On intention, control, and the quiet limits of dominion
I approached my garden with deliberate intention, believing that care and clarity would yield predictable results.
I selected seeds thoughtfully—cabbage, tomatoes, lettuce—envisioning orderly rows, vigorous growth, and a predictable harvest. I imagined abundance, organization, and success. What I did not anticipate were weeds breaking through the soil, insects gathering in clusters, and spiders establishing themselves in corners I had never planned for.
These disturbances appeared regardless of my plans.
Belief in our ability to shape reality often brings a sense of empowerment and assurance. Yet as I watched my garden unfold beyond my expectations, that belief began to feel less certain. Perhaps we do not create reality outright. Perhaps we only influence it.
I had often heard that humans possess dominion over the Earth—a concept rooted in spiritual teachings and religious texts. Dominion suggests authority, even control. But if control were absolute, why did my careful intentions fail to produce exact results? Why did nature introduce elements I had neither planted nor envisioned?
Seeking understanding, I chose to approach this belief not as a fixed truth, but as an inquiry—one that might reveal both its strengths and its limits.
Before planting again, I sought guidance from a respected elder in my community. Someone whose relationship with soil and growth had been shaped by years of experience. I hoped to create a garden that inspired wonder—a space that reflected possibility rather than precision.
On the eve of planting, I asked him about the meaning of “having dominion over the Earth.” He smiled gently.
“Do you mean its spiritual meaning?” He asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “I believe it has something to do with intention—perhaps even belief.”
He explained that dominion was not about domination, but responsibility. It was the capacity to shape our lives through thought, belief, and action—not with certainty, but with influence. Intention, he said, guides our efforts and opens pathways, but it does not override the living complexity of the world.
Still, the questions lingered. Could intention truly determine outcomes? Could focused belief guarantee results? Or did it simply prepare us to engage more fully with what unfolds?
I asked him about the law of attraction—a concept often described as the idea that attracts like, that focused thoughts and emotions draw corresponding experiences into our lives. He described it as a practice of attention: by clarifying desire and committing to action, we align ourselves with opportunity.
“Did you use it to create your garden?” I asked.
He nodded. “I begin with a plan,” he said. “A clear vision of what I want to grow. I imagine it fully. Then I follow that vision carefully—planting, tending, adjusting as needed.”
His words sparked hope. I believed in the value of focus and visualization. Yet my own experience reminded me that even the most detailed plan meets forces beyond prediction—weather, soil, time, chance.
Through my garden, I learned that intention matters—but it does not rule alone. Despite care and planning, the outcome remains partly unknown. Growth resists strict obedience.
In time, I came to see that harmony—not control—was the deeper aim. The garden did not fail me; it revealed something I had misunderstood. Growth is not submission. It is a collaboration.
Perhaps our truest power lies not in commanding the earth, but in tending it—patiently, humbly, and with care, attentive to what grows beyond our plans.
If you like my essays you can read more on: Medium.com@tofina.russell