When the Garden Hurts:

A Meditation on Pain, Blame, and the Mystery of the Thorn Bush

By Rachy Friedlander;

Have you ever stood in the middle of your own life—bewildered by the sharp edges, the uninvited jabs, the ache that makes no sense at all?

We’re told to trust the journey. To lean into the process. To believe there’s a gardener behind it all.

But sometimes... it just hurts.

This is a piece from my own journal. A moment of honesty, unfiltered and gasping. I offer it to you not as an answer, but as a companion for the road.

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Journal Entry: The Cactus and the Question

Have you ever felt pain?

The stabbing kind that leaves you breathless. Voiceless. Choiceless. Tearless—almost.

The kind of pain that whispers, “You’re so stuck. You can never get out.”

The kind of pain that is not an intruder, but somehow inherent to the journey. This pathway. This crooked roadway. This furry brush of foliage called life.

The prickly cactus plants along the way—surely they weren’t meant to be there? And yet, they stand. Obtrusive. Conspicuous. Daring us to brush against them.

Who planted these?

Oh—the comfort of blame.

Oh—to be relieved of owning those prickly spears.

Who allowed these jibes?

Who would believe I’m supposed to endure this?

So detrimental.

Surely a mistake.

And yet—

no one ever owns up.

There’s no gardener to be found. No insight to be gained by tearing down the ragged, forlorn bush sitting on the front lawn.

So we blame.

So we fold into victimhood.

It’s just... easier.

When the pulse rises and the blood boils,

when the emotional soup is just too much to bear—

there’s always a shoe, strewn loose, to kick.

When the pot boils and the dough rises,

there’s always a screw to scatter.

When the anger erupts, when uncertainty scorches the edges,

there’s always some figure—standing at just the wrong angle—

to receive the blow.

You.

At the wrong time.

Is there ever a right time for pain?

A redeeming moment for a stab?

A blessed acceptance of the thorn bush?

When the river of pain reaches your neck

and the tears have flooded the entire scape,

watering your garden for years—you swear—

is there any relief in plain view?

And then the crescendo hits.

The voice reaches its peak.

The tears splash the tile.

The hopelessness becomes the wallpaper.

And still... no gardener in sight.

How can it be?

The question of the day.

The hour.

The minute.

I don’t get it.

The philosophical loop...

How could he not know he needed to be home to drive us to the doctor?

How could he not ask about the Yom Tov expenses?

And my teacher...

I’ve been so good.

Why would she set me up with someone outside my class?

Is there something wrong with me?

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The Reflection:

We look for meaning in the aftermath. But sometimes, we need to let the ache be what it is—a sacred interruption. A mystery still unfolding. A thorn we don’t yet understand.

This isn’t a call to bypass the pain. It’s an invitation to let it speak without rushing to silence it. To notice where we grip, where we blame, where we cast roles because it’s too hard to hold what’s ours.

And maybe—just maybe—the cactus was never a punishment. Maybe it’s the landmark.

Maybe it’s the very signpost that says, you’re still on the path.

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Journaling Prompt:

What pain in your life are you still convinced is “wrong”—a mistake?

Can you sit beside it, even for a breath, without trying to find the gardener?

What if the thorn bush wasn’t a punishment—but a path?