Some New Recent Writings

These are three pieces that I wrote after starting my meditation practice. Meditation has been very helpful for me for my anxiety, rumination, and general well being. I recommending doing two things:

1. Getting the Waking Up app by Sam Harris and doing the 28 day course.

2. Reading Mindfulness: A Practical Guide to Awakening by Joseph Goldstein and How to Train a Wild Elephant: And Other Adventures in Mindfulness by Jan Chozen Bays

I hope you enjoy the pieces, more writing to come.

April 15, 2026

I read in a book that meditation is like planting a garden in your mind. So I planted the seeds, every morning, for a few minutes a day. Soon I saw sprouts, little green leaves poking out. At first I was happy. Finally, I could have my own garden. But then the sprouts grew a little each day, and sometimes they didn’t grow at all. So first I got on my knees and shouted at them to grow, but they didn’t grow faster. Growing more impatient, I grabbed the stems and pulled, trying to make them grow taller. The sprouts just came out of the soil. On the ground, my knees covered in dirt, I realized I had no garden at all. So I planted the seeds again, and I waited.

April 10, 2026

I have a plant in my room that I bought when I first moved into my apartment. It’s a large Pothos from Ikea. Its leaves are wide and it grows in all different directions. I never owned plants before because I moved around too much, country to country, dorm to apartment. I was never in one place long enough to sustain one.

Every few days, when the soil is dry, I water my plants. I water knowing they will die, hopefully not right now, but before me, ideally. I don’t plan on keeping this plant forever. I’m not even sure it will come with me to the next apartment; I haven’t decided. But still I water my plants.

If I know my plant will die, why do I water it? If this plant is temporary, why do I take the energy to trim the leaves, buy the fertilizer, water it at all?

I water my plants not in spite of the fact that they will die, but because they will die. I enjoy the act of going to the sink, filling my metal pitcher, watching the water drip from the leaves onto the dense dry dirt. I most enjoy the way my plants perk up after a much-needed watering, almost as if they’re giving me thanks.

My plants make the air in my room fresh. They add color to the walls. They calm me down. I’m grateful for them. I don’t know how long I’ll get to water them. But I’m glad I do right now.

That is why I water my plants.

April 9, 2026

Most of my life I’ve been a visitor in an imaginary land, rather than a resident of the world I live in. All day, I leave the present, and travel in my mind to the past or future.

The past is an enormous rose bush. Throughout the day, in the corner of my mind, I may see a beautiful rose. I’m always tempted to turn my attention to this rose, and try to grab it. But the bush is tangled, so with both hands I try to untangle it and then I find I am covered in blood.

The future is the open sky. The clouds float through, each of them a possibility of what is to come. I spend a lot of time trying to move clouds with my hands. Frantically trying to change them. But no matter how hard I try, they move all on their own.

Remembering where I am means to leave the rose bush of the past and the clouds of the future to themselves, and experience the exact moment that is happening. It’s comforting to realize that it’s not hard to be in the present moment. It’s impossible not to be. I am in the present moment, whether I like it or not. I just have to remember that I’m here.

Thank you for reading.

Best,

J. M. Kettle