They will try to convince you that you don't have enough time. Then they'll sell you their convenience, their assembly-lined fix.

They will wrap you in a cage made of wood and stucco or concrete and steel and sing you a lullaby of comfort and ease, to keep you sleepwalking from one obligation to the next.

They will assault you with headlines and sound bites, video clips and must-see TV to keep you in ten places at once, but never really anywhere.

Ah, but the garden.

The garden defies their logic.

The garden strips them bare. Reveals their impotence, their irrelevance.

Because the garden requires presence and patience. The garden bends you to its rhythms.

The garden is a teacher.

One lesson?

Starve the machine. Grow something.