I like the physical activity of gardening. It's kind of

“I like the physical activity of gardening. It’s kind of thrilling. I do a lot of weeding.” Thus spoke John Hurt, the master of his craft, whose voice could summon both the majesty of kings and the frailty of men. In this humble reflection lies a wisdom far deeper than the soil he tended. For what is gardening, if not a mirror of the soul? What is weeding, if not the daily labor of removing from one’s heart the growths that choke the beauty within? Hurt’s words, though simple and unadorned, echo a timeless truth: that the path to peace and mastery lies not only in grand gestures, but in steady, honest work—in the quiet thrill of shaping life from earth.

The origin of this quote lies not in a stage or screen, but in the sanctuary of the actor’s private world. John Hurt, celebrated across generations for his performances, found in gardening a refuge from the chaos of fame. While his profession required emotional intensity and ceaseless transformation, the garden offered him something elemental—simplicity. There, he could exchange the weight of illusion for the clarity of soil and sunlight. “It’s kind of thrilling,” he said—not the thrill of applause, but the deep, silent joy of touching reality itself. This confession reveals what all who labor with their hands have known: that creation and cultivation heal the human spirit.

To find thrill in the “physical activity of gardening” is to rejoice in the bond between body and nature. In an age that glorifies abstraction—words, screens, symbols—there is something profoundly sacred about manual work, about kneeling upon the earth, feeling the weight of the spade, the resistance of roots, the scent of fresh soil. The ancients revered such labor as holy. The philosopher Cicero declared that “if you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.” For to tend a garden is not only to feed the body, but to cultivate the soul; it is to engage in a dialogue with creation itself, one movement at a time.

And what of weeding? Hurt’s gentle admission—“I do a lot of weeding”—carries the weight of metaphor. Every gardener knows that weeds return no matter how often they are removed. Their persistence mirrors the human struggle against disorder, distraction, and decay. To weed is to practice discipline, to restore harmony where chaos encroaches. It is the eternal struggle between growth and neglect, between vigilance and surrender. The wise learn to see weeding not as drudgery but as renewal—an act of purification, an offering to life itself. For as in the garden, so in the soul: what we neglect soon overruns us.

Consider the story of Leo Tolstoy, the great Russian novelist, who, after the storms of literary fame, turned to the soil in search of truth. He labored in the fields beside peasants, finding in physical toil the peace that eluded him in thought. The sweat of the body, he said, brings a clarity that the mind alone cannot achieve. Like Hurt, Tolstoy discovered that the act of weeding, of working the ground, becomes a form of prayer—an expression of humility before the laws of nature. Both men, artist and philosopher, found in gardening not escape, but grounding; not leisure, but meaning.

The deeper wisdom of Hurt’s words lies in the recognition that the physical and the spiritual are one. When the hands labor in honest rhythm, the mind grows quiet, the heart steadies, and the soul remembers its place in the order of things. The “thrill” he describes is not mere excitement, but the awakening of harmony between man and nature. In the garden, one does not perform or pretend; one simply is. The seed will not sprout for vanity’s sake, nor the earth yield to haste. To work the soil is to accept patience, to embrace the slow unfolding of life’s design.

Therefore, my child, take this lesson to heart: find something that roots you to the world. Seek not always the applause of men, but the steady joy of tending your garden—whether that garden is made of earth, or of relationships, or of the quiet corners of your soul. Do not despise the weeding, for it is the labor that keeps beauty alive. Take delight in the physical, for it connects you to what is eternal. And when the world grows loud with drama and distraction, return to the soil—to the place where your hands, your heart, and your spirit can work together once more.

For in the end, as John Hurt knew, the most profound thrill is not found upon the stage of glory, but in the silent triumph of the garden—where the weeds fall away, the flowers rise, and the soul remembers its strength.