Wednesday, May 19, 2010
My Lovely Lovely Garden
I am an ardent gardener. I had to look up "ardent" in order to create that last sentience, but my puny vocabulary does not diminish my love for all things ...garden-ish.
My neighbor has a huge perennial bed with a bridge, dry stream beds and a pond. Looking at it today, there is not a tacky fiberglass flamingo or plastic flower windmill on the lot - which reminds me that I've gotta remove the three gnomes I put by the...I mean..., Gnomes? What gnomes?
My friend told me that he almost gave up on his lovely garden space last spring. I told him he was crazy. Of course I tell him this at least once a month because he is truly a loon, so calling him crazy has lost a lot of its initial impact. This time, however, I meant it more than usual.
He told me that some blue haired lady had stopped by to look at his garden and was there for 15 minutes walking and looking around. He greeted her, as any loony neighbor should, and the first thing out of her mouth was “I see weeds, so your no better a gardener than I am.”
He was so discouraged that he almost mowed over the whole thing and laid sod.
I am awfully glad he didn't. What he has created in his front yard is beautiful and unique if imperfect. It brings joy to the neighborhood. It nourishes souls, it brings people together. It smells good. I myself sometimes hide there for hours while my kids look for me.
How sad for all of us to loose such a wonderful space because my wacko neighbor dude was overtly discouraged that some hag...sweet old and well-coiffed lady, found fault.
There is a way to keep people from finding fault with what you create or plant or communicate.
Don't create or plant or communicate. In fact don't go any where, don't do anything, don't rock the boat. Don't even get in a boat. No boats or flower gardens or blogs or books or calling attention to ones self in any way.
Sounds beige to me. Sounds like there are going to be a whole lot of imperfect people hiding under very crowded bushel.
I cant imagine living a life with no skeletons in closets or coloreds in my past, or without having been around the world-weary block. There is enough pressure without expecting to learn without experience, make bricks without straw, or keeping your pretty perennials perky and perfect.
My friend still has his garden. I leave him little messages that tell him that he is, in my book, more than okay with me. I do this to let him know that I love both him and his garden - faults and all.
I tie these little notes to his weeds.