through the pretenses? Listen to him, he’s still acting.” Martin turned to the brunette in search of an ally. “Do I detect any jealousy there, my flagpole-like friend?” Nobley said. “Still upset that you weren’t cast as a gentleman? You do make a very good gardener.” Martin took a swing. Nobley ducked and rammed into his body, pushing them both to the ground. The brunette squealed and bounced on the balls of her feet.

What do you water right now in your life? Because whatever you water will take over your garden. Whatever you water will grow, whatever you irrigate in your imagination will grow.

In the beginning God created” (Genesis 1:1), and every atom came from His imagination. I believe He made the world in such a way that to tend it, to touch it, would be to know His heart. He told a story into the earth, the tale of His bounteous heart. We were given the uplifted arms of pines and the vibrancy of a summer garden, the laden arms of apple trees and the dark patience of mountains, to keep us alive every day to all that God is and will continue to be.

If the rich and fashionable women of this country took more interest and spent more [206] time in their gardens, and less in frivolity, fewer would suffer from nervous prostration, and the necessity for the multitude of sanitariums would be avoided. Flower gardening is preëminently a woman’s occupation and diversion. Nearly every great lady in England takes a personal interest in her gardens and conservatories, and knows all about the plants and flowers. Here, the majority of women having large places leave the direction of the flowers, as well as the vegetables and fruit, to the taste and discretion of the gardener, and thus miss a great and healthful pleasure. As a rule, young people do not care for gardening. They lack the necessary patience and perseverance. But in the years of middle life, when one’s sun is slowly setting and interest in the world and society relaxes, the garden, with its changing bloom, grows ever dearer.

Nature thrives in its own special way - there is a time to begin, there is a time to wait and there is a time to let go and just watch the magical powers of nature unfolding the best it has to offer.

May Sarton, who wrote, gardened, and lived each day with an enviable passion, reassures me that “Gardening is one of the rewards of middle age, when one is ready for an impersonal passion, a passion that demands patience, acute awareness of a world outside oneself, and the power to keep on growing through all the times of drought, through the cold snows, towards those moments of pure joy when all failures are forgotten and the plum tree flowers.

Approaching Elegy It's hard to believe you are dying: like looking at a Jamesian scene, skipping past happiness to a garden bench beyond the trees. You fill the form of heroine: you sit in your black dress, too tired to imagine the rest of yourself. An old suitor appears, grabs you possibly too forcefully by the wrists (he is still impossibly in love—). You disengage your wrists. He leans forward, looks into your eyes, which you close—as if you were all by yourself. He moves closer, talking very fast about happiness. He places his cloak on your shoulders, imagines he'll rescue you. Around you, forms grow darker: house, branch, hydrangea. Above you, freckled expanses of leaves form the beginnings of barbed, lopsided shrouds—a possible solace. If only his kiss could please you, I wouldn't need to imagine past the clean architecture of the story. And perhaps it is wrong to look past that. Wrong to ask about happiness. Past midnight, he continues to offer himself. Before, he had offered aimless passion, but now (you see it for yourself) he has an idea: he points into the darkness. He is grave, formal. The dark has swallowed the long shadows of the oaks (though not your unhappiness) —and it is about to swallow you. Soon, it will no longer be possible (there is just one more page to turn) for me to look through your eyes, so I would like to imagine for you: something past tragedy. Just as I would like to imagine that we are not in danger, that we have selves more solid than stars, that we are safe in the pages of books we can reopen to look at each other. Except that we are not women formed of words, but of impossible longings. What was it that you wanted besides happiness? You are dying. I have no ideas about happiness and no patience to imagine it possible. Soon you will not be the heroine; you will not be yourself. And it's not that you've lost the formula; your form is losing you. Look at how brave you are: I imagined the great point was to be happy, as happy as possible with the quick forms that imagine us—but the last time I looked there you were—distant and bright in the not so blue darkness, imagining yourself.

He counted that as achievement enough, and having known them was part of the harmonious balance that made him content now with this harboured, contemplative life, and gave him patience and insight to bear with these cloistered, simple souls who had put on the Benedictine habit as a life’s profession, while for him it was a timely retirement. When you have done everything else, perfecting a conventual herb-garden is a fine and satisfying thing to do. He could not conceive of coming to this stasis having done nothing else whatever.

