I Shouldn’t Have Started the Cult

To the residents of Maple Creek Estates,

First, I would like to apologize for the chanting.

I understand now that hearing forty-seven adults in identical linen robes humming rhythmically around the community garden at 2:00 a.m. may have created an atmosphere some residents described as “deeply concerning.”

In hindsight, candles were also probably unnecessary.

Especially the large ones.

But I do want to clarify something before rumors continue spreading online: it was never supposed to become a cult.

It was a gardening club.

A simple, wholesome gardening club designed to encourage community bonding and sustainable living.

That was the vision.

The matching robes, for example, were initially practical. Mosquitoes had become unbearable near the tomato beds, and loose linen provides surprisingly effective ventilation. The fact that everyone chose black-colored robes with hoods was simply because Carol found a discount wholesaler online.

At the time, nobody considered how it would look from a distance.

Particularly at night.

Or in fog.

Things only started becoming complicated after Gerald suggested we give the gardening club “a stronger sense of identity.”

Now, personally, I had imagined maybe a slogan.

Something tasteful like:

“Rooted in Community.”

Gerald, however, had once attended a corporate leadership seminar in Arizona and returned with dangerous levels of confidence. Within two meetings, he had introduced:

ceremonial greetings,

weekly “reflection circles,”

and a talking stick he claimed was “important for group energy.”

Again, none of this seemed alarming initially.

Middle-aged people become strange when they discover purpose.

At first, it honestly felt healthy.

People were excited.

Attendance improved.

Residents who previously ignored each other began spending hours together discussing compost and “spiritual soil alignment,” whatever that means.

The real turning point was the zucchini harvest.

I cannot overstate how emotionally unprepared this neighborhood was for agricultural success.

The zucchinis became enormous.

Aggressively enormous.

One weighed nearly twelve kilograms and required two people to transport safely.

Suddenly the club developed momentum.

People who had never contributed anything to the community before started speaking with unsettling authority about “the abundance.”

Meetings became more intense.

Longer.

Someone introduced drums.

And although I specifically remember saying:

“Let’s not make this weird,”

I admit my authority weakened considerably after everyone started calling me “The Planter.”

To be fair, I never chose that title.

Trevor started it ironically.

Unfortunately, irony has a short lifespan in groups of emotionally vulnerable adults wearing coordinated robes.

Soon people were arriving early to meetings just to ask me questions.

Not gardening questions, either.

Personal questions.

Questions like:

“Do you think the universe punishes people who microwave fish at work?”

Or:

“Should I leave my husband if he doesn’t respect root vegetables?”

I did my best.

I really did.

But there is no correct answer to a woman crying beside a cucumber trellis while demanding to know whether basil can sense negative energy.

You just say things.

That is how this started.

People also continue exaggerating the chanting.

The chants were harmless.

Mostly reminders.

Things like:

“Water deeply.”

“Trust the soil.”

“Mulch returns to mulch.”

Frankly, they were calming.

And yes, perhaps repeating them in low synchronized voices while circling a firepit created an unusual atmosphere, but context matters.

Everything sounds sinister when recorded on a neighbor’s security camera.

Now we arrive at the mayonnaise issue.

I want to be very careful here because legal matters are ongoing.

Officially, I had no knowledge of the mayonnaise storage operation happening beneath the clubhouse.

Unofficially, I did ask Gerald several times why there were industrial refrigeration units connected to the meditation shed.

His explanation—“the jars must rest before distribution”—was confusing but oddly convincing at the time.

The shortage itself was never intentional.

It started after Linda discovered that organic mayonnaise sold exceptionally well at local farmer’s markets if you described it as “ethically emulsified.”

Demand increased rapidly.

Soon members were producing mayonnaise full-time.

People quit jobs.

Marriages ended.

One man sold his boat to purchase free-range eggs in bulk.

Frankly, by then I was struggling to maintain control of the narrative.

Especially after the robes changed color.

The original cream robes had felt peaceful.

