What follows is a remembering; my account of a day in our shared garden. Though names have been changed and a few details reshaped to protect anonymity, the heart of it remains untouched. The spirit, the togetherness, and the small, shimmering magic of that day are all as true and as real as the sunlight that warmed us:
The morning began with the sunlight spilling through the leaves like warm honey, thick and sweet with promise. I arrived early, for once, and found the garden already awake. Dew clung to the cosmos flowers like tiny stars reluctant to leave the earth. The garden was greeting the dawn and; I swear I could hear the whispered gratitude as I walked through.
By midmorning, the gate creaked open and the others began to arrive. Amal, with her basket of baked delights and stories that warm the soul like cinnamon. Farid, his laughter cascading like water trickling over rocks. People exploring the beds and finding places to perch, their voices weaving through the birdsong like bright joyful ribbons in the wind.
Today was one of our shared feast days. The day when we all bring gifts from food to a listening ear or a treasured tale, and somehow it becomes more than bounteous. Hands found tasks and quickly settled as bellies rumbled expectantly. The fire was stoked and the warmth radiated across the garden. Someone washed the carrots in the cold tap water that makes our fingers ache and our hearts feel alive. Together we laid out the long wooden tables, each plank with its own patina of meals and memories.
As we prepped, talked and tasted, laughter tumbled between us like fruit rolling down a hill. We spoke in different tongues, but the rhythm of work made a language of its own. Chopping, stirring, passing, sharing. I looked around and saw that each of us had brought something intangible as well: Amal’s patience, Farid’s humour, young Isa’s endless curiosity, the old fisherman’s quiet steadiness. The garden received it all, folding it into the soil along with the freshly fallen autumn leaves. The pots started to fill and the fire crackled and spat like an ancient storyteller, reminding us that people have always gathered around flame and food to remember they belong to one another.
The talk of food travelled the garden as shared memories of childhood dishes and flavours of homemade bread and grandmother’s soup blended together, seasoning the air like another spice. Everyone suddenly a chef debated the right amount of salt, the perfect combination of herbs and how each of them chose to make their own dish dance across the tongue.
When we finally sat down together, the table seemed to reverberate a reminder that nothing in this space was inanimate. Steam rose from the pots in spirals that swirled gently with the breeze, and the scent of herbs carried memories of a hundred different kitchens from across the seas. As we passed plates hand to hand, the wind carried our laughter through the leaves, and I could swear the earth itself was smiling.
We broke bread, literally and symbolically, and in that simple act (older than agriculture itself) I felt something unfurl between us. When we eat together, something ancient and tender happens. Hunger and pride dissolve. There is only passing and receiving, giving and gratitude. Every mouthful becomes a small act of trust.
In that moment, it was as if the garden itself was humming in gratitude. Dragonflies flitted past skimming over the nearby pond and drawn out not just by the bright sun but by the warmth of our togetherness. The passerines serenaded us from the hedgerows and the animals skitted around the edges waiting to share in the bounty that fell from the table. The noble old oak’s leaves rustled a soft prayer over the whole scene.
And in that space between the taste of Syrian lentil soup and the crisp crunch of salad leaves and fried pita something ancient stirred. The knowing that we are not strangers. That the stories written in our palms rhyme, even if we learned to read them in different alphabets. That the world has spent too long convincing us we are separate, when really, we are just scattered seeds waiting for the same rain.
When the meal ended, no one rushed to leave. We lingered, our hands warm from the fire and from one another’s touch. The sun sank a little lower, painting us all with golden auras. Around us, the garden seemed to exhale—a deep, contented breath that said: this is how it’s meant to be.
When we gather like this the garden is not just a place of earth and roots. It is a reminder, a spell, a gentle rebellion against loneliness. Proof that when we tend the soil together, when we cook, when we share, when we listen, the world tilts a little closer to love.
We all arrive at the table carrying hunger for food, for belonging, for the simple grace of being seen. And somehow, when we eat together, those hungers start to speak to each other, and the world feels less divided; as a contented mother earth watches her scattered children find each other again.
The essence of the day was simply captured in the heartfelt message we received after the meal from one of our participants:
“Thank you for such a beautiful day, it gives me hope for the world”
I have written before that I believe hope is a rare and precious thing in a world that too often forgets its own tenderness. Hope that grows not from speeches or grand gestures, but from shared hands in the soil, from laughter over the fire, from the simple grace of breaking bread together.
Like an ancient heritage seed, this kind of hope asks to be planted again and again, in our gardens, our communities, our daily gestures of care. It asks for tending, for patience, for trust in the slow alchemy of connection.
If we nurture these seeds, if we keep gathering and sharing and remembering what it means to belong to one another, then together we will grow the more beautiful world our hearts have always known is possible.