VENERABLE EUPHROSYNOS THE COOK OF ALEXANDRIA. Euphrosynos the monk labored in the monastery kitchen, serving the brethren with humility and patience. He never neglected his prayers or fasting. He suffered much abuse from the brothers, but his patience was inexpressible. One night a certain priest who lived at the monastery prayed to the Lord to show him the things which are prepared for those that love the Lord. He had a vision that he was standing in a garden of unimaginable beauty, and he saw Euphrosynos walking by. The priest asked, “Brother Euphrosynos, what is this place? Can this be paradise?” Euphrosynos answered, “It is paradise, Father.” When the priest asked what he was doing there, Euphrosynos said that he had made his abode there and distributes to others the gifts of the garden. He then placed three apples in a kerchief and gave them to the priest. At that moment, the semantron was struck for Matins, and the priest awoke and found the three fragrant apples that Euphrosynos had given him in paradise. When he arrived in church, he asked Euphrosynos where he had been that night, and the monk replied, “Forgive me, Father, I have been in that place where we saw one another.” The priest asked, “What did you give me, Father, in paradise when I spoke with you?” “The three fragrant apples which you have placed on your bed in your cell; but forgive me, Father, for I am a worm and not a man,” answered Euphrosynos. Following the church service, the humble Euphrosynos was nowhere to be found. The apples were divided among the brethren, and whoever ate of them, was healed of their infirmities.

✓the ancient ritual of the earth; ploughing and planting, reaping and threshing. The fundamental business remains unaltered; it is only the methods and tools that science is changing. ✓If you want good roses, sharpen your knife and harden your heart. ✓much of gardening is a struggle against the fecundity of Nature ✓New words are always being born and old ones fading away. ✓Winter sunshine is a fairy wand touching everything with a strange magic. It is like the smile of a friend in time of sorrow.

The sisters were all gifted gardeners so Sorrel wasn't terribly worried about her beloved flowers. Patience's herbs were in fine form, Nettie's fruits and vegetables were well on their way, and now Sorrel's blooms would have the best start they could without her capable hands to see them into June.

Sorrel always thought herself happy in the little village by the sea. She was content among her flowers and specimen trees, the extraordinary roses and lilacs, sweet peas and hydrangeas that bloomed- somehow simultaneously and for months beyond reason- in the Nursery. She found great pleasure in picking the pears, cherries, and apples for Nettie's tarts, the tender young peas and beans, the lettuce so green it glowed, and the nasturtiums and violas that her sister used in her salads. She was grateful for Patience's remedies on the rare occasion when she felt ill. But Sorrel's hands were happiest deep in the soil and curled around the stems of the flowers she grew and arranged.

Patience drifted in the garden, her dress draping softly off one shoulder and her hair falling across her back like blood in the shadows. She saw his tall silhouette first as he stood at the screen. She stopped, her bare feet sparking against the gravel path. Henry saw the blue-green lights around her, his brain searching to name them. He settled on fireflies although he smelled brine and seaweed and wanted to say phosphorescence.

Just as Patience read the people in Granite Point, searching for the troubled bits in their bodies or hearts, and Nettie collected the harvest and composed meals that sustained the very same parts, Sorrel wove her plants and flowers into a tapestry of her own, first in her imagination, then on paper using watercolors and ink to bring a garden to life. Then, when everything was ready, each bulb accounted for, each tender sapling and fragile seedling, Sorrel poured that knowledge, and her body and heart, into the fertile soil.

Andrew sifted through the photos: lush, sprawling gardens of herbs and flowers, others dotted with crabapple trees, woodbine, and hawthorn- not that he could name anything. Sorrel leaned over her shoulder and brushed against Andrew's hand. He shivered and pushed it away. For a moment he thought that the gardens in the pictures had come to life as Sorrel's scent drifted over him. She smelled of summer and sea with a whisper of something he couldn't name, familiar and strange at once. He didn't know that Patience Sparrow had concocted special cologne for Sorrel's trip. It was made of privet blossom, new green grass, lime, and the smallest hint of patchouli and had been the last she packed.

