What “Listening to the Earth” means to me.

Until 2020, I believed I didn’t have a “green thumb.” More than that, I thought I didn’t deserve the love of the earth.

That year, I lived in a 15th-century house in Rome. On the terrace stood an old pomegranate in a pot, barely flowering. Only a few pale, fragile leaves appeared in spring. The soil had long been exhausted. In a gesture part instinct, part challenge, I replaced it entirely — nearly half a ton of fresh earth. The roots were like dry stone. A few months later, the pomegranate burst into life. I don’t remember if it ever bloomed, but in that moment, I understood something profound:

I, too, deserved the love of the earth.

From that day on, I filled the terrace with plants, guided by intuition and spontaneity. The facade of the building transformed, and photographs still capture the change.

When I later left for Saudi Arabia, I didn’t feel sorrow leaving that garden behind. I had learned that beauty can be offered freely, without the need to possess it.

For me, “listening to the earth” is not a technical skill. I am not an agronomist. It means observing what grows naturally, letting the plants speak, and reading the soil through the life it sustains. It means not controlling, not forcing the land to conform to our aesthetic desires. Every intervention comes at a cost — not only economic but ecological. Over time, the earth always returns to itself.

This is why I choose plants that belong, observe patiently, and then allow them to find their own path.

Along the way, I realized that my urge to control often came from fear. Wanting to force the process meant I had lost trust — in myself, in others, in the natural rhythm. Slowly, I learned to pause, to look inward, to be patient. Listening, truly listening, is a practice that requires courage, attention, and time. The journey is far from over.

I know that listening demands silence, presence, and stillness. By doing so, the world around us begins to shift.

For me, that shift began the day I resigned as a general manager. I asked myself: “What do you love to do when you don’t have to do anything?”

The answer was clear: to create with nature.

Landscape design became more than a new career — it became the place where scattered pieces of my identity finally came together: my love of nature, my passion for beauty, art, creativity, ethical values, a desire for deep well-being, and the capacity to understand and organize complex systems.

And so Terra Ascoltata was born: a way of experiencing gardens, and a way of experiencing myself.