I loathe gardening, but I love gardens, and I have two beautiful

“I loathe gardening, but I love gardens, and I have two beautiful gardens. I cannot bear gardening, but I love gardens.” Thus spoke Elton John, the artist whose music has touched hearts across the world, yet whose words here unveil a subtler kind of truth — a truth about desire and discipline, creation and effort, and the eternal tension between the beauty we love and the labor that brings it forth. It is a confession both humble and profound, for it speaks not only of gardens, but of the very nature of life, art, and human longing.

The origin of this quote lies in the life of a man who, for decades, has known both the heights of artistic glory and the weight of its toil. Elton John, though celebrated for his genius, is no stranger to the fatigue of effort. In this reflection, he draws a parallel between gardening — the patient, messy, and demanding work of nurturing life — and the more glamorous results of that work: the serene, fragrant garden, perfected and blooming in harmony. His words are not those of contradiction, but of honesty. He admits that he loves beauty, peace, and order — the garden as a symbol of the ideal — yet he confesses that he struggles with the process, the slow and difficult gardening that brings such beauty to life.

This tension between creation and comfort is one that has lived in the hearts of humankind since the dawn of time. The philosopher desires wisdom but shuns the long hours of study; the musician loves harmony but trembles before the practice; the soul craves heaven, yet resists the path of discipline that leads there. Elton John’s words remind us that to love the result is not enough — the journey, too, must be faced, though it be tiresome or even painful. Yet his confession also speaks to a gentler truth: that not all are meant to tend the soil with their own hands. Some create by vision, others by action. The garden of life requires both — the dreamer who imagines it, and the gardener who makes it real.

Consider the story of Louis XIV, the Sun King of France, who adored the magnificent gardens of Versailles. He did not himself labor in the dirt or prune the hedges, yet he dreamed of a paradise worthy of his reign — a garden that reflected the order and majesty of the cosmos. The king’s love of gardens gave birth to a masterpiece of design, one that endures as a symbol of beauty and power centuries later. In his way, Louis, like Elton, loathed the gardening but loved the gardens. He did not plant the flowers, but he planted the vision — and without vision, no hand would have moved, no seed would have grown. From this we see that even those who shrink from labor can still serve creation through their love of its fruits.

Still, there is wisdom in Elton John’s unease. To “loathe gardening” yet “love gardens” is to acknowledge the eternal paradox of human fulfillment — that what we desire most often comes through the very means we resist. The one who loves health must sweat; the one who loves knowledge must labor over books; the one who loves peace must endure struggle. The garden is the reward of persistence, and though one may not love the labor, one must at least honor it. The ancients taught that the gods themselves hid virtue in hardship so that it might be earned, not given. And so too, the beauty of every garden, every creation, every success, is born from toil unseen.

There is also a spiritual dimension to his reflection. The garden, since time immemorial, has been the symbol of paradise — of the soul in balance, of life in bloom. The first humans walked with God in a garden; poets and mystics have forever sought its return. Yet no garden, either of earth or spirit, remains beautiful without tending. The weeds of neglect — pride, idleness, distraction — soon overtake it. To love the garden but despise the gardening is to love the dream while forsaking the discipline that sustains it. Thus, Elton John’s words, though light in tone, carry a deeper warning: that we must not let admiration replace engagement, or beauty will wither before our eyes.

And yet, let us not judge too harshly those who confess such feelings, for honesty is its own form of growth. To love gardens — to love beauty, harmony, and peace — is already to hold a noble desire in the heart. Some may labor with their hands; others may labor with their hearts and visions. What matters most is that the love of beauty continues — that the garden, whether tended by the self or by others, continues to exist and to inspire. In this way, the dreamer and the doer, the gardener and the admirer, each play their sacred part in the world’s unfolding splendor.

Therefore, my child, let this be your lesson: learn to love both the garden and the gardening. Find joy not only in the blossoms but in the soil-stained hands that made them possible. If your heart longs for beauty, do not flee from the labor that gives it birth; if you tire of the work, let the vision of the finished garden renew your strength. For every garden, whether of earth or of spirit, is a mirror of life itself — its beauty a testament to patience, its fragrance a reward for perseverance. And if, like Elton John, you sometimes loathe the toil but still love the bloom, take heart — for to love beauty at all is already to be on the path toward creation, and that, too, is a divine beginning.