There are moments when the world feels heavy, like a damp autumn evening when the wind howls and the sky seems to press against your window. On nights like these, my mind wanders—not to the chaos outside, but to a simpler time, a place where life was woven into the rhythm of nature. That place was my grandmother’s rural house, where my love for green living took root, as inevitable as the seasons themselves.
As a child, summer meant escaping the city’s noise for the quiet of her village. Her home was small and simple, with a garden that felt like an Eden. Everything there was organic—not by choice, but because my grandmother didn’t know any other way. She’d never heard of chemical sprays or synthetic fertilizers. Her garden thrived on sunlight, rain, and her quiet devotion. I can still see her, bent over rows of vegetables, her hands dusted with earth, coaxing life from the soil.
Life there was simple, but not easy. We hauled water from a well, its iron handle creaking with every pull, the bucket heavy in my small hands. Clothes were washed in a nearby stream, the cold water numbing my fingers as I scrubbed linens against smooth stones. Meals were cooked on a wood stove, its smoky warmth filling the kitchen. My grandmother’s dishes were humble—soups thick with garden herbs, bread baked from coarse flour, potatoes roasted until their skins crackled. Yet every bite carried the taste of the earth, pure and unadulterated.
The garden was my playground, a place of endless discovery. I’d run barefoot through its paths, plucking strawberries so ripe they stained my fingers red. Black currants burst tart and sweet on my tongue, their flavor a memory I chase even now. In May, the air was heavy with the scent of French lilacs, their purple and white blooms swaying like a quiet hymn. By late summer, the trees groaned under the weight of apples, cherries, plums, and pears, their branches offering fruit so abundant we’d fill baskets to share with neighbors.
Those days shaped me in ways I didn’t understand then. I’d sit under the shade of an ancient tree, watching ants march in orderly rows or listening to the rustle of leaves in the breeze, and feel a quiet connection to something vast and alive. Nature wasn’t just a backdrop—it was a presence, a teacher. It asked for care and gave back beauty and sustenance in return.
Looking back, I realize I had no choice but to become a lover of nature. My grandmother’s world, with its unhurried pace and deep respect for the land, planted a longing in me—a desire to live in harmony with the earth, to tread lightly, to find joy in the simple act of growing food or breathing clean air. That longing fuels my passion for green living today, a way of being that feels less like a choice and more like a homecoming.
As I write this, the world outside my window feels restless, but my heart carries the memory of lilac-scented air and the taste of sun-warmed strawberries. Those summers taught me that a life rooted in nature isn’t just sustainable—it’s soulful. And I can’t imagine living any other way.
