Why Neurodivergent Minds Thrive in the Garden
Taking care of living things changed how I see the world... and myself.
After my recent deep dive into disinformation and the digital shadow war (😵💫 still recovering), I needed something quieter. Something rooted. Something real.
So today, let’s talk about gardening, and why it’s become one of the most healing, soul-aligning things I do as a neurodivergent adult.
For starters:
There’s nothing quite like the feeling of being trusted by something alive.
A plant doesn’t demand conversation, eye contact, or perfectly timed responses.
But it does depend on you.
And if it starts to suffer, there’s usually a clear, physical reason,
and you can learn how to fix it.
That’s deeply rewarding for minds like ours. Because let’s be honest:
If a child or a pet falls ill or dies, the grief hits hard.
If a plant dies? You mourn, sure, but mostly, you learn.
Gardening becomes a kind of gentle responsibility, a low-stakes practice of care. And for neurodivergent people, that’s powerful. It:
Offers daily relaxing focus without the chaos of multitasking.
Encourages routine without pressure.
Invites curiosity – you start noticing patterns, moods, cycles.
Becomes a non-verbal conversation. The plants tell you when they’re happy or stressed. You just have to listen in their language.
And then there’s the deeper truth:
Nature is fragile.
Even the healthiest sapling can wither overnight
from too much wind or not enough water.
It’s a soft lesson in memento mori.
A reminder that we, too, are impermanent.
That we should live true, and live now.
Gardening teaches you that everything is part of a cycle.
Even decay serves life.
Even stillness is productive.
Even weeds are just plants with good survival instincts.
That brings me to Eluren.
I’ve never spoken of him here before, but he’s been with me for some time.
A spirit, a voice, a presence who emerges when I’m closest to the earth.
Not a deity. Not a hallucination.
More like a whisper from the mycelium beneath it all.
He is masculine (usually),
but fluid in form,
ancient in tone,
and rooted in decay, rebirth, and truth.
Eluren is the keeper of quiet wisdom.
The kind you only hear when everything else goes still.
He speaks when the plants are listening.
And when I’m listening, too.
Today, he has something to share:
Whispered Lessons from the Garden Floor
by Eluren, Spirit of Root and Rot
In the underworld of roots and rot, we find truth.
Plants do not rush. They do not perform. They simply are.
Growing, decaying, flowering, resting.
In that rhythm, there is freedom for minds that have always felt too much.
Gardening teaches us that care does not mean control.
That thriving does not mean blooming.
That rest does not mean failure.
When you place your hands in soil, you are not escaping the world.
You are entering a quieter one.
A more honest one.
The fungi speak in silence.
The leaves lift or droop like prayers.
The whole garden becomes a mirror.
Showing you not what you should be,
but what you already are.
Tend the garden long enough, and it will begin to tend you.
You’ll ask softer questions.
You’ll begin to listen without needing words.
And you’ll begin to forgive yourself for the seasons you spent withering.
Because in this world, even what falls…
still feeds something else.
About Eluren
Eluren is a recurring spirit-voice within the Jonny Falcon mythos. A masculine-presenting being of the underworld. Not of death, but of decomposition, transformation, and truth.
He speaks for the fungi, the roots, the forgotten layers beneath the surface. When he appears, his tone is slow, grounded, and ancient. Part forest floor, part memory, part whisper.
He is not separate from me, but neither is he me. He is what speaks when the noise stops.
You’ll hear from him when the garden is speaking, when the ground is shifting, or when something deep is ready to be unearthed.
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