Imagine, for a moment, that you are a young explorer from another planet, a place where things do not grow or do not grow as they do here. You are sent to observe a garden on earth. And you have been trained well, and you are a careful observer. You take good notes, and you base your judgments on solid evidence.
You watch the garden and what you see is the gardener. She appears every day; she works hard. You watch her care for the earth, and then for the plants as they appear. She weeds and fertilizes; she supports and prunes. She shelters young plants from cold and wind, and she waters the plants when rain doesn't come. She creates drainage.
It seems to you that she creates growth. Of all the things in the garden, she is the one who takes action. Without her, you think, nothing would thrive.
And that's what you report.
But because you have come from a different world, that is not the end of the story. Once you have learned all you can by observing the gardener, you are given a new assignment, a new point of view. Now you are not only in the garden; you are in the seed.
You learn with all your senses as you push, with the seed, through the darkness and dirt. You wait patiently for signals that it is time to move, to reach through the darkness, to draw in moisture and nutrients. You expand in particular directions. You are driven by an imperative deeper than words. You do not create growth. You are growth.
You know light and dark and cold and heat and moisture. You know bugs and chemicals. You know the pulse of life that pushes you outward. You do not know the gardener.
What has changed when, your assignment complete, you are called again from the garden?