The university workshop became a regular appointment in Lane's calendar, a quarterly immersion into the world of theory and eager young minds. She enjoyed the contrast—the gritty reality of the garden one day, the air-conditioned lecture hall the next. Dr. Sharma, true to her word, integrated Lane's "Applied Attention" module into the core curriculum. Lane was no longer a guest speaker; she was an adjunct lecturer, a title that made Marie cackle with delight.
"Professor Maddox," Marie would tease, her hands deep in a flower bed. "Sounds fancy. Don't go getting too important to deadhead the roses."
Lane never would. The garden was her root system. The university, the desert retreats—these were the branches. But a tree cannot thrive if its branches grow too heavy without a corresponding deepening of the roots.
The demand was the problem. It was a welcome problem, but a problem nonetheless. The retreats were booked two years in advance. The university wanted to expand her module. A publishing agent, having heard of her work through academic channels, contacted her about the possibility of a book—The Gardener's Way: Cultivating Attention in a Distracted World.
It was flattering. It was exciting. And it was beginning to feel like a weight.
She found herself snappish with a volunteer who over-watered a delicate fern. She rushed through her university session, glancing at the clock, her mind already on the paperwork for the next retreat. The quiet moments—the early morning coffee on her balcony, the slow walk home from work—were being encroached upon by a buzzing mental checklist.
The peace she taught was becoming something she had to schedule.
The realization hit her during a retreat in the desert. It was the first one of the season, and the air was thick with the promise of summer heat. She was leading her session, guiding participants through the observation of a blooming prickly pear cactus. But her own attention was fractured. She was mentally reviewing the grocery list for the group's dinner, worrying about a leaky faucet in the chapel, composing an email to Dr. Sharma in her head.
She looked at the faces around her, people who had paid good money and taken precious time to find the quiet she was supposedly offering. And she felt like a fraud. She was dispensing a medicine she herself wasn't taking.
That evening, she didn't join the group around the fire pit. She told John she had a headache and retreated to her motel room. She sat on the edge of the bed in the sterile silence, the hum of the air conditioner a poor substitute for the desert's natural quiet. She had become a conduit for peace, but the conduit was getting clogged.
The next morning, she found John before the day's activities began. He was sipping coffee by the chapel, watching the sun rise.
"I need to step back," she said, her voice blunt with the force of the decision.
He turned, his expression calm, unsurprised. "Okay."
"Not from you. Or from this place. But from… the volume of it. I'm starting to resent the schedule. I'm teaching presence while feeling absent."
He nodded slowly. "I've been waiting for you to say that."
"You have?"
"Lane, you built this machine. You're a brilliant architect. But you don't have to be the one stoking the furnace every single day." He gestured to the sanctuary around them. "The machine works. It has its own momentum now. The retreats can run with a hired assistant. The university can wait. The book…" He shrugged. "Does the world really need another book? Or does it need you to be sane and present?"
His words were a pruning shear, clean and sharp. They cut away the dead weight of expectation. The world wouldn't end if she said no. The sanctuary would endure. Her value wasn't in her relentless output, but in the quality of her attention. And that attention was becoming diluted.
She spent the rest of the retreat differently. She participated. She sat in the circle not as a leader, but as a member. She took the hour of morning solitude for herself, finding a spot by a dry wash and simply sitting, letting her mind unravel until it was as empty and peaceful as the sky above. She felt the knots in her shoulders begin to loosen.
On the flight home, she drafted two emails. One to Dr. Sharma, politely declining the offer to expand the university module and explaining she would be reducing her commitment to one guest lecture per year. The other to the publishing agent, thanking her for the interest but stating that she did not, at this time, have a book in her.
She didn't send them until she was back in her apartment, the city's familiar noise a comforting blanket. Hitting 'send' felt like setting down a heavy burden. There was a moment of panic—was she throwing away opportunities?—but it was quickly followed by a wave of profound relief.
The world did not end. Dr. Sharma wrote back a gracious, understanding email. The agent said to keep in touch.
The next weekend, Lane did nothing. She didn't check her work email. She didn't plan. She slept in. She made pancakes. She took a long, aimless walk in the park, noticing the way the new spring leaves cast dappled shadows on the path. She bought a novel and read it in one sitting.
On Monday, she went back to the botanical garden. Marie took one look at her and grinned. "There you are. Was wondering when you'd come back from wherever you'd gone."
Lane knelt in the rich soil, the cool dampness seeping through the knees of her trousers. She spent the morning weeding a bed of lavender, her hands moving with a slow, deliberate rhythm. There was no hurry. Each weed was a specific problem with a simple solution. The sun was warm on her back. The scent of lavender filled the air.
This was enough. This was more than enough. She was a gardener. A teacher when it felt right. A retreat co-facilitator for one season a year. A daughter. A friend.
The pruning hadn't been a loss. It had been an act of cultivation. By cutting back the excessive growth, she was ensuring the health of the whole plant. The peace she offered others had to be rooted in her own peace. Otherwise, it was just another product, another noise.
She looked up at the clear blue sky. The sanctuary wasn't just in the desert or at the university. It was right here, in this garden, in this moment. And she was finally, fully, home.