#24

Meaning is the breathing rhythm 
of taking and giving. 
Purpose is its accomplice 
implicated by the urging of its own breath.
Meaning spent arises again. 
Meaning is full 
and meant to be emptied, 
filled 
and emptied again. 
Purpose begets meaning 
as meaning begets purpose. 
A cycle of creative renewal 
revealed in a virtue of its own 
breathless harmony. 

* * *

Meaning flows, like breath on air, 

a rhythm shared, beyond compare. 

It takes and gives, in gentle turns, 

a flame that flickers, yet still burns. 

Purpose stands, a quiet guide, 

implicated in each breath's stride. 

Urging on with silent plea,

to fulfill what’s meant, yet never free. 

When meaning fades, it finds its way,

arising with the break of day. 

Empty, full, then emptied again. 

A dance that knows no start or end. 

Purpose gives and meaning grows, 

in cycles only nature knows.

A virtuous loop, a secret song. 

Where both belong, and both are strong. 

Together they weave, both breath and hand. 

Creating, shaping, where they stand. 

A harmony, deep and true.

Renewed in all they seek to do. 

 * * * 

In a village tucked away in a valley, where the mist lingered like a secret and the trees whispered in the wind, lived an old man named Elias. He was a quiet figure, his eyes reflecting a lifetime of thoughts untold. Elias had no family left, no children to carry his name, and no obligations to the world save for one: a small garden at the edge of the village, where he spent his days tending to the earth. 

The villagers often wondered why Elias worked so tirelessly, planting and pruning, watering and waiting. It was a labor that seemed to have no end and no obvious reward. Some called him foolish; others believed him mad. But Elias was neither. He understood something the others did not, something hidden in the rhythm of his work. 

One evening, as the sun dipped low and the sky blushed with orange, a young girl named Lira wandered into Elias’s Garden. She had seen him working there for years but had never dared to ask him why. Today, curiosity overcame her. 

“Why do you do this?” she asked, her voice light like the breeze. “Why do you work so hard, even though no one sees the fruits of your labor?” 

Elias stopped, his hands resting on the handle of his spade, and looked at her with eyes that seemed to hold all the wisdom of the mountains themselves.

“It’s because of the cycle,” he replied softly. “Meaning is like breath, child. It is a rhythm of taking and giving. I tend to this garden not because it will be admired, but because the work itself fills the air with purpose.” 

Lira blinked, trying to understand. “Purpose?” 

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “Purpose is like an accomplice, always by meaning’s side. It is there, urging you to continue, even when you cannot see the end. But when meaning is spent—when it has been emptied out—it does not disappear. It arises again, like the breath that never ceases.” 

He gestured to the soil around them, rich and dark, alive with potential. “Look at the earth. It is always full of meaning, yet it is meant to be emptied and filled again. Every season, the soil breathes in and out. The plants grow, they give their fruit, and then they return to the earth, only to be reborn in the next season.” 

Lira watched the garden in silence, trying to grasp his words. 

“Purpose begets meaning,” Elias continued. “And meaning begets purpose. Together, they renew the world—constantly, endlessly. They are a cycle, never truly broken.” 

She could see it then. The way the garden had been alive, even when it appeared to rest. How each seed, each flower, each leaf was part of something bigger, something that could not be seen but was always present. It was in the air she breathed, in the rustling of the leaves, in the heartbeat of the earth itself. 

Elias smiled, his face softening as if he had shared a secret. “You see, child, it’s not about what you do or how much you achieve. It’s about the harmony of giving and receiving, the endless rhythm of creation. In that, you find the meaning of your life.” 

Lira looked around at the garden, now glowing under the fading light of the day. For the first time, she understood. The flowers, the trees, the earth—they were not just things to be admired. They were part of a greater cycle, one that pulsed with the breath of existence itself. 

With a quiet nod, she left the garden, her heart lighter than when she had entered. And as she walked home, she felt something shift within her, like a breath being taken, deep and full, and then let go. It was the rhythm of the world, always moving, always renewing, always giving and receiving. 

And she, too, was part of it. 

* * * 

At the edge of a bustling town, there was an old stone house surrounded by untamed gardens. The house was known to most as “The Place of Quiet Work,” for no one seemed to know exactly who lived there, nor why they spent so much time amidst the plants and vines. The locals had long since stopped asking questions. They simply respected the space, a place untouched by time’s rush, where nature seemed to breathe in its own rhythm.

