The garden is an important place for a man to reside. To sit down at the bench overlooking the pond dressed in lily and stones embroiled in moss. The garden is life, not a painting of life or an artificial reconstruction, it breaths. It doesn’t need your hands for it to flourish and grow, you need the garden to grow yourself. The standard work environment is dead, it has no smell, no life. Glass windows, forming a glass tower, with concrete floors and white walls housing an array of ego stimulated personas. The garden is where we should spend our precious time, reallocate your hours from spending time putting numbers into computers and taking numbers out of computers. A place in which the record of what you do is more important than what you do. My grandfather retired, then began to tend to his garden, my father will soon retire and also plans to tend to his garden in his later stages of life. The thoughts of leisure in the garden keep them motivated until the day they are eligible for a pension. They never thought of returning to the office or the mail room to work in a more relaxed theme and without pay. Does a man that works most of his life in the garden, then retire to cultivating new hobbies, never to be seen trimming back the hazel bush or planting runner beans in spring? No, he works in his garden until his final days.