Welcome to the Children's Garden
Step into a world where imagination blossoms and healing begins. Here in the Children's Garden, we nurture young minds with stories that soothe the soul and seeds of wisdom that help them grow.
A seed of imagination
Dr. Timin’s Tower of Books is a story is designed to spark joy, encourage emotional understanding, and promote a sense of well-being in young readers.
Once upon a time, in a sunny little town where finches sang on every rooftop, there lived a cheerful doctor named Dr. Timins. He was the sort of doctor who never rushed, who listened with his whole heart, and who kept a stethoscope draped around his neck like a promise.
Dr. Timins loved two things more than anything: helping people and reading books. His office was so full of books that patients often had to brush away a novel or two just to sit down. “Stories keep the mind limber,” he liked to say, “just like stretching keeps the body kind.”
Over the years, his stack of books grew so tall that it began to look like a tower. Then one morning, while sipping his coffee and looking out at the golden birds perched on the trees, Dr. Timins had an idea.
“If books can lift the mind,” he mused, “perhaps they can lift me too!”
So he began to climb. Carefully—one book at a time—he stacked his favorite volumes beneath his feet. A dictionary, a fairy tale, a field guide to birds, a medical journal, a cookbook called Comfort Soup for Rainy Days, and his favorite, Finnegan’s Wake. Higher and higher he rose, until he could see over the treetops.
The yellow birds fluttered around him, curious. “What are you doing up here, Doctor?” they chirped.
“I’m learning,” he said with a grin. “Every story I’ve ever read has given me another inch of kindness.”
When he finally reached the top, Dr. Timins lifted one last red book high above his head. The birds burst into song. Below, the townspeople looked up and laughed with joy. It wasn’t every day you saw your doctor smiling from the clouds, balanced atop a tower of wisdom.
That evening, when he climbed down, Dr. Timins didn’t keep the books to himself. He opened his doors and invited everyone in. “Come borrow a story,” he said. “They’re good for what ails you.”
And so it became known throughout the town that if you were sick, sad, or simply in need of hope, you could visit Dr. Timins’ Book Tower Clinic. He’d listen to your heartbeat, hand you a book, and say, “Take two chapters and call me in the morning.”
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Cultivating emotional growth
At Soul Seeding, we believe in the power of stories to help children navigate their emotions and build resilience. Explore how our approach to psychology, imagination, and healing can support your child's journey.
The Vegetable Man
There was once a man who lived in the city of Chicago — a place both vast and narrow at once. Vast in its steel towers and endless neighborhoods, yet narrow in spirit, for the people there had grown flat and interchangeable. They rose, they worked, they commuted, they bought trinkets and cars to show others their lifestyle and class. The weekend news carried the thunder of thirty shootings, but no thunder of the soul. Even the mapmakers of the National Parks called it the Fly Over Zone, a place not worth landing.
The man loved dogs. He watched his neighbors parade their hounds and terriers down the streets, tugging joyfully, sniffing the world, alive in every fiber. He longed for such wildness, but it was not his fate to have it. He snubbed his nose to Alaska. Too wild and free for me, he thought. Not for me.
Instead, he turned to the one place where difference could still be touched: the vegetable aisle.
Day after day, he wandered there for over an hour, his hands caressing each broccoli crown, stroking each tomato as though it had a soul, weighing each purple sweet potato like a newborn child. While others rushed through the store with their carts without a thought, he lingered. For in Blandland, where people had dissolved into sameness, the vegetables still carried mystery, texture, fragrance. They still held individuality.
In time, his fondness grew into passion, and his passion into ritual. He bought not one vegetable, but three or four. He placed them gently into the shopping cart, making a little bed for each so nothing could hurt or bruise them.
Once home and carefully unpacked from the grocery bag, he placed them in little harnesses and leashes and walked them, morning, noon, and evening, just as others walked their dogs.
The sight became legend on his block: a man in jeans, slender, pulled gently along by broccoli, by tomatoes bright as jewels, by a purple potato with more character than half the street. The neighbors pretended not to see, for Blandland cannot abide eccentricity, but the children whispered and giggled, and the vegetables themselves seemed to glow more richly as they were walked beneath the sky.
His wife, who loved the wilds, shook her head. She sought color in the water and wilds, but he, sealed in his own orbit, lived for nothing beyond his vegetables and the endless words in his books. Twelve hours a day he read, and three times a day he walked his quiet companions.
It was a quiet life, yes — but also strange, and in its strangeness, perhaps not entirely devoid of magic. For in a land that had forgotten the spark of being, even a man who walked vegetables kept alive the possibility that something different, something absurd, could still bloom.