The Garden

Once upon a time there was a gardener. This was a person who had some extra land, plenty of time, and an interest in nurturing growth. The land wasn't perfect of course, but it had streams of water, plenty of soil, varying conditions of shade and sunlight, and lovely views, some intimate and protecting, others expansive and awesome.

Instead of sitting down and planning out a rigid pattern for the garden, complete with yearly and seasonal routines for planting, pruning, watering, weeding, and so on, the gardener took in sick and orphaned plants and nursed them back to health, enjoying the variety and challenges and surprises which this approach afforded. Some people might have hated such a garden, with its unexpected arrivals, unknown times for sprouting and blossoming. But this gardener loved the unexpected, knew that watching and waiting and patience would be rewarded, enjoyed each phase of growth, appreciated the bare branches of winter, the buds of spring, the falling leaves, the pattern of the branches on snow, the rustling leaves and shifting paths of sunlight on a summer day.

Of course the gardener had a great deal to do, figuring out exactly what growing conditions each plant needed, especially as many arrived so stunted and sick that it was impossible to tell what they were or might become in time. Sometimes it was best to leave a plant in its own pot for some time, moving it here and there to find out how much sunlight or water it needed, how much room it might require once it got to spreading outward or upward. Sometimes it was best to plant it right away, relying on instinct or past experience, because the roots could not take being confined or the plant could not tolerate much change.

Some plants were so used to being in a planned garden, that it took them some time to understand this gardener's method. They continued to follow previous plans from other gardens, assuming that those plans operated in this one too, trying to bloom on schedule, worrying when not in bloom, as if that was all they existed for. Some worried about their roots, trying to confine them to the size of the previous pot or wanting to dust them off and keep them out of the dirt. Some worried about stems or branches, expecting them to stay the same and not to change. Some drooped and wilted in the remembered heat or drought of other gardens, refusing to give in to new conditions, not taking any chances, fearful of growth, expecting to be uprooted any day.

It was with these delicate and difficult plants that the gardener took the most trouble. They required a lot more patience and trust in the gardener's skills. They took longer to grow. They might not bloom for years and years. But since the gardener wasn't preoccupied with blooms, but rather with plants, that didn't bother the gardener at all, though it bothered the plants a great deal, especially those plants who had only been prized for their blooms before.

How sad, thought the gardener. Blossoms come only once a year, sometimes only every few years. Roots need soil and mud. Leaves look lovely in rain. Each sprout is beautiful, whether springing from the soil or on a branch. Each shade of green is special. The play of sunlight and shadow gives unexpected excitement to the familiar. How sad to place standards of beauty by decree, to prize only a blossom, to judge a plant for its shape or size, for whether it bends or stays straight, to grow it only for its fruit or for lumber or for its shade.

And some of the plants took this sadness as disappointment, as not growing according to plan. They redoubled their efforts to recall another garden, as if their whole reason for being were to grace a garden and please a gardener. They missed the point entirely. They forgot to be themselves.

6/25/92