ON THE OUTSKIRTS of a small village, in a deep valley surrounded by high mountains, there is a stone bridge that crosses the river. Next to this bridge lies a house with a Magical Garden.
Sometimes she would run all the way from home, through the fields and the woods, down the deep valley; and she would only slow to a walk when she crossed the stone bridge – because she knew she was coming to the garden, and she also knew she’d want to stop to look at it.
The Magical Garden changes with the seasons.
In the Winter, the shrubbery and grass became covered in the whitest of snow. The trees fell naked, and their bare branches clawed into the sky, scraping toward the sun, their arms snowcapped and dripping. Pink camellias blossomed and even the snow itself became enchanted by its own beauty and that of the shimmering garden. And if someone were to walk its grounds, in the coldest or warmest of winters, their footprints would magically refill, always leaving behind a fresh, glittering, milky sheet – even at times when snow wasn’t falling from the sky.
In the Spring, as the snow melts, the first wildflowers would bloom. Yellow and white daffodils would shoot up in one corner, purple crocus would pop up in another and the afore naked trees would blossom into great cherries, celebrating the birth of the new season. The grass would shine and as the rains fall, the earth soaked up the waters up thirstily. And it was also magic, not just to the eye, but also to the nose. As she walked in the path next to the garden, the gravel crunching under her feet, it would smell just like the lush, green rebirth of Spring.
In the Summer, the hedges would be trimmed, and the grasses cut. On the hottest day of the year, she would run to the garden, her clothes dripping with sweat, her skin bronzed from the sun, and she would pause to appraise the garden and its fresh grooming. She would find it in full pride, the sun beating down on it, the ants crawling and pollen sticking to her eyelashes as it flew by. She knew, she’d have to arrive on just the right day because the Magical Garden’s growth could not be kempt for long. If she came one day late – or one day early – she wouldn’t find it trimmed but brimming with all the animals and flowers summer brings: Beavers from the river, bears from the forests, goats from the hills, squirrels from the treetops – all would come to revel with the sunflowers, marigold, aster, and hibiscus that sprout from the grounds.
And in the Fall the first threads of Death would one corner, purple crocus would pop up in another and the afore naked trees would blossom into great cherries, celebrating the birth of the new season. The grass would shine and as the rains fall, the earth soaked up the waters up thirstily. And it was also magic, not just to the eye, but also to the nose. As she walked in the path next to the garden, the gravel crunching under her feet, it would smell just like the lush, green rebirth of Spring.
In the Summer, the hedges would be trimmed, and the grasses cut. On the hottest day of the year, she would run to the garden, her clothes dripping with sweat, her skin bronzed from the sun, and she would pause to appraise the garden and its fresh grooming. She would find it in full pride, the sun beating down on it, the ants crawling and pollen sticking to her eyelashes as it flew by. She knew, she’d have to arrive on just the right day because the Magical Garden’s growth could not be kempt for long. If she came one day late – or one day early – she wouldn’t find it trimmed but brimming with all the animals and flowers summer brings: Beavers from the river, bears from the forests, goats from the hills, squirrels from the treetops – all would come to revel with the sunflowers, marigold, aster, and hibiscus that sprout from the grounds.
And in the Fall the first threads of Death would show. The leaves fell from the skies in shades of brown, yellow, orange and gold. They fell and fell endlessly – even where there were no trees for them to fall from. The floor became muddy and gritty. Creepy crawlies and earthworms would surface from their depths and play their part in disintegration and renewal – of minerals and energy returning to the bowls of the soil; of life giving life to life. And then the colors would disappear to be replaced by gray clouds, and the cycle would begin anew.
One day, in the height of summer, as she slows from her run, she meets the Lady of the Garden sitting in a chair, and she calls to her:
“I love your garden. It is so beautiful. It is most magical, and it makes me so happy to visit.”
Smiling, the Lady replies: “Thank you. It also brings me a lot of joy.”
“I can see, you take great care of it,” she says to her as she sits in the chair, surrounded by the animals and flowers. “I love the way it changes with the seasons.”
Suddenly, right before their eