I let the basil bolt this year. The gardeners I know would shake their heads — once basil flowers, the leaves are said to lose their sweetness. But the bees came. And the butterflies. And something in me relaxed at the sight of those purple spikes reaching upward.
Sometimes productivity is not the point. Sometimes the point is provision — for the pollinators, for the eye, for the soul that needs to see life happening without being asked.
Prayer feels like that to me. I do not always arrive at prayer with clear words or tidy requests. Often I simply show up, let my thoughts bolt toward heaven, and trust that Someone receives them.
The basil taught me that blooming is its own kind of prayer. And the garden, as always, was the sanctuary where I remembered.
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