"The Miracle of the Garden" is a Persian tale.

Once upon a time, a poor shepherd and his family lived in a place known as the Land of the Lion and the Sun. The shepherd tended his sheep beneath the blazing summer sun, and he was as proud and strong and fierce as any lion.

Like his fellow villagers, the shepherd and his family lived beside a green oasis fed by a spring. The villagers cherished the beauty of the world around them, the mountains to their north, the trees and animals, the colorful tiled gateways in the mud walls surrounding their village. Some tended sheep and goats, others grew grains and vegetables, and each villager lived, like the shepherd and his family, in a modest mud hut.

Nearly every hut, no matter how poor its tenants, had a garden. More than ordinary gardens, these were miniature lush landscapes with pools in their centers. In summer, the scent of roses filled the air, inspiring poets to write odes to them. Few people spoke of their homes, but everyone talked of their cherished gardens. They felt blessed by the gifts the world offered up from mere soil.

But this shepherd alone refused to plant a garden.

"What grows from dirt is of no interest to me," he said.

Year after year, the shepherd's wife pleaded with him to plant a garden.

"Dear husband," she said, "gardens are gifts from the earth."

And year after year, the shepherd refused. "What use are roses?" he scoffed. "What will we receive in exchange for petals and leaves?"

"Father," his youngest daughter pleaded, "roses smell so sweet."

"Flowers are delicate and complicated," said his younger son.

"And Father," the eldest son argued, "a garden is a place to feel at peace, a place to dream."

"I dream!" the shepherd answered. "I dream real dreams. I dream of things our neighbors never even imagine."

It was true the shepherd dreamed. He dreamed of glowing domes and palaces, of parade grounds and horses and grander things still. Nomads passed through the village selling their wares, and with their carpets and hides, they also offered tales of faraway cities, other worlds.

Hearing the wanderers' stories, the shepherd's dreams expanded beyond the walls of his hut and his village. He dreamed of the famed artwork of Isfahan, of minarets and merchants, of silver and jewels, of peacock plumes and towering palms. He imagined living the life of an important prince, and he dreamed that he did.

Then one day, a merchant told the shepherd of a prince's garden.

"You cannot imagine anything so marvelous," the merchant said. "The prince has roses of every color, delicate as webs, as sweet-smelling as honey, as soft as silk."

"And why does the prince have such a garden?" the shepherd asked.

"He knows a garden is a holy place. A true prince understands that a beautiful garden is an earthly treasure."

When the shepherd heard this, he rushed home. "We must plant a garden!" he said to his startled wife. "Our garden will be our treasure on earth."

He set to work at once, clearing the land beside his hut, digging and raking, sifting and planting. From then on, when he had finished tending his sheep, he continued to work in his garden, careful to water and weed, praying for good results.

But no matter how well the shepherd cared for his garden, roses did not bloom, and irises wilted, and poppies would not sprout, and lilies withered. Only the shepherd's weeds grew in abundance, thick and unstoppable, and soon they overtook everything else the shepherd tried to plant, no matter how much time he spent plucking them out.

"What have I done wrong?" the shepherd cried. "Something is wrong with us."

His children shook their heads. "The garden will grow. We have only begun."

His wife stroked his calloused hands. "See how lovely it is to have a quiet place to sit," she said. "This is our blessing."

"No!" the shepherd cried.

The next morning, he left home to travel to the city, determined to seek advice from the wise men, to find out if he would ever have a wonderful life.

At long last, he reached the palace where the wise men lived. As he walked toward the gate, he noticed the garden. He had never seen such a lush and fragrant place. He stood before it, staring in awe.

Then he noticed the gardener on his knees amidst a sea of lilies.

"Please," the shepherd called, "what is your secret? I tend my garden daily, yet I grow only weeds."

The gardener wiped his hands upon his pants and smiled. "You do not know the secret?" he asked.

The shepherd shook his head. "No, please. You must tell me."

The gardener smiled and looked up at the shepherd. "The secret," he whispered, "is this. You must also love the weeds."

"What?" the shepherd cried. "Are you mad?"

The gardener shook his head. "The weeds are part of your garden," he answered.

And suddenly, there in that beautiful garden, the shepherd began to understand. He had lived his whole life neglecting to love all he had — his wife and children, his home and his neighbors, his sheep, the spring, his strength — and had spent too much time impatiently dreaming about what would never be.

From that day on, the shepherd learned to love the simple gifts he already had. And with time and patience and loving care, his garden became a place of beauty and peace, and the shepherd became a happier man.