The Presupparable of the Woke Gardener

A Presupparable

By Dennis Mackulin

“A gardener planted weeds and demanded roses.”

There once was a field, passed down through generations.

It had not always been so lush. In its early days, it was wild and tangled, choked with thorns and crooked roots. But in time, an old steward came who learned to kneel in the furrows. He cleared the stones, pulled the roots, and found the soil deeper than most imagined. He followed the scrolls of the Ancient Gardeners, who taught that light comes from above, that order is not oppression, and that beauty blooms only in obedience.

He planted roses—not for their symmetry, but for their scent. Their fragrance filled the village. Bees came. Children sang. Even the sick lingered longer near the blooms.

He worked humbly, never naming the garden after himself, but always pointing to the Sun.

And when his hands grew too feeble, he passed the field to his grandson.

The Grandson’s Dream

The grandson wore finer robes and had studied under fashionable thinkers in far-off cities. They taught him that gardening was not about growth, but expression. They warned him that structure was dangerous, that roots were symbols of control, and that pruning was an act of violence.

He returned home and looked upon the roses—not with gratitude, but with suspicion.

“These flowers,” he said, “are too uniform. Their petals follow a pattern. Their stems submit to stakes. Their fragrance imposes a standard.”

And so, he tore them out.

He burned the old planting scrolls in a copper basin and warmed himself by their fire. In their place, he scattered seeds he’d gathered from the Market of Modern Ideas. The bag they came in was unlabeled, but the merchant assured him they were “inclusive, affirming, and fast-sprouting.”

He poured out the seeds with dramatic flair. He did not kneel, for he considered that beneath him. He did not consult the seasons, for he was told time itself was a tool of the powerful. He did not pray for rain, for he believed the rain should apologize.

A Garden Reimagined

In time, the field sprouted—but not in beauty.

Thistles rose, proud and jagged. Vines tangled like arguments with no end. Fungi bloomed like philosophies—brief, strange, and foul-smelling. Each plant grew in a different direction and shouted down the others for their shape, color, or growth pattern.

The gardener smiled. “At last,” he said, “a diverse garden.”

But the bees did not come.

Children stopped playing nearby. The air held no fragrance, only spores.

Then the gardener grew angry.

He wrote angry verses in the dirt and shouted at the clouds. “The problem,” he said, “is the sun! Its light favors one side of the field. And the soil—it carries ancient biases! The rain falls unequally!”

He gathered the villagers and gave impassioned speeches. “Weeds,” he declared, “are merely misunderstood roses. Let us rename them all! Let each plant define itself!”

He erected signs among the brambles:

“All Growth is Good Growth”

“No Root, No Rules”

“We Bloom According to Our Truths”

The Forgotten Scroll

One day, a wind carried a scroll across the field. It was old—soft, marked with weather, and bound with a seal none in the village recognized.

A child picked it up. While the gardener scoffed, the child found a quiet place near the compost heap and read:

“The soil is not yours. The seed is not yours. The light is not yours. You are not the sun. You are the sower. Plant what is true.”

The child took one seed from the scroll’s fold and pressed it into the ground. He knelt. He watered. He waited.

And one morning, it bloomed.

A single rose. Fragrant. Steady. Upright.

The gardener cursed. “This is a threat to the field’s freedom!”

The weeds hissed. “Its symmetry shames us.”

A council was convened. The rose was declared hateful. The soil where it grew was labeled contaminated. And in an act of ritual justice, the gardener plucked it out and cast it into the compost.

The Return of the Roses

The next week, three roses grew where one had been. By the end of the month, they were spreading—not by force, but by truth. They did not shout, but they shined. Their fragrance pierced the thicket.

And though the gardener placed mirrors in the weeds to make them feel beautiful, the thorns began to bend toward the roses, aching for order.

He redoubled his efforts, shouting louder than ever:

“All plants are plants!”

“Roots are a social construct!”

“Roses are dangerous!”

But deep beneath the weeds, the old soil remembered.

And the sun kept rising, without his permission.

Interpretation

This is the tale of every age that rejects the design of the Gardener of All Gardens. It is the story of a world that burns its heritage in search of autonomy, plants confusion, and demands beauty.

It is the foolishness of sowing without standard, cultivating without conviction, and raging at the harvest.

For though the fool may curse the light, he cannot extinguish it. Though he uproots the rose, he cannot prevent it from returning. And though he calls weeds by noble names, they remain what they are—fruitless, thorned, and choking.

Only what is planted in truth can bloom in grace.

“What a man sows, he will also reap. If he sows to the wind, he will reap the whirlwind. But the seed that falls on good soil bears fruit—some thirty, some sixty, some a hundredfold.”

(paraphrased from Galatians 6:7, Hosea 8:7, Matthew 13:8)