I do the gardening.

“I do the gardening.” So spoke Ken Livingstone, the once-mayor and ever-provocative public servant, whose words here, though humble, carry a resonance that reaches far beyond the soil. On the surface, they are simple — the declaration of a man who tends his plants, who labors quietly in his own yard. But beneath that simplicity lies a deeper music: the philosophy of stewardship, of labor, and of finding peace in the ordinary. For to “do the gardening” is not only to care for the ground beneath one’s feet, but to embrace responsibility for the small corner of creation entrusted to one’s hands. It is an act of humility, of grounding, and of renewal — one that mirrors the eternal pattern of life itself.

The origin of this statement arises not from poetry or myth, but from the life of a man long engaged in the rough and tangled field of politics. Ken Livingstone, known for his fiery energy and public leadership, once uttered these quiet words to describe his private life. After years in the public eye — years spent amid debate, power, and the noise of governance — he spoke of something serene, something personal: the simple act of gardening. And in that act, there was wisdom. For even those who shape cities and lead nations must return to the soil, to the rhythm of growth and decay, to the work that reminds them of their humanity. Gardening becomes, in his words, a metaphor for the governance of the soul — for tending to what must be nurtured, mending what is broken, and finding beauty through patience and care.

To say “I do the gardening” is, in truth, to affirm mastery through humility. The gardener does not command the rain nor summon the sun; he learns instead to work with them. His strength is not domination, but partnership — a gentle and constant dialogue with nature. What he cultivates, he does so through respect, through observation, through time. This is the wisdom of all creation: that true power does not come from control, but from cooperation with the forces that sustain life. And so, even in its brevity, Livingstone’s declaration becomes a kind of philosophical stance — an image of leadership rooted in labor, of authority expressed through care, of civilization modeled on the garden’s calm endurance.

The ancients understood this truth well. In the chronicles of Emperor Diocletian, we find a kindred spirit. After ruling the vast and tumultuous Roman Empire, Diocletian abdicated his throne and retired to his home in Dalmatia. When emissaries came, urging him to return to power, he simply replied, “If you could see the cabbages I have planted with my own hands, you would not ask me to return to power.” In that answer lies the same spirit as Ken Livingstone’s words. The emperor and the mayor alike recognized that tending the earth is a purer triumph than ruling men — that the peace of cultivation surpasses the vanity of conquest. For in gardening, one learns not only patience, but gratitude: the humility to see that life grows not by decree, but by devotion.

There is something almost heroic in such simplicity. In a world that glorifies endless striving, the man who says, “I do the gardening,” reclaims the sanctity of the present. He reminds us that greatness is not only in public deeds, but in private constancy — in the quiet commitment to nurture what is living, whether in soil, in relationships, or in the spirit. The spade, the watering can, the seed — these become symbols of moral discipline. To garden is to practice hope: to believe that what is buried will rise, that what seems barren will bloom again. It is, in its essence, an act of faith in the future.

Consider also the moral garden within each person — the inner plot where virtues must be cultivated, and weeds of anger, pride, or despair must be removed. The wise know that this inner garden, like any earthly one, demands continual care. Neglect it, and it grows wild; tend it, and it yields peace. This, too, is contained within Livingstone’s simple phrase. To “do the gardening” is to take responsibility not only for what we see, but for what grows unseen within us. It is to live consciously, attentively, reverently — as one who recognizes that every moment of care, however small, contributes to the world’s greater harmony.

Therefore, my child, heed this lesson: be a gardener of your life. Work with your hands, for they connect you to the truth of your existence. Cherish the humble, repetitive tasks that keep your soul alive. When the world feels chaotic, when ambition and noise surround you, return to your garden — literal or spiritual — and remember what endures. Sow patience, harvest peace. Do not despise the simple work, for in it lies the root of wisdom.

For in the end, when Ken Livingstone says, “I do the gardening,” he speaks not just for himself, but for all who have discovered that the truest form of greatness is not to rule the world, but to tend it — lovingly, faithfully, one seed at a time.