The Vine

Once upon a time, there was a gardener who tended a quiet, beautiful garden — a place of life, color, and warmth. His garden was vast and alive, full of possibility, full of promise and he was very proud of his garden, and of himself.

There was just one thing he really hoped he could have more of – shade. You see, the garden was situated in the valley where there was no protection from the sun. Some days, especially on beautiful clear days, the sun was a bit too much and while he was tending the garden he wished he could have a small shaded corner he could rest in.

One day, he heard of a special kind of vine — one with the sweetest scent and the most delicate flowers. But more than that, it was known to grow quickly. The gardener was intrigued. This seemed like the perfect solution. He could plant the vine in just one corner and let it grow, just enough to offer a little shelter. A little peace.

And so he did.

It was a beautiful vine — soft blossoms, a scent that danced through the garden. It wrapped itself gently around a tree and offered him a touch of shade.

And when the sun rose high and hot above the valley, the vine’s shade became a haven. Cool. Comforting. The gardener sat beneath it and felt safe. Protected. In time, he came to rely on it.

It was only much later that he noticed: the vine had spread.

Not just where he planted it — but everywhere. Quietly, it had sent roots beneath the surface, traveling in secret. And now it appeared in distant corners of the garden, twining up trees, curling around blossoms, blocking out the light.

At first, the garden still looked alive — the vine’s blossoms were beautiful, and their scent filled the air. But something was missing. There was no more room for other colors. Other scents. The variety, the vibrance… it had gone.

Alarmed, the gardener tried to fight back. He trimmed the vine — gently, carefully. He didn’t want to damage the garden. But for every tendril he cut, two more grew. It seemed the vine thrived on resistance.

He worked harder. Became desperate. But nothing he did made a difference. The garden grew dim. The air, heavy. And a terrible thought took root in his chest:
This is my fault… and now it’s too late.

He thought about asking for help. But how could he? He was the gardener. People looked up to him. Admitting he had lost control felt like shame. Like failure.

And so the garden grew darker still. And so did his heart.

Until one day, with no more light left to lose, he whispered to the wind, “I need help.”

And help came. Quiet, kind, strong hands joined his. Not to judge, but to work. Together, they pulled and cut and cleared. The vine fought back, but now he was no longer alone. And slowly — steadily — the light returned.

And as the light poured back in, he saw the garden clearly for the first time in a long while. Some trees were gone. Some flowers lost. There was grief in that.

But beneath the grief… there was hope. He could begin again. He would rebuild.

And though he sometimes missed the shade, he knew he could build a roof, a shelter of his own. One that didn’t spread in secret or steal the light.

And he learned to watch the edges of the garden. To tend it every day, with love and care. He knew now that the vine might still have some roots around… but he would never let it grow unnoticed again.

Because the garden mattered too much.

And one day — perhaps not too far from now — he and others would sit once more among the trees and the flowers, beneath a wide open sky, and remember what it means to truly live.