With that mouth I’m bettin’ ye’re a good kisser, aren’t ye, lass?” Nerissa gasped and this time Captain Lord, his gray eyes going frosty, relinquished both women into the care of Andrew who, flushed with success over the reception his explosive had received, was just joining them. “Outside,” Captain Lord snapped. “What, fisticuffs in the garden?” the Irishman asked, raising one brow and flashing an amused grin at Nerissa. “Saints above, Christian, ’tis beneath ye, don’t ye think?” Sir Elliott, who’d lingered at the stage looking at Andrew’s notes, was frowning as he joined them. “What is this?” “My brother was just leaving,” Deirdre said hurriedly, seizing the tall stranger’s arm. “Aren’t you, Ro—I mean, Ruaidri?” “Actually, I was rather lookin’ forward to watchin’ things go boom in the night.” “What?” the admiral demanded. “Fireworks.” He cocked his head and again, Nerissa felt the heat of his bold gaze as it moved over her lips, her throat, the swell of her breasts, and a strange and not unpleasant sensation centered itself between her legs and spread upwards into her belly, outwards into her blood. “With the pretty lass here, of course.” Andrew came alive. “Now see here! How dare you speak to my sister like—” “Enough! All of you!” Deirdre was losing her patience. “Ruaidri, you told us ye were goin’ out for the evenin’ and ’tis time ye left. Christian and Elliott, ye’re drawin’ the attention of our guests and I won’t let this evenin’ be spoiled by such nonsense. Lord Andrew, I have this situation well under control. Go on out to the garden with our guests and we’ll join ye shortly.” She transferred the sleepy toddler to her other hip. “Lady Nerissa, I apologize for me brother—he’s a rogue and at the moment, a drunken fool. Don’t take him seriously.

I like that word compassion. It’s being aware that all of us fear the imperfections deeply carved into our naked selves. We all cover up. And then we all get stripped bare when the wins become losses. Who do you want standing near you in those moments dripping with disappointment and saturated with sorrow? I can assure you it isn’t people who don’t know the whole story, draped in gold-plated pride with mouths eager to spill out commentary like, “Here’s what you did wrong. I would never have allowed myself to get in this position. If only you would have . . .” Nope. It’s those clothed with garments of understanding. They have personally experienced that this life between two gardens can sometimes make it excruciatingly painful to simply be human. They keep in mind the Bible’s instructions, as we rub shoulders human to human. “Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience” (Colossians 3:12).

Today I begin a new life. Today I shed my old skin which hath, too long, suffered the bruises of failure and the wounds of mediocrity. Today I am born anew and my birthplace is a vineyard where there is fruit for all. Today I will pluck grapes of wisdom from the tallest and fullest vines in the vineyard, for these were planted by the wisest of my profession who have come before me, generation upon generation. Today I will savor the taste of grapes from these vines and verily I will swallow the seed of success buried in each and new life will sprout within me. The career I have chosen is laden with opportunity yet it is fraught with heartbreak and despair and the bodies of those who have failed, were they piled one atop another, would cast a shadow down upon all the pyramids of the earth. Yet I will not fail, as the others, for in my hands I now hold the charts which will guide me through perilous waters to shores which only yesterday seemed but a dream. Failure no longer will be my payment for struggle. Just as nature made no provision for my body to tolerate pain neither has it made any provision for my life to suffer failure. Failure, like pain, is alien to my life. In the past I accepted it as I accepted pain. Now I reject it and I am prepared for wisdom and principles which will guide me out of the shadows into the sunlight of wealth, position, and happiness far beyond my most extravagant dreams until even the golden apples in the Garden of Hesperides will seem no more than my just reward. Time teaches all things to him who lives forever but I have not the luxury of eternity. Yet, within my allotted time I must practice the art of patience for nature acts never in haste. To create the olive, king of all trees, a hundred years is required. An onion plant is old in nine weeks. I have lived as an onion plant.

Soul wants time and patience to confer loveliness; it wants to be wooed and longs to find the face of the Beloved in the gardens of the city.” -- 'The Light Inside the Dark: Zen, Soul and the Spiritual Life', John Terrant

Don't worry about quick profit. Even a beautiful flower or sweet fruits in your garden takes their time. If you want to experience the beauty of investment, have patience. At Samrat Investments, we never promise overnight success.

Don't worry about rapid profit. Even a beautiful flower or sweet fruits in your garden takes their time. If you want to experience the beauty of investment, have patience.

When you play a soldier, you play it to the hilt. Nobody talks about what's obvious. Something staring you in the eye, you look around it and grumble about the weather. Anything important will come out in its own time. Soldiers have nothing to look forward to, making patience an easy virtue, and sometimes it's not just a virtue, but a contest of indifference.

Apart from providing a calming influence, it is through gardening that one can appreciate the value of patience.

During the team’s flight back home to New York, Scott—who played ten scoreless minutes and was shooting 30 percent and averaging 2.9 points through his first fifteen games—sought to lighten the mood, cracking jokes on the plane. In a way, this was who Scott had always been: a lighthearted person who often looked for ways to laugh in overly tense situations. By contrast, that was not who Van Gundy was. The coach, often miserable in normal circumstances, was far more miserable after losses. Following home defeats, those who traversed the Garden’s hallways knew they might hear Van Gundy shouting, tipping over his desk, or punching a wall in his office. And whenever the Knicks played on the road—win or lose—Van Gundy usually had limited patience for outbursts on the team plane. “We were on a flight coming back from a preseason [win], and I got in trouble for yelling, ‘Yes! Let’s go Mets!’ after they clinched a spot in the World Series [in 2000],” says Hamdan, the club’s assistant trainer. “The next day, he calls me into his office and says I need to have more respect for the sanctity of winning and losing. And I told him: ‘Jeff, the sanctity of winning and losing is why I yelled “Let’s go Mets!” They just made the World Series!’ And he just looks at me and says, ‘Get the fuck outta my office.’ ” Van Gundy let Hamdan slide with a warning. But Scott wouldn’t enjoy that same grace. Seeking to send a message, the coach made a bold, unilateral choice to bypass Grunfeld and cut Scott from the team the morning after the flight.

Vilnius University, which rivaled the University of Oxford in enrollment for some time, was closed in 1832. The government had no more patience with a school it considered a hotbed of Polish nationalism. Other Polish-run educational institutions in the region also shut their doors, among them a lyceum in the town of Kremianets in Volhynia. The government transferred the lyceum’s rich library, collection of sculptures, and trees and shrubs from the botanical garden to Kyiv, where it created a new imperial center of learning to replace Vilnius University in 1834. The Polish language was banned there; Russian was the only language of instruction. The new university was named after Prince Volodymyr (Vladimir) the Great—the first Orthodox autocrat and a Russian to boot, as far as official historiography was concerned.

During my frequent house-moving, I came to understand how this city has no patience for those who cannot, or do not wish to, acclimatise to change. You like old neighbourhoods, un-renovated housing, nature growing wild? Good luck. You want to live a simple life outside of cheques and balances? Just try. Technology will urge itself into your pockets. Highways will encroach upon your gardens. Luxury housing will impress itself upon your land and upon the cemeteries of your ancestors. Prices will skyrocket out of your control and if you're not working, always working, urge you back into your parents' homes, or out into the streets.

garden is a grand teacher. It teaches patience and careful watchfulness; it teaches industry and thrift; above all it teaches entire trust.” —Gertrude Jekyll

the kind of love that gives needed space  and always likes to listen. our love sits with patience and stands with encouragement. we grow together and also separately. our love is becoming an endless garden; awaiting its blossom.

But now I know more about the great wheel of growth, and decay, and rebirth, and know my vision for a falsehood. Now I see him coming from the house — I see him on his knees, cutting away the diseased, the superfluous, coaxing the new, knowing that the hour of fulfillment is buried in years of patience — yet willing to labor like that on the mortal wheel. Oh, what good it does the heart to know it isn't magic! Like the human child I am I rush to imitate — I watch him as he bends among the leaves and vines to hook some weed or other; even when I do not see him, I think of him there raking and trimming, stirring up those sheets of fire between the smothering weights of earth, the wild and shapeless air.

Marriage is a garden that requires constant nurturing and care, but it can blossom into a beautiful and everlasting love with patience and dedication.

My father said I could not do it, but all night I picked the peaches. The orchard was still, the canals ran steadily. I was a girl then, my chest its own walled garden. How many ladders to gather an orchard? I had only one and a long patience with lit hands and the looking of the stars which moved right through me the way the water moved through the canals with a voice that seemed to speak of this moonless gathering and those who had gathered before me. I put the peaches in the pond's cold water, all night up the ladder and down, all night my hands twisting fruit as if I were entering a thousand doors, all night my back a straight road to the sky. And then out of its own goodness, out of the far fields of the stars, the morning came, and inside me was the stillness a bell possesses just after it has been rung, before the metal begins to long again for the clapper's stroke. The light came over the orchard. The canals were silver and then were not. and the pond was--I could see as I laid the last peach in the water--full of fish and eyes.

