🌾And Then, the Harvest

A story you don’t have to control — only a lesson you choose to learn. Because your tears were never for nothing. 🍂

🍁 All That Grew in the Waiting

So many shadows. So many restless nights. So many efforts, uncertainties, and so much faith.
Chasing unknown realities in the hope that something better is waiting — even when we can’t see it yet.

Our minds, our eyes, our bodies become clouded by the effort to control something too grandiose to ever be understood that way. We run — from the past, toward the future — it’s hard to tell the difference in the moment. But we run, nonetheless.

Breathless. Restless. Branches and wind lash against the skin until the pain forces the eyes open.
And in that sting comes realization: this chapter is closing, but the journey is anything but over.

Then, a stillness. Where there was once emptiness and ache, there’s the aroma of peace rolling lightly on the wind. The time for harvest is approaching — a joy that tastes like renewal, a sweet sigh of release.

After all the toiling in grime, the bitter sweat, the tears poured back into the soil, and the quiet doubts whispered among the weeds — wondering if the finish line was ever real, or if we were simply wading in the fields — and then… we reap.
We harvest. 🌾

---

🌿 What the Soil Remembered

In moments, it feels like we’ve been forgotten. Abandoned.
But mes chères, The Soil never forgets. She holds it all.

Nothing is ever far from Her sacred gaze. Le Sol witnesses every moment we believe hidden from the world — every joy held too tightly by The Soul, afraid that its happiness won’t be understood. The Soil remembers.

Every loss that felt like the last one The Soul could bear — when it only wanted to fade away — The Soil remembers.

Every lesson whispered among Her tall, branching, crawling subjects — The Soil remembers.

She absorbs, never letting a single tear go to waste. Because even if The Soul didn’t know it, The Soil knew: nothing is ever truly lost. Room is simply being created.

Even pain becomes nourishment.
Le Sol knew that she could only hold so much — she would not force it.
The Soul had to let go before it could receive.

So The Soil waits.
She has nothing but time. She does not abandon.

And then she feels it — a lightness at her crown. The release.
The Soil knows: now is the time to give back to the Soul.

Le Sol n’oublie jamais la pluie qui l’a brisée une fois — elle donne grâce. 🌧️

---

🌻 The Things We Planted With Tears

The Soul had forgotten the invisible work of faith — the silent nature of love — the wonder of perseverance.

She used to scatter seeds frantically across The Soil, not tending, just desperate for harvest.

It was only when The Soil spoke — “Slow…” — that The Soul finally listened.

Every project had been a labor of heartache.
Every friendship sprouted unexpectedly, but precisely when needed.
Every dream once hidden in the clouds drifted down, at last, to meet The Soul in her realm.

She could hardly believe it. “C’est vrai…? C’est pour moi?”

Disbelief. Still learning to comprehend. And The Soil smiled — “Tend…”

So she listened.
No longer scattering, no longer scrambling — but planting with intention.

Listening to each seed’s quiet voice. Some needed to be left alone.
Some required day and night care. Others needed to be transformed altogether.

The Soul began to understand: not every seed will survive the journey, and they weren’t meant to.
But every one matters. Each bears its own fruit — some visible, some hidden — all teaching.

Each lesson had to be understood before the next would be revealed — like treasure among fallen leaves.

Even the seeds that never bloomed taught The Soul to tend with care. Because one never knows when one will finally take root and bear exactly what we need. 🌱

---

🌾 When the Hands Finally Rest

The Soul sits in her garden, mesmerized by what is shifting around her.
The Soil presses gently beneath her palms. Then she sees it.

The Soul reaches out and plucks the fruit — hardly knowing what to do.
Elle regarde. Stunned. Frozen. Happy?

This little life — all her tears, her joy, her care — it’s right there in her hands.
But this time, her hands are at rest.

She exhales. The end of striving — for now.
Lying in the garden, she feels the dew of rest and renewal.

Her hands rest not because they are empty, but because the work has become alive on its own.

She’s toiled and tended day and night, and still she hesitates. Holding her fruit close, unsure if it’s ready.

The Soil whispers, “It is.”

Creation, relationship, connection — Soil and Soul — look at what they’ve made together.
In reciprocity. In kinship. In care.

The Soul almost forgot that they sustain each other. But she remembers now.

They exhale — ensemble — shedding old skins, old fears.

C’est vrai.
They can harvest.
They can rest.
Because it was never luck — it was earned in faith, patience, and tenderness.

---

🌸 Everything We’ve Tended

The Soul makes her way back to the village, fruit in hand. Le Sol still beneath her feet.

Then she hears them — her people, her community — coming to welcome her home.
They embrace her. She feels their warmth.

The Soul opens her hands to reveal the harvest, and they hold her tighter.
Together, they celebrate.
And The Soil watches in silence, smiling.

---

Ma chère communauté,
Merci — for every moment of patience.
For every scroll, every comment, every collaboration, every line skimmed.
Thank you for believing in this quiet season.

This is not the end.
This is the pause before new beginnings.

Autumn never takes without giving — she only asks that we notice the exchange. 🍁

---

🌙 Le Miroir

Je t’ai vue, petite âme, courbée sur mes sillons,
Les mains tremblantes, le cœur ouvert.
Je t’ai sentie déposer tes larmes dans mes creux,
Et j’ai promis de ne rien oublier.

Chaque goutte a germé en silence.
Chaque souffle que tu as laissé partir
Est devenu racine, veine, rivière.
J’ai gardé tes chagrins, tes prières, tes joies —
Tout ce que tu as cru perdu, je l’ai transformé.

Quand tu t’es arrêtée, épuisée,
Je t’ai couverte de mousse et de lumière.
Quand tu as douté, j’ai murmuré ton nom
Dans la langue des feuilles et des pierres.

Regarde maintenant, mon enfant :
Ce qui t’entoure est ton propre courage revenu en fleurs.
Les fruits que tu tiens sont faits de toi,
Et de moi, enlacés depuis toujours.

Reste tranquille. Respire.
Tu n’as plus besoin de creuser —
Le sol se souvient, et il t’aime. 🌾

Avec beaucoup de soin,
LRC💛

---

---