I was frustrated.
It was a day of weeds.
Literally—morning glory vines twining into vegetables and snaking across fences, thistles spreading prickly and round, grass in the garden and clover in the lawn.
And figuratively—finances uncertain, work undone, emotions unraveling.
I was doing my best, but truthfully? I was struggling.
And so were my kids.
When I sent my daughter from gardening duty to get a tool from the garage, and it took her twenty minutes to reappear, I was tempted to snap.
But something about her body language, heavy with thought or emotion, told me to be still.
Kneeling in the dirt, sweat running into my eyes, I just smiled and thanked her.
A few minutes, I later, I learned why.
Slowly, haltingly, she explained where she had been.
“I saw a fly caught in a spider web as I walked into the garage. Normally I don’t pay much attention to that kind of thing. But there was something about this one.
“I stopped and tried to free him. But every time I tried to pull a piece of web away, he struggled and tangled himself even more.
“I spent 15 minutes trying to free him, but he wouldn’t let me.
“I think I’m like that fly. You try to help me, but I don’t always let you.”
Wisdom comes like that.
It comes when you pause to notice the small but essential—the movement of a fly, the posture of a child.
It comes when you create still moments, even though it’s not convenient.
It comes when you quiet your judgements and the expectations, and finally listen to the part of yourself that knows better.
Make space for wisdom today.