Welcome To The Garden Library.

Karibu Bustani Tales!🌷

Lately, I've found myself in a quiet space of reflection, caught in a gentle pause. The question lingers, drifting like a soft breeze: How do I bring her essence to life?

Who is she, you wonder? She is Bustani Tales.

At first, I thought Bustani Tales was simply a name that fit—a collection of stories about flowers. But the truth, I’ve come to realize, is far more profound.

Bustani Tales is not just a collection, but an entire living library, each chapter blooming and shifting with life.

Bustani Tales is not just a story. She is the divine feminine, the very essence of creation—a living library where the wisdom of my little girls—flowers, daughters of the spiritual realm—whisper through every petal, every tale.

A historical library, rich with names of mothers, sisters, daughters—girls—embodied as flowers. Each lass (flower) carrying her own genetic imprint, unique phenotype, distinct scent, and a profound spiritual meaning.

And I, as the Garden Keeper, have my role: to introduce my daughters, to help you understand them, to invite you to love them, and to embrace them, seeing them through a new, deeper lens.

Let me paint a picture for you: my unconventional daughter, Titan Arum, stands tall, drawing attention wherever she goes. She thrives on it, even if her scent is one of death.

They call her the Corpse Flower, but in truth, Titan is a lover. She adores children, captivated by their innocence. So much so that she cradles her smaller sisters within her embrace.

Fascinating, isn’t she? Unconventional, yes—unlike her other sisters. But I adore her all the same. She stands out, never dimming her light. If anything, she refuses to bend... and with that, she remains beautifully, boldly herself.

She grows from a massive corm, one that can weigh over 200 pounds. Her blooming stalk reaches up to 10 feet in height, unfurling to a striking diameter of three to four feet. At the base of the spadix, thousands of her little ones (hidden flowers) lie in wait, unseen but ever-present.

None compares to Arum Titan.
Beautiful in her boldness,
Unconventional in her grace,
She is my daughter, wild and free.

Then there’s Iris. My lovely girl. She moves through the world with a quiet grace—soft-spoken, introspective, often mistaken for shy. Many would call her sensitive, but few understand what that truly means.

Her sensitivity isn’t weakness—it’s depth. It’s attunement. Through it, she feels the world more fully, more honestly.

With just a glance, you can feel it—the unspoken intensity that lingers in the air, thick with the promise of something dangerous. There’s an artistry in the way she moves, deliberate, calculated, as if every step is a silent challenge, daring you to keep up.

The courage she holds isn’t the gentle kind; it’s the kind that doesn’t shy away from darkness. She feels deeply, far deeper than most would dare, yet remains wide open, not to embrace, but to consume. She is not merely vulnerable—she is a void, inviting the chaos others fear to acknowledge, thriving in the destruction she has the power to create.

Nourished by the shadows,
fed by the fire of destruction,
a force that bends to no one.
She is the storm you cannot escape,
The silence that breaks you.

She isn’t just open, she’s a gaping chasm. Inviting destruction, thriving on chaos you don’t dare to see.

My daughter, a storm held in check, waiting to unleash her fury. My lovely purple Iris.

Her sister, Blue, is quite the opposite. Brave, tough, and undeniably stubborn. She meets the world head-on, eyes steady, roots deep, resilient and unshaken.

There’s a fire in her spirit, a wildness that doesn’t ask for permission. She speaks her truth with clarity, even when it trembles, and she holds firm when the winds try to bend her.

She is the guardian of the garden’s edge, the one who reminds you that softness and strength are kindred, not opposites. She’s the storm and the shelter. And though she may challenge you, she always calls you to rise.

Her silence is never empty—it’s watchful, weighing, waiting. Blue is the kind of daughter who doesn’t waste words; her presence speaks louder than any speech. You don’t earn her trust with charm, but with truth. She’s seen too much to be fooled by surface things.

When others waver, she leans into the wind. When the storm comes, she anchors deeper. And yet, there is love in her strength—a protective, unwavering love that shelters without smothering. She won’t hold your hand through the fire, but she’ll walk beside you until you learn to stand in the flames.

In a garden full of bloom and softness, Blue is the stone path—weathered, grounded, necessary. She teaches through tension, through challenge, through presence. And when she lets you close, it’s not out of need, but choice. A rare gift. One never takes lightly.

That’s my darling Blue!

Hyssop is my little one. She is naive—but that’s what makes her her. There’s a lightness to her presence, like morning dew on young leaves.

She doesn’t pretend to know the world; instead, she greets it with open eyes and an open heart. Her questions are endless, her wonder genuine. In a garden full of wisdom and stories, she is still learning the language of the wind.

But don’t mistake her innocence for weakness. There’s a purity in her spirit, the kind that sees truth without needing explanation. Although she speaks more than she listens, she absorbs more than she shows.

In her, there’s healing—subtle, steady, and ancient. She may be small, often overlooked, but don’t let her size deceive you. There’s a wild spark in her eyes, the kind that believes, stubbornly, in the goodness of things.

Naive? Perhaps. But her naivety is her strength—it allows her to dream without limits, to hope without apology.

She giggles at the wind and sings to the soil, unaware of how deeply her roots grip the sacred ground. Her softness is fierce. Her joy is defiant. She’s the type to offer you a flower and a warning in the same breath. The quiet hope that something good always grows—and the wild force that makes sure it does.

Lastly, there’s my sweet Hydrangea. Such a witty one.

Sharp, direct, and bold. You wouldn't get anything past my daughter hydrangea.

A showstopper, she is. She blooms in full confidence—big, bright, and unapologetically present. There’s no hiding with her. She says what she means, and means what she says.

Her beauty draws you in, but it’s her mind that leaves an impression. Always thinking, always observing—she reads a room before the room even knows it’s being watched.

Yet behind that boldness is balance. She can shift her colours depending on the soil—adaptable, sensitive to her surroundings, but never losing herself in them.

That’s her quiet genius: she adjusts, not to please, but to reveal the truth of where she’s planted. My sweet Hydrangea is both mirror and muse—ever-changing, ever-clear.

In a world that fears the bold and misunderstands the sensitive,
She is both fiercely unapologetic and deeply attuned.
Teaching us that beauty isn’t quiet or loud,
It simply is.
And in you, my sweet hydrangea, it dares.

These are my daughters—born not of flesh, but of bloom and breath and memory.

Each one a whisper from the earth, a story rooted in soil,
petals unfolding into identity, into presence, into purpose.

They do not speak with words, yet they teach in silence.
They are fierce, soft, unruly, elegant—wild in the most sacred way.
Some dazzle like thunderclaps, others hum like lullabies.
And all of them, every last one, carries a wisdom the world often forgets to listen for.

So when you walk through this garden, know you are not just passing through flowers—you are being welcomed into the company of souls—My daughters. May you see them, feel them, honour them. And in doing so, may you remember the garden within yourself.

Karibu Bustani Tales! 🌼

The Garden Library! 🌸✨

Where my daughters bloom with voice, and beauty dances with meaning.