Flowers, Garbage & Carpet Fans

I came upon this quote yesterday, and it landed as a massive god wink—one of those universe-pointing moments that says, Here, here… look… notice! It stopped me in my tracks because it named something I’ve been circling for a long time without quite being able to articulate it. I’m the gardener in this little clip from Thích Nhất Hạnh—at least, that’s how it landed in me—and suddenly a whole bunch of seemingly unrelated experiences snapped into focus.

“Flowers and garbage are both organic in nature. So looking deeply into the nature of a flower you can see the presence of the compost and the garbage. The flower is also going to turn into garbage, but don’t be afraid! You are a gardener, and you have in your hands the power to transform garbage into flowers, into fruit, into vegetables. You don’t throw anything away, because you are not afraid of garbage. Your hands are capable of transforming it into flowers or lettuce or cucumbers.
The same thing is true of your happiness and your sorrow. Sorrow, fear, and depression are all a kind of garbage. These bits of garbage are part of real life, and we must look deeply into their nature. You can practice in order to turn these bits of garbage into flowers. So you should not throw anything out. All you have to do is learn how to transform your garbage into flowers.”

The timing was uncanny. I live near a stunning, historic downtown—vibrant and healthy, with restaurants, shops, and good energy everywhere. You can buy olive oil, hiking boots, genuine leather coats, and ultra-fancy hats for horse-racing season all within a few blocks. Excellent restaurants of every variety. Northshire Bookstore is probably my favorite stop, with Starbucks nearby and Saratoga Candy Company right there tempting me at every turn. Valentine’s Day is coming, which is basically a socially acceptable excuse to walk in and come home loaded with fudge, chocolates, and other sugary goodness. I digress—but joy like this matters. It sets the tone.

A friend and I were wandering south on Broadway after stopping at the new Bear’s Cup Bakehouse—next to Forno Bistro and completely over-the-top delicious, by the way. I hadn’t been to Violet’s of Saratoga women’s apparel, and she hadn’t been to Northshire or the Jewish deli tucked behind it, so we meandered, shopped, laughed, and soaked up the easy Saturday-morning energy. It was light. Spacious. The kind of mood where everything feels friendly and possible.

On our way back to the car, heading north again, we passed the area near Church Street and Lake Avenue, by the police station and courthouse. Protesters had been gathering there in increasing numbers. As I wove my way through the bodies—oddly reminded of tourists packed into Times Square—I felt a sudden gut punch. The same lynch-mob energy I’d written about in an earlier essay, the day of the Skidmore event and that Encore presentation by the political science guy. That day, I had to duck and run from it—literally. The energy was overwhelming, claustrophobic, and sharp.

This time was different. We were outside. The space was open. Escape was easy. Instead of fear, curiosity took the lead. Still, the vibe was unmistakably the same. Words fail me again when it comes to describing things we’re not normally invited—or allowed—to talk about. It was sticky and angry and escalating at the core. Around the edges, there was curiosity and even sympathy, but threaded through it all was a very clear don’t-you-dare-disagree charge. I kept walking. Noticing. Wondering if there was a question I could ask--Are you from around here? I don’t recognize a soul—that might help me understand what this show was actually about, beyond noise and spectacle. I came up empty. Just noticing. Just moving on.

A few days later, an image popped into my mind: one of those industrial-strength carpet fans—the kind you see after a flood or a crisis, roaring away to dry out soaked floors. You know the ones. I sketched it out almost without thinking: garbage in, flowers out—but in an energetic sense. Suddenly I wasn’t the gardener anymore. I was the Maxx Air fan, sucking in the smelly junk and blasting out sweet-smelling kindness. Ridiculous? Maybe. But also… oddly compelling.

And then—because the universe clearly enjoys a good callback—I had another wink. I was upstairs flipping through an old notebook, looking for something entirely unrelated, when I landed on pages from my davidji meditation teacher training. I’d forgotten about these notes completely. There it was, plain as day: a conversation about energy management and what we leave behind when we interact with others. He was talking about ojas and ama—whether our presence nourishes or congests the field. Ojas is vitality, coherence, the good stuff that supports life. Ama is residue, toxicity, the energetic gunk left behind when things aren’t processed or metabolized. His question jumped off the page: when you walk away, what’s lingering—ojas or ama? He was speaking about personal relationships, which I get to practice with regularly at home, but suddenly I could feel the concept stretching outward into the collective spaces I move through every day.

That’s when the carpet-fan image really locked in. This wasn’t about saving anyone, fixing anything, or standing on a soapbox. It was about not adding to the mess. About becoming a piece of equipment instead of a pundit. A ridiculous, bright-yellow, industrial-strength presence whose only job is circulation. Intake on one side. Output on the other. No commentary. No opinion. Just airflow. I could imagine standing quietly at the perimeter of one of these charged situations and practicing—letting the fan run. Sucking in heat, rage, fear, and static. Blowing out steadiness, kindness, clarity. No promises. No vows. Just curiosity and intention.

​Mostly, this feels like massive progress. I wasn’t overwhelmed this time. I didn’t need to flee. I could stand still, keep my breath, and remain curious instead of reactive—inside and out. That feels new. That feels earned. Confidence is my word for 2026, after all—but I don’t think confidence looks like shouting or convincing or winning. I think it looks like good ventilation. Like knowing when to circulate instead of combust. So for now, I’m just saying. Just noticing. Just living a little more in the moment. Not throwing anything away. Letting the fan do its quiet, unglamorous, surprisingly powerful work—one breath, one pass, one small clearing at a time.

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