“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.” – May Sarton

January did not come gently; illness got into our home—both my husband and my son suffered from flu-like symptoms and restless nights. I think it was the holiday’s long evenings and non-stop celebrations, that had at last worked up their toll. The first two weeks was a choreography of rest, tea, and constant watchfulness, hoping for a swift recovery.

The cold in Baguio grew more deliberate this month. In other areas of the North like Atok, Benguet, temperatures sank to as low as four degrees. In the city, they hovered around 11 degrees Celsius. Our house, being slightly tucked away from the busy city center, cradled the cold and held onto it longer than most.

The month became an exercise in waiting. Each day, I checked on the seeds I had sown the previous month, willing them toward life. My inexperience showed itself plainly, and I met it the only way I knew how – by repeated research and study. Slowly, something would surely shift, I thought – until one day, somehow, everything would become instinctive to me.

There were also small victories. From a single garden bed, my husband and I built three more. We took down the old trellis made of bamboo stakes which have now turned brittle, softened by time and moisture as if their bodies were ready to return to earth. The process felt less like dismantling and more like clearing space – a small act of respect for what had already served its purpose.

As the days of the month passed, I have fallen into a morning ritual without realizing it. Each morning, I opened the windows to invite the light in before stepping outside. I made sure to grab my loyal straw hat, a small purchase I made the last time I was in Chiang Mai, a lovely city in the north of Thailand. I checked the garden for signs of survival after another cold night. Often, I found myself sitting still, staring at the patch of soil where I’ve sown the seeds, as if patience itself might will them to wake up and sprout.

Slowly, seeds began to feel less like gardening materials and more like small miracles. Each one felt precious – a reminder that something unseen is quietly becoming, carrying within its fragile coat a future far larger than itself.

And before the day gathered its usual weight, I went to the study and cleared unread emails. It is my small, intentional gesture toward order. Then I stepped away. The work and the garden could not be rushed and neither could the day. Some work asks only to be tended and trusted. To patiently wait and believe something will grow, especially when nothing is visible yet.

In January, that felt enough.