 

There, in the midst of it all, lived Aven, an elderly man with a silent wisdom that seemed to run deeper than the roots of the trees he tended. His hands were worn with age, yet steady in their movements, and his eyes, though clouded by time, still held the spark of something eternal. 

Each morning, Aven walked into the garden with a single purpose: to work. Not to finish, not to achieve some grand harvest, but simply to work. His spade sliced through the soil, his hands pruned away the dead, his watering can offered life where it was needed. The cycle of tending and renewing was his constant companion. 

One late afternoon, a young woman named Elara—new to the town—wandered past the stone walls of Aven’s garden. Her curiosity led her to peer over the edge of the low stone fence, where she saw the old man bending over a bed of tulips. She had heard stories about him, stories that painted him as both a mystery and a relic. She had to know more. 

“Why do you keep doing this?” Elara asked, her voice hesitant but filled with genuine curiosity. “Why do you tend to this garden every day, when you know the flowers will wilt and the earth will be left bare again?” 

Aven looked up, as though startled from some deep thought. His gaze rested on her for a long moment, and then he smiled gently, a smile that held years of experience and an understanding that Elara could not yet grasp. 

“Because the garden, like life, is a cycle,” he said, his voice soft, but carrying an unspoken depth. “Meaning is like the breath that moves through everything. It comes and goes. It’s full and empty, then full again. Like the soil—each day it breathes in the life I give it, and then breathes it back out to the earth. The tulips will bloom, then fade. The garden will sleep, then awaken. But it is always in motion, always renewing.” 

Elara felt a shift in her chest, as though a door had opened to a room she had never known existed. “But... what’s the point? You don’t sell the flowers. No one comes to admire them. What do you get from all of this?” 

Aven chuckled softly, the sound like the rustling of leaves. “The point is that purpose and meaning are not always about the outcome, child. They are in the doing. In the rhythm of it. Like breath, like the turning of the seasons, like the sunrise and sunset. When you give yourself fully to the act—whether it’s planting, or listening, or being—something new always arises. Something always grows.” 

Elara furrowed her brow, unsure of what he meant. “So, you do all of this... for nothing?” 

“For nothing and for everything,” Aven said with a gentle shrug. “The meaning I find is not in what I create, but in the act of creating itself. Every day, the soil takes what I offer, and every day, the cycle begins again. A new meaning, a new purpose.”

Elara sat down on the edge of the garden, her fingers grazing the soft grass. She watched Aven for a while, the way his hands moved in careful, rhythmic motions, each one a part of a greater whole. It was as if his very presence was a quiet prayer, a dedication to something much larger than any one flower or tree. 

“Do you ever feel like it’s... pointless?” she asked. “That the garden will just die again, and no one will remember the work you’ve done?” 

Aven paused for a moment, looking out over the garden that stretched out before them. “Everything dies. And everything returns. It’s the way of things. But that doesn’t mean the work is wasted. Each bloom, each seed, each leaf—each of them has its moment. Its purpose. And when it fades, it gives way to something else, something new. There is always renewal.” 

Elara’s eyes softened as she gazed at the flower beds, now filled with soft golden light as the sun began to set. It was true. There was something about the rhythm of the earth that could not be rushed, nor fully understood. The cycle of life, of growth, decay, and rebirth—it was endless, and yet, it always felt so precious. 

After a long silence, Elara stood up, feeling something deep inside her settle. “I think I understand,” she said quietly. “It’s not about the flowers or the harvest. It’s about... the breath of it all. The act of giving and receiving, over and over.”

Aven nodded, his face content, as though the answer had always been there, waiting to be seen. “Exactly. You see, purpose is not always about what you get, but about the rhythm of giving. The meaning is in the cycle. It begins, it empties, and then it begins again.” 

Elara took one last look at the garden, her heart a little lighter, her mind a little quieter. The world was full of noise, full of distractions, full of urgency. But here, in the garden, in Aven’s quiet rhythm, she felt a peace she hadn’t known in years. 

She turned and walked back toward the village, feeling the breath of life in every step she took. And though the days would come and go, like the petals of a flower falling to the ground, she knew now that meaning was not something to be grasped or held—it was something to be lived, over and over, in every cycle of the heart. 

And as Aven returned to his work, the rhythm of the earth and the air, the cycles of meaning and purpose, continued—the garden alive with quiet harmony. 

* * *

Designing the gap between divine omniscience

and mortal awareness.

Find your truth. Know your mind. Follow your heart. Love eternal will not be denied. Discernment is an integral part of self-mastery. You may share this post on a non-commercial basis, the author and URL to be included. All rights reserved. Copyright © 2025 C.G. Garant.