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Growing in Stillness
#WritcoStoryPrompt110
Write a story about a moment when you were entirely absorbed in a certain activity. Moments that attracted you, for example.
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It was late afternoon when I found myself in the garden, the sun hanging low in the sky, casting long, golden rays across the small patch of green. The air was cool, the breeze gentle, and I could feel the earth beneath my hands, rough and reassuring. This garden was my sanctuary, a small corner of the world where I could lose myself entirely in the rhythm of planting, pruning, and watching things grow. That day, however, I was drawn to a different kind of activity, one that absorbed me in a way I hadn’t experienced in quite a while.
It had all begun with a single seed. Not just any seed, but a small, delicate packet that had arrived in the mail a few days earlier. It was from an old friend—someone I hadn't spoken to in years. Her letter had been simple: a small note enclosed with the packet, reminding me of the time we had spent together as children, when we used to plant flowers in her grandmother's garden. "Plant this, and remember me," the note had said. And so, I had made the decision to plant the seed.
At first, it seemed like a small, almost insignificant task—just another thing to check off my list for the day. But as soon as I opened the packet and felt the tiny seed resting between my fingers, something changed. I wasn't just planting a flower; I was reconnecting with a part of my past, with memories of days spent in carefree companionship, and with a simpler time when the world seemed more immediate, more present.
I dug a small hole in the rich, dark soil of the garden bed. The soil felt cool to the touch, almost damp from the early morning mist. I gently placed the seed into the earth, feeling a strange sense of reverence. It wasn’t just a plant—it was a connection, a bridge to the past, and the quiet promise of something new growing. The weight of that moment, so full of unspoken meanings, settled in me, and I knew that I wasn’t just planting a flower; I was planting something much deeper: a memory.
I stood there for a long time, staring at the freshly turned earth, my hands still covered in soil. There was a kind of peace in the act of planting, something meditative about it. The garden around me seemed to settle into stillness, the sounds of distant birds calling and leaves rustling faintly in the wind the only things that broke the silence. I wasn’t sure if it was the act of planting itself that had drawn me in, or the memories that had come rushing back with it—the laughter, the long afternoons spent with my friend, and the sense of belonging to something larger than myself.
Time seemed to stretch in that moment. I wasn’t thinking about the future, or the past. I wasn’t thinking about the day’s responsibilities or the things I needed to do. I was just there, in the garden, fully present, fully absorbed in the simple task of planting a seed. It was as if the world had faded away, leaving only the earth, the seed, and the quiet hum of life all around me.
After a while, I realized that I wasn’t alone in this small world of soil and...
Write a story about a moment when you were entirely absorbed in a certain activity. Moments that attracted you, for example.
.
.
It was late afternoon when I found myself in the garden, the sun hanging low in the sky, casting long, golden rays across the small patch of green. The air was cool, the breeze gentle, and I could feel the earth beneath my hands, rough and reassuring. This garden was my sanctuary, a small corner of the world where I could lose myself entirely in the rhythm of planting, pruning, and watching things grow. That day, however, I was drawn to a different kind of activity, one that absorbed me in a way I hadn’t experienced in quite a while.
It had all begun with a single seed. Not just any seed, but a small, delicate packet that had arrived in the mail a few days earlier. It was from an old friend—someone I hadn't spoken to in years. Her letter had been simple: a small note enclosed with the packet, reminding me of the time we had spent together as children, when we used to plant flowers in her grandmother's garden. "Plant this, and remember me," the note had said. And so, I had made the decision to plant the seed.
At first, it seemed like a small, almost insignificant task—just another thing to check off my list for the day. But as soon as I opened the packet and felt the tiny seed resting between my fingers, something changed. I wasn't just planting a flower; I was reconnecting with a part of my past, with memories of days spent in carefree companionship, and with a simpler time when the world seemed more immediate, more present.
I dug a small hole in the rich, dark soil of the garden bed. The soil felt cool to the touch, almost damp from the early morning mist. I gently placed the seed into the earth, feeling a strange sense of reverence. It wasn’t just a plant—it was a connection, a bridge to the past, and the quiet promise of something new growing. The weight of that moment, so full of unspoken meanings, settled in me, and I knew that I wasn’t just planting a flower; I was planting something much deeper: a memory.
I stood there for a long time, staring at the freshly turned earth, my hands still covered in soil. There was a kind of peace in the act of planting, something meditative about it. The garden around me seemed to settle into stillness, the sounds of distant birds calling and leaves rustling faintly in the wind the only things that broke the silence. I wasn’t sure if it was the act of planting itself that had drawn me in, or the memories that had come rushing back with it—the laughter, the long afternoons spent with my friend, and the sense of belonging to something larger than myself.
Time seemed to stretch in that moment. I wasn’t thinking about the future, or the past. I wasn’t thinking about the day’s responsibilities or the things I needed to do. I was just there, in the garden, fully present, fully absorbed in the simple task of planting a seed. It was as if the world had faded away, leaving only the earth, the seed, and the quiet hum of life all around me.
After a while, I realized that I wasn’t alone in this small world of soil and...
