The Nervous System is a Garden: A Reflection on Nervous System Healing

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The garden is not just an ecosystem, somewhere to wander, or a place for showy flowers and budding fruits.

It is a living, breathing being.

Like a childhood memory rising from the depths of the mind, a garden remembers the warm kiss of the sun, the way its rays dance across vibrant leaves and fragrant blooms reaching for the sky. The soil knows exactly how much rain it takes to coax a seedling out from its dreaming bed below. A garden’s memory is a record of its seasons, time flowing in beautiful, cyclical rhythm.

Your nervous system is much the same, a living garden of sensation and memory. Your spine, like an ancient cedar tree, reaches toward the heavens while anchoring deep into the earth with expansive roots. The soil beneath you grounds and steadies, neutralizing the current that flows through your body from crown to sole. When your feet touch earth, what is not needed releases.

We root down — literally — when we walk barefoot.

See yourself as that cedar tree, anchored and strong. Soil becomes safety. We find stability in rhythm, routine, and ritual.

Breath as Rain

The rains come in spring, bringing life, freshness, and rhythm to the garden. Water seeps through the soil, feeding every living being within its walls. Without it, nothing endures.

Breath is the water of the body.

Stand with your feet grounded. Draw in air, filling your lungs, and exhale slowly. Feel the freshness, the vitality, the life you carry into each cell. Breath is constant, cyclical, and non-negotiable nourishment.

Light as Connection

The warm rays of the sun trace golden threads of connection, radiating love over the garden, encouraging growth and vibrancy. Every herb, flower, tree, and vine is part of the same lattice, one community, one grove.

Light is the thread that connects us.

Close your eyes and feel sunlight touch your skin. Its warmth enfolds you in belonging, nestling you into comfort. This golden radiance invites you to shine with your own light and to offer your unique brilliance back to the whole.

Pruning as Boundaries

When it’s time to prune the garden, it isn’t an act of loss. It’s an act of care and the energy of boundary and rest. Pruning prevents overgrowth, keeping the garden from exhausting itself before autumn’s retreat.

With a hand over your heart, notice what no longer serves you. Feel the wild corners of your life that crave space to breathe. Draw them up with your inhale, and let them fall away on the exhale, to be transformed and used elsewhere. We release to renew. We set boundaries to make room for new growth.

Pruning is for regeneration.

"Some seasons call for bloom. Others for compost."

There is wisdom in both.

Soil as Structure: Foundations for Nervous System Healing

Your nervous system responds to gentle encouragement. It thrives in structure and rhythm. Like soil, your daily rituals and consistency offer nourishment and safety.

When life becomes too full, when stimulation crowds every inch, the soil dries out, nutrients deplete, and anxiety seeps in. Sleep, appetite, and self-care unravel. Suddenly, you’re walking through an inner desert, sun-struck, brittle, and void of life.

"The remedy is rest. Ritual is the irrigation that restores fertility."

Soil is Safety

• First, Anchor 

  Send your roots deep and find footing in stillness.

• Then Breathe 

  Drawing in calm, feeding on rhythm with each nourishing inhale.

• Next, Open 

  Draw in light, let gratitude soften you, and reflect your glow outward. Your light inspires connection and gathers your community.

• Finally, Release 

  Let go of what no longer belongs.

  This is how the ground renews itself.

Lessons from the Garden

These teachings live close to my heart because they’ve transformed me. My physical garden mirrors my inner one. I know when I’ve let it overgrow, when I’ve said “yes” to too much, kept too many projects open, and filled every hour. My mind fractures; my focus scatters. Eventually, I burn out and find myself sitting in the sand, wondering how I arrived there.

The proof waits outside: an overgrown garden, rushed to seed, the stronger plants overtaking the tender ones. It’s happened this year. Too many goals. Too many yeses. The arugula, hops, lemon balm, and grapevine have nearly consumed my calendula, tomatoes, and cucumbers.

So I begin again: by anchoring, by breathing, by pruning the overgrowth of life .I pour tea and sit with myself. I open my heart and let the love I carry radiate outward. Through expression, I draw my tribe close and begin to weave again.

Tending What’s Within

If your garden feels dry, don’t uproot it. Start with one small act of tending.

• One breath before each sip of tea.

• One moment of sunlight on your face before opening a phone.

• One touch of warmth...hand over heart, cup, bath, or oil... to remind your body it’s safe.

'The nervous system doesn’t need perfection. It just needs consistency."

This is the work of the season: Learning to garden what’s within, one act of nervous system healing at a time.

Next week, I’ll share The Stillpoint Ritual 

A way to tend that inner soil through warmth, scent, and sound.

For now, breathe. Watch the light change. The body knows the way home.

Much love,

Shai