A Garden That Grows on Its Own
This is my late grandfather’s garden: a "tiny" 1000m² world where I spent countless summers as a child. Back then, the garden was alive not just with plants but with stories. I remember running barefoot along the paths, fishing in the pond, and hiding behind the shade of fruit trees, imagining adventures far bigger than the garden itself. Every corner had its own magic; every plant seemed to whisper secrets that only my grandfather understood.
After my grandfather passed, no one took care of the garden. At first, it felt like a loss, the orderly fruit trees and organized vegetable beds slowly gave way to wild shoots and tangled vines. But soon I realized something remarkable: the garden wasn’t dying. It was learning to grow on its own. Trees leaned where they wanted, weeds took over the pond, and wildflowers bloomed in corners no one ever noticed. It became a tiny forest, self-sufficient and unapologetically alive.
As I wandered deeper into the overgrown paths, brushing past tall grass and forgotten roots, I stumbled upon the "shy plant", small, delicate, yet completely at home here. No one planted it, but it thrives, folding its leaves shyly at every touch as if guarding its own quiet space. It grows where it wants, how it wants, a tiny emblem of the garden’s freedom, proof that life doesn’t need tending hands to find its rhythm.
And the bees! They’re the orchestra conductors of this wild world. They hover, hover, then dive, precise as musicians hitting their cue, gathering nectar, carrying dusts of gold like secret notes in a song too ancient for us to hear. I used to sing “Chị ong nâu nâu nâu nâu, chị bay Ä‘i Ä‘âu Ä‘i Ä‘âu..” (Little brown bee, brown, brown, brown, where are you flying to?) without thinking; now, I see how true it was. The bees are the musicians of the garden, tireless composers of life’s melody.
They’re little alchemists, too, transforming sweetness into survival, chaos into order. As they move from bloom to bloom, they leave traces of creation behind. Without them, the garden’s music would stop, no fruit, no seed, no echo of the next season. Watching them now, I realize: this place isn’t just growing. It’s performing, and the bees are its invisible conductors, keeping time for everything that breathes.
Even the pond tells a story. Duckweed spreads like a green blanket, floating, dividing, thriving. It doesn’t care about human order; it only knows survival. Tiny insects live among its leaves, tadpoles dart below, and the water reflects the sky above — a mirror for the garden’s freedom.
The banana grove stands by the pond, its broad leaves swaying as if whispering to the wind. When I pass by, I sometimes catch the faint scent of ripened fruit, the same sweetness that once filled the air when my grandfather was still here, cutting the heavy clusters with steady hands. Now, the old trunks lean and fade, and new shoots rise beside them, each one stretching toward the same sunlight he once worked under, as if the grove itself still waits, patient and green, for him to come back.
Walking through the garden today, I feel connected to both its past and its present. I am a child again, chasing shadows, listening to the song of bees, watching leaves tremble in the wind. Yet I am also an observer, noticing the quiet science, the survival instincts, the ways life finds a path when left alone. Photography lets me freeze these moments, the garden’s wild beauty, its clever little engineers, and the tender echoes of childhood.
The garden has become more than just land or memory. It’s a living, breathing organism, full of lessons if you care to look: about patience, resilience, and the extraordinary choreography of life that happens all around us. And sometimes, when I wander in the garden, it feels like my grandfather is still smiling, somewhere in the shadows, proud of the wild, wonderful world he created.
