Your gangbag
TO PLOW THE GARDEN
"To plow the garden” is to wreck the picture-perfect.
The kind of garden that gets praised for its symmetry, its order -
where everything grows on cue, watered just enough, trimmed just right.
A place that looks neat on the surface, but is controlled to the point of suffocation.
Built for display, not for life.
Tearing it may seem like an unhinged behavior. To rip through all that hard work.
Yeah, it does.
And it even takes more energy to destroy something polished than to build it that way in the first place.
But if the structure was built to confine you, ripping it up is part of getting free.
People say, sow good seeds, reap good deeds.
K sure. But that's not where this starts.
First, you plow.
You rip through the surface. You ruin what was curated.
That's the work.
Real cultivation starts with disturbance.
A break in the surface. A confrontation.
Without it, roots don't settle -
they hover and hesitate.
What grows stays fragile and beauty becomes conditional.
That's why I plow.
I'm not here to decorate the garden. I'm here to remake the soil.
To plow is to dismantle what was built to keep us small -
not with rage, but with intention.
It's inner work.
Destruction that creates possibility.
So..
Plow the stage, outgrow the cage.
It's pulling up what doesn't serve you.
Self-defeating thoughts, internalized shame, habits that feel like home but rot you from the inside.
Because if you don't do the inner plowing, no matter where you go -
a new job, a new country, a new relationship — you just bring the old sickness with you.
This isn't about escape. This is about excavation.
The goal is not just to grow — but to grow without limitation.
To be that one flower that defies its surroundings.
The one with bold color, massive petals, thick roots, and the richest pollen -
capable of influencing everything in its radius.
The one that pushes through the crack and demands more room -
unafraid of losing refinement,
certain of its conspicuous fragrance.
Becoming one doesn't feel like growth.
It feels like weather.
Like erosion.
Like being undone slowly by something you're not familiar with
until you're shaped differently.
It's not clear.
It's not kind.
Most of the time, it won't even feel like movement -
just friction, quiet shifts,
a loosening of what used to hold you.
But the steps are always the same.
Unassuming. Inevitable.
Each one just a part of becoming.
Plowᵗʰ - Make a mess.
Sowᵗʰ - Leave something in it.
Growᵗʰ - Let it do what it does.
These are the three collections for one motion.
PLOWᵗʰ
She stepped out of the current.
Let the world keep spinning without her.
Out here, the light hits differently.
The silence carries weight.
She lays still long enough
for the noise to drain,
for the ground to speak.
Then she begins.
Not with intention,
but instinct.
She loosens the hardened soil —
pulls up old roots,
shakes out the dust,
carves space
for whatever grief might arrive next.
This is not healing.
This is rotation.
The earth expects to be torn
before it grows.
SOWᵗʰ
She doesn't bring seeds.
She waits for them to reveal themselves.
Small things she almost missed. Fragments. Leftovers. Something soft she thought she lost.
She handles them plainly.
No promise, no plan, just contact.
The soil accepts without resistance.
She covers them lightly,
not to protect —but to let them choose whether to rise.
This isn't ambition.
It isn't hope.
It’s a quiet agreement
between the past and what might survive it.
Some will rot.
Some will stretch.
Some will wait.
She doesn't watch.
She just stays nearby.
Then if growth happens, it doesn't need an audience.
GROWᵗʰ
It doesn't happen all at once.
It doesn't happen beautifully.
Some days nothing moves.
Other days, things stretch too fast and ache.
She doesn't interfere.
Growth doesn't ask for guidance.
It just happens —
crooked, uneven, mostly underground.
Old roots compete with new ones.
Some parts rot while others reach.
She lets it be inconsistent.
It's not cinematic.
No glowing epiphanies.
Just roots doing what they do.
Just slow tension beneath the surface.
Something rearranging itself
without needing to explain.
She stays close.
Not to help —
just to witness
whatever decides to keep going.