I'm always surrounded by crazy people, but when I come back to

The words “I’m always surrounded by crazy people, but when I come back to the country I’m into my plants, I love gardening, I love bird watching and I absolutely love nature” were spoken by Gemma Collins, a woman of modern fame who, though born into the glitter and noise of celebrity life, reveals through this confession a truth as ancient as humanity itself — that peace of spirit is found not in chaos, but in communion with nature. Behind her light-hearted words lies a yearning that philosophers and poets have felt since time immemorial: the desire to return to the quiet heart of the earth, to find renewal among living things, and to rediscover the soul beneath the noise of the world.

In this quote, the contrast between madness and peace stands as a symbol for the two worlds that dwell within every human being — the outer world of commotion, ambition, and endless striving, and the inner world of silence, balance, and divine order. When she speaks of being “surrounded by crazy people,” it is not only a comment on the social whirl of fame, but a reflection of modern life itself — a world perpetually distracted, restless, and loud. But when she returns “to the country,” she rediscovers what the ancients called the rhythm of the divine, the sacred pulse of creation that beats quietly beneath the rush of time. Through her plants and her birds, she finds again the stillness that heals the soul.

The ancients, too, knew this truth. The Roman philosopher Seneca wrote that one who wishes to regain his clarity should “retire into himself, or into the fields.” For in nature there is no deceit, no vanity, no false noise — only truth expressed through simplicity. The wind does not boast, the trees do not pretend, and the birds do not envy. They simply live in harmony with the eternal law. To walk among them, to touch the soil, to watch life unfold and wither in its seasons, is to glimpse again the wisdom of the Creator. Gemma’s love of gardening and bird watching may seem humble, but it reflects this same ancient reverence for nature as a temple of peace.

Consider the story of Leo Tolstoy, who, after years of fame and success, abandoned the luxury of Russian aristocracy to live simply among peasants, tilling the soil and walking in the open fields. He discovered that in the quiet companionship of earth and sky, his heart was nearer to God than in the crowded salons of Moscow. Like Gemma, he had been “surrounded by madness” — not of people only, but of desires, illusions, and pride. And like her, he found salvation in returning to nature — in the humility of soil and seed, in the patient rhythm of growth and renewal. The garden, for both rich and poor, is not just a pastime; it is a mirror of the soul.

When Gemma speaks of her love for plants, bird watching, and nature, she touches upon the sacred trinity of creation — growth, movement, and harmony. The plant teaches patience and persistence; the bird teaches freedom and song; and nature as a whole teaches humility — reminding us that we are not masters but participants in the living web of the world. Those who dwell too long in human noise forget this truth and begin to believe themselves gods of their own design. But those who return to the soil remember: life is not conquered, it is cultivated.

The deeper meaning of her words, then, is a call to restoration and remembrance. Each soul needs its garden — a place of quiet renewal, whether it be a literal field, a small patch of flowers, or the inner landscape of prayer and reflection. To love nature is to align oneself again with the creative spirit of God, to learn patience from the trees, hope from the spring, and peace from the stars. The world may whirl with madness, but the garden stands still, waiting for us to return.

The lesson is simple yet profound: when life becomes noisy, return to what is real. Seek the earth, the wind, the song of the birds. In tending to nature, you tend to your soul.

Practical actions: Each week, take time to disconnect from the world of hurry. Plant something with your hands — a seed, a flower, even a thought of gratitude. Walk among trees without speaking. Listen to the language of nature; it is older than words. Keep a space, however small, where you can breathe in silence and remember that peace is not found in the crowd, but in communion — with the earth, with the sky, and with the stillness where God’s whisper dwells.