For years, I was in the rat race, my sense of wonder lost. Gardening was my antidote (解毒药). It gave me time to stop, listen and absorb all the little details that nature has to offer—nurturing the earth, plants and myself to fight against the aggression and tiredness of everyday working life.

I quit my job and had a vision for my company. I wanted others to find the comfort that my garden gave me. Now, I watch my clients experience their own transformations. A corner that was once an unwelcoming place of weeds is a child's play area; a lonely person has an inspiring, evolving view.

Gardening requires us to be present in the moment, while also imagining the future. You may see a beautiful flower and surprise for a minute at the magic of nature. Some flowers last for a day, others for a season. Some come back year after year. Seasons pass and you become connected to the changes in life in a deeper, more spiritual way. This builds acceptance.

Where there once may have been beauty, there might now be an empty space and a deep sense of sadness... But gardening brings hope—we can create something beautiful again and that space will no longer be bare.

Hope is one of many emotions stirred by gardening. Whether you're growing vegetables to eat, planting tiny seeds or tending flowers, there is always a great sense of satisfaction at the end of a session. How you choose to garden is deeply personal to you—it's about creating something fruitful, alone or with others .

The key is to have a vision, ideas and bright hopes for the future.

Standing on the shore of a lake, I can’t help wondering about the tens or hundreds of thousands of small rocks that surround my boots. They were all created from hard surfaces, their edges softening over time.

And I wonder, can we learn from a pile of rocks?

Even the tallest mountains have worm down; none are as tall as they were 1000 years ago. And much like a rock, I’ve found my attitude has softened and my desire to better understand others has expanded with each trip around the sun.

Once I was a sharp rock covered in pointy edges. Today, after decades of the waters of life flowing quickly over me, my edges are softer and more understanding I’m less likely to judge and more interested in learning how we can exist together.

But I’m not a rock. I’m a human being filled with all the drama built into my DNA.

Two years ago, while traveling in the Pacific Northwest, I watched a restaurant owner ask several people to leave for not wearing masks. Not forceful and not rude. On the door read a sign: “Please wear a mask before entering our restaurant. We don’t like it either, but let’s all do what we can to get through this together.”

The group of young men wished to argue about the note.

I sat watching, understanding both sides. I’ve been those guys before, using my youthful edges to chip away at the world. What I lost, however, was the ability to grow from experiences by looking through the eyes of others. In learning to be more open, I’ve also found more happiness and success.

You can put more rounded rocks in a jar than those with sharp edges. The former look for ways to adjust and make room for others; the latter never give an inch to accommodate others.

Time, like the waters rolling against once sharp stones, changes us by washing away our resistance to seeing the world from another’s point of view.

I placed a rounded stone into my jacket pocket. Mother Nature is holding class again.