The garden should have some room for pleasure that never reaches the table.

Usefulness quietly colonizes everything. A garden that only grows what can be eaten turns into another site of production, measured by yield, and the hours spent there start needing justification like any other work. Something planted for no reason beyond liking the look of it keeps the whole activity from becoming a job.

Give a small part of whatever you tend to something with no purpose at all. Flowers you will not cut, a corner left untidy. Then notice how differently you stand in it.