This week I planted wisteria.

It is an odd thing to mention in a letter. The world is full of larger events. Markets move. Governments rise and fall. Technologies appear that promise to change and improve everything. And yet there I was, standing beside an old wrought iron trellis, holding a climbing vine in the afternoon sun, thinking about nothing more urgent than where its first branches might reach.

There was no strategy in it. No measurable outcome. No one would know if I planted it today or next week.

I simply love wisteria and wanted something beautiful to grow.

That realisation stayed with me long after my hands were out of the soil.

For most of my life, I understood myself through a purpose outside of myself. I was raising children. Leading organisations. Solving problems. Carrying responsibility that mattered deeply to other people’s well-being. My days were shaped by calendars scheduled to the minute, difficult decisions, expectations, and the quiet satisfaction of helping build something larger than myself.

Then, almost without noticing, those definitions began to loosen.

The children became adults.

The boardrooms grew quieter.

The calendar found unexpected spaces.

At first, I thought those spaces needed to be filled.

Now I’m beginning to wonder whether they were always meant to be lived. Through presence. Through inspiration. Through intuition.

The farm has become an unexpected teacher.

Several weeks ago, after a harsh winter had beaten the lavender back, I cut the entire field down to just a few inches. I decided to surrender it to the meadow. As the grasses grew taller, the lavender disappeared beneath them, and I felt an unexpected sense of loss. It seemed as though I had erased something that had taken years to establish.

Then, almost overnight, tiny green shoots began to appear.

Then another.

Then hundreds.

Soon the entire field was alive again.

The lavender wasn’t asking whether it still had purpose.

It simply returned to life.

I have found myself doing something similar.

Not striving.

Not searching.

Not waiting for the next chapter to begin.

Simply learning what it feels like to inhabit this one. This moment.

The quiet inside me feels different now. Less like emptiness and more like space. Space to notice. Space to listen. Space to reflect. Space to wonder. Space to plant wisteria on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon simply because beauty has always been reason enough.

Perhaps purpose is not something we manufacture.

Perhaps it is something that quietly reveals itself once we stop trying so hard to define who we are.

I only know that, for the first time in a very long time, I am content to let the answer arrive in its own season.