I am worthy of creating a beautiful life filled with limitless abundance.

Allotments get handed over as nettles, rubble and somebody's abandoned shed. Five years later there are raspberry canes and a bench, and the person who did it will tell you it was mostly Sundays.

Nobody receives a beautiful life, and nobody qualifies for one. It gets made, out of the plot you were actually handed, at the pace a life allows, in the hours left over after everything else.

Worth doesn't arrive first, as a certificate. It shows up in the fact that you kept turning up for a plot nobody else wanted.