Though we plant the seeds when we like it, and have the freedom to choose the quality of seeds we plant, note that the harvest is brought about by the higher consciousness in its Divine Timing.

Much like the roots of a palm tree, our journeys begin with humble beginnings. Just as patience nurtures the root, time and understanding cultivate the unique growth of each individual. Let patience be the gardener of growth.

Patience is the gardener's virtue; in time, even the smallest seed becomes the mightiest oak.

Cormac supposed he must be nearing his mid-thirties by now – but he had retained his good looks and he carried himself proudly as he disappeared around the corner. Cormac resumed his waiting. His patience was rewarded when, after half an hour had passed, the front door opened again and Miss Davison emerged with Emily by her side; they made their way across the street and vanished into the gardens. This was what he had been hoping for. Now there was nobody left in the house but Bridget and her servants. He tucked the newspaper inside his coat, crossed the street, and was approaching the building when the door opened once more and Bridget herself came out onto the top step. Anticipation mounted within him. Strangely, she was wearing a rather drab ensemble consisting

It was in her garden that whatever physical grace Abigail St. Croix possessed asserted itself. She moved among her flowers with consummate natural fluidity, enjoying the incommunicable pleasures of growing things with the patience and concentration of a watchmaker. In this, her small, green country, surrounded by an embrasure of old Charleston brick, there were camellias of distinction, eight discrete varieties of azaleas, and a host of other flowers, but she directed her prime attention to the growing of roses. She had taught me to love flowers since I had known her; I had learned that each variety had its own special personality, its own distinctive and individual way of presenting itself to the world. She told me of the shyness of columbine, the aggression of ivy, and the diseases that affected gardenias. Some flowers were arrogant invaders and would overrun the entire garden if allowed too much freedom. Some were so diffident and fearful that in their fragile reticence often lived the truest, most infinitely prized beauty. She spoke to her flowers unconsciously as we made our way to the roses in the rear of the garden. “You can learn a lot from raising roses, Will. I’ve always told you that.” “I’ve never raised a good weed, Abigail. I could kill kudzu.” “Then one part of your life is empty,” she declared. “There’s a part of the spirit that’s not being fed.

At the Lab School children planted gardens and grew crops not to become farmers but to learn about food, chemistry, and geography. These students, who came from fairly affluent families in Hyde Park, acquired considerable knowledge, but they were creatively and actively involved in their education and less dependent on textbooks and traditional instruction. Children could read a textbook to learn how to boil an egg, but experimenting on their own drew upon their interests and strengthened their powers of observation. Efficiency was sacrificed, but active engagement in learning, as in democracy, required time and patience.

Patience will be rewarded, the garden reminded me. Why was it so hard to listen sometimes?

Adela also liked Jane’s cheerful, red-cheeked husband with his bluff Yorkshire humour. Charlie Latimer had a knack of cajoling the staff into doing Jane’s bidding in the kitchen while entertaining them with lurid catering stories from his time in the army. He had twice the patience that Adela did. She wrote to Clarrie full of confidence that the café would not only survive under its new management, but also thrive. As Adela’s thoughts turned increasingly to India and Belgooree, she hungered for news, but her mother had not written since shortly after the Independence celebrations. Sam was reassuring. ‘Your mother will be run off her feet in the gardens at this time of year,’ he said. ‘The factory will be at full production.’ Adela put her hands around his face and kissed him in affection. ‘You sound like a tea planter already,’ she teased. He caught her round the waist and tugged her closer. ‘I can’t wait.’ He grinned and kissed her robustly back. On the afternoon of Bonnie’s birthday party, Adela felt even more queasy than usual. She had been busy all morning helping to decorate the café and had hardly stopped to eat or drink.

Nurturing your dream is like tending a garden; it requires patience, care, and the faith that from the smallest seeds, the most magnificent blooms will emerge, transforming vision into reality. Remember— every giant oak was once a tiny acorn; believe in the potential of small beginnings and the power of growth