Approachable.

But black robes communicate something entirely different to outsiders.

Particularly when paired with staffs.

To this day, I maintain that the staffs were decorative.

The neighborhood council disagreed.

Tensions escalated further during what the media unfairly labeled “The Great Tomato Purge.”

In reality, nobody was purged.

Certain members were simply asked to leave after questioning Gerald’s moisture philosophy.

There is a difference.

Still, I admit things became difficult after Gerald announced that only “the truly rooted” should have access to the premium greenhouse.

People became competitive.

Suspicious.

Secretive.

One woman accused her own sister of “spiritual overwatering.”

Another buried crystals beneath the lettuce beds to “increase obedience.”

That should have been my sign to shut everything down.

Instead, I organized a retreat.

In my defense, morale was low.

The retreat was supposed to reconnect everyone with nature through silence and guided reflection.

Unfortunately, silence becomes unsettling when practiced by sixty adults standing motionless in identical black robes beside a lake at dawn.

Several kayakers reported us.

That was the first time police became involved.

I still remember the officer asking:

“Sir… are you in charge here?”

And I should have said no.

I should have laughed nervously and walked away.

Instead, exhausted and covered in beetroot stains, I said:

“Leadership is a complicated illusion.”

Which apparently sounded extremely guilty.

The tax fraud allegations came later.

Again, I want to emphasize that I personally never handled finances.

That responsibility belonged entirely to Cheryl, whose understanding of nonprofit accounting was apparently inspired by astrology podcasts.

According to investigators, she categorized several luxury purchases as “community enlightenment expenses.”

These included:

a hot tub,

three imported goats,

and something called a “ceremonial waterfall consultant.”

I still do not know what that last one means.

Nor do I want to.

By autumn, the gardening club had gained surprising political influence.

Candidates began attending meetings.

City council members requested endorsements.

At one point, we accidentally determined the outcome of a local election because Gerald instructed members to “vote for whoever respects the sacred rhythm of compost.”

To our collective horror, they did.

The mayor himself visited the garden shortly afterward.

That meeting went poorly.

To begin with, Gerald insisted the mayor remove his shoes before entering “the circle of fertility,” which already created tension.

Then Linda started crying during the tomato blessing.

Then the goats escaped.

And finally, for reasons nobody can fully explain, Trevor released biodegradable lanterns directly beneath the mayor’s campaign banner, which immediately caught fire.

The photographs looked catastrophic.

Especially the ones where everyone appears to be raising staffs toward the flames.

But moments can be misleading.

That is all I am saying.

Moments lack context.

By the time national media arrived, the situation had become impossible to explain rationally.

Every interview sounded terrible.

Particularly because Gerald refused to stop speaking in metaphors.

A reporter would ask:

“Are you operating a cult?”

And Gerald would respond:

“A seed does not understand the hand that buries it.”

Which, I admit, did not help.

Nor did the underground mayonnaise vault.

Or the chanting.

Or the ceremonial turnip festival.

Looking back now, I understand how things appeared.

I truly do.

But I think modern society is sometimes too quick to label any close-knit, robe-adjacent community as a cult.

People fear what they do not understand.

And yes, perhaps we became overly passionate about vegetables.

Perhaps there were moments when members referred to ordinary gardening schedules as “the sacred calendar.”

Perhaps the robes became dramatic.

But there was also kindness.

People felt seen.

Neighbors spoke to one another again.

Children learned how to grow strawberries.

Frankly, morale in Maple Creek Estates has never recovered since the authorities shut everything down.

The garden sits empty now.

Quiet.

No chanting.

No drums.

No ethically emulsified mayonnaise.

Sometimes I walk past the locked gates at night and feel deeply sad about how quickly communities can fall apart over misunderstandings.

Though admittedly, the giant carved statue of Gerald probably sent the wrong message.

Especially once the eyes started glowing.

So yes.

I am sorry.

I should not have started the cult.

But in my defense—

it really was an excellent zucchini season.