About Me

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“The Garden of Maybe”

In a quiet town wrapped in fog and habit, there lived a man. 

We'll call him Eli, who carried a pocket full of seeds.

They weren’t ordinary seeds. These were seeds of ideas—

little flashes of invention, songs unsung, 

books unwritten, and kindnesses unspoken.

Every time Eli had a thought that made his heart race or his spirit stir, 

he’d write it on a slip of paper, fold it tight, and tuck it into his pocket.

“I’ll plant them someday,” he’d say. But someday always got postponed.

The problem was, the world around him was full of people who buried their seeds. 

They’d say, “That’ll never grow,” or “The soil’s not good enough,” or 

“Who do you think you are?” So Eli learned to dig little holes in secret, 

dropping in his idea-seeds without tending them, without faith, without light.

Buried, not planted.

Years passed. His pockets stayed full, but his spirit felt emptier.

One spring morning, Eli wandered to the edge of town, 

to a forgotten field near the river. 

There he saw something strange: a crooked sign that read, 

“Welcome to the Garden of Maybe.” 

The field was wild, scattered with color—flowers in odd shapes, trees bending like dancers, 

vines that hummed in the breeze.

A familiar looking old woman stood among them, barefoot in the mud. She smiled.

“Did you plant this?” Eli asked.

“No,” she said. “They planted themselves. Ideas don’t die"