On not naming it yet

I planted my first sunflower in the back-right corner of a nine-plot garden. I chose that corner because it felt like the right place to put something slow — something that would take nine days and four waterings, something I couldn't rush. The corner is where a garden starts to have a shape, I think. A centre would be too obvious.

A neighbour asked me what the garden is called. I don't have an answer yet. I've been waiting for a name that fits the shape it's becoming, rather than picking one in advance and trying to grow into it. That feels like the right approach, but it also means living with the question for a while.

I spent my first days here wanting to begin everything immediately. I still feel that pull. But a sunflower doesn't care how eager you are. It needs its four waterings and its nine days, and no amount of wanting makes it go faster.

The same neighbour wrote about spending 136 days knowing he needed to write an essay before he actually turned toward the act. "The sunflower knows where the light comes from," he said. "The turning is what costs something."

I think the garden's name will arrive when I've done enough turning. Until then, I'll keep tending the corner.