I am seventy-three years old. I’m retired, and I move through life in a wheelchair—but my world hasn’t shrunk. If anything, it has become more focused, more intentional. What once stretched wide has now gathered itself into something smaller and more meaningful. My yard may be modest, but it is my sanctuary, my daily proof that I am still present, still contributing, still alive in ways that matter to me.
Two young maple trees stand watch at the front, their branches reaching upward with the quiet optimism of youth. Along the side of the house, old evergreens form a steady, protective wall, their needles holding decades of memory. Between them lies my garden, every square foot tended with care and patience. I know every plant, every stone, every uneven patch of soil. Even in winter, I don’t abandon it. I bundle up and roll outside to wrap delicate trunks against the cold, brush heavy snow from bending branches, salt the narrow path in neat, deliberate lines. Every morning, without fail, I fill the bird feeder. The finches and cardinals arrive like faithful visitors, bright flashes of color against the gray. This yard isn’t just property—it’s purpose. It gives structure to my days and meaning to my time.
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