Crisp, sunburned leaves. A shrivelled stem gasping for water. Grey, sandy soil that repels moisture—much like my legs in summer. Toss in a grassless lawn for dramatic effect, and you’ve got a snapshot of my gardening track record.

I once thought it was a brilliant idea to plant baby fruit trees during a 40+ degree January heatwave, straight into what could technically be described as “dirt,” but more closely resembled beach sand. Yes, I was that person. Of the three trees I planted, one heroically died and was respectfully composted. The cause of death? Possibly the soil, the sun, the lack of water—or maybe the tree just took one look at its new home and decided, “Yeah, nah.”

I like to think I’m a curious person. Or perhaps more accurately, I aspire to be a curious person. It’s not because I think curiosity is a moral category. It’s not a fruit of the Spirit. And yet I’m increasingly convinced it’s a trait I want to possess. And in possessing it, I’ll gain something good.