An Intimate Journey Between the Roots of the Past and the Promises of the Future, Through Dialogue with Nature

by Marco Arezio

I find myself addressing the plants I tend to and thus know well. I owe this habit to my mother, who nurtured her vegetable garden with the same care she gave to the people around her.

In these months, the longest conversations I have are with the shiny leaves of my ferns and the promising buds of my geraniums.

There is something profoundly therapeutic in talking to these silent creatures, feeling almost as if they respond with their vivid green and patient growth.

The house I live in is modest, but the garden surrounding it is a miniature paradise, a corner of peace that seems to hold the secrets of life itself.

Every plant has a story, a memory tied to my mother. I still remember when she taught me to recognize the different varieties of roses, each with its unique scent and vibrant color. “Plants are living beings, just like us,” she used to say. “They need love, attention, and respect.”

Growing up, I internalized those words, and now, in the silence of my days, I find myself talking to the plants as she did. I sit next to the old oak tree, its leaves rustling gently in the wind, and it almost feels like I can hear my mother’s voice among the branches. “Everything is alright,” the oak reassures me. “Keep nurturing, keep hoping.

In moments of solitude, when the world feels too vast and frightening, I find comfort in the rough touch of the bark, the bright green of the new leaves. It is as if the garden were a secret refuge, a place where worries dissolve in the fragrant air of flowers and moist soil.

I often recall the summers of my childhood, spent running barefoot on the grass, picking daisies to make crowns. My mother would watch with a smile, her hands dirty from planting new flowers. “Every plant you nurture is a small miracle,” she said. “A reminder that life always finds a way to go on.”

And so, in my garden, I find the strength to move forward too. Every budding shoot, every flower that opens to the sun is a symbol of hope, a sign that, despite everything, life continues to bloom. I talk to the plants, caress them gently, and they respond by growing lush, filling the air with life and color.

In this silent exchange, I find peace. I realize that perhaps my mother was right: plants teach us to be patient, to endure, to find beauty even in the most challenging moments.

And as the sun sets, tinting the garden in gold and amber, I feel part of an eternal cycle, an invisible bond that connects me to nature and the memory of those I have loved.

And so, in my garden, I continue to nurture, to talk, to hope. And every blooming flower is a promise, a sign that life, with all its challenges and beauties, always finds a way to blossom again.