I have been observed, on one or two occasions, sitting on a mound of inky compost in my own sentient garden, whispering sweet nothings to my peonies and gentle enticements to the wallflowers. I know why I do this and so do they. A handmade poem, a bit of encouragement, or the telling of a titillating secret all contribute to our co-creative effort. Esthetic encouragement to their growth. A bit of practice for me.
I begin humming a soft lament from Les Mis - a spontaneous act that begins the dance of nature. Black as night, my kitty Sirius alights in the corner of my eye. Just there, he stalks me from between the razor blades of emerging crocosmia. Honeybees swirl about my sunburned shoulders and promise their allegiance. Sirius keeps them on their toes. The rare afternoon heat radiates the scent of lavender, rich earth and… a burning cigarette.
It is my neighbor Don. Just short of a century in age, he joins the growing cacophony and chides me with a lame joke. He points out the need for more judicious pruning. My garden, it seems, has entered middle age. Woody stalks produce fewer flowers, less robust flora. Here and there it seems I have allowed starry-eyed wildflowers to wend their fanciful ways among the disciplined hellebores. I am an easy touch, he says.
For many seasons he brought me the perfect cuttings, confessed his love for a long forgotten bartendress, regaled me with stories from a grander era of engineering. His bony hands gently shook as he paid respect to my late tomcat buried beneath the too blue forget-me-nots. His stooped frame throwing exaggerated shadows while his stories took their places among the contented foliage. Here in my imperfect utopia, my little bit of heaven – time stood still for him.
But there are predators in every garden. They have come and gathered him up like so many weeds … disenchanted by one who no longer produces flowers, but instead, requires staking and special care. Out with the old and in with the new. Such is the vanity of the human garden.
I watch as they roll him away. My tears are quiet so as not to disturb the emerging daphne. I keep them well hidden beneath the shade of my straw brim, careful not to let them to dry too soon. My garden needed him, and he it. Lest this relationship be misunderstood, there is a secret to the well-integrated garden. A sense of unity, homage to the passing of time – a reminder that we all require a bit of sacred ground.
Clouds advance and before I can collect my tools, my hair is soaked. I run for cover as the rain drenches the fragile new starts. Heavy drops of glitter settle upon their tender green leaves. But they are young and agile, and I know they’ll be just fine. It is in this moment that I struggle to find hope. And it is there, just where it should be… in my garden filled with the sweet scent of summer night rain on roses.
;)
;)
Jennifer,
Elderly friends make a habit of leaving us. But, the loss is nothing compared to the experience and unique life stories they share with us.
All our best.
Bill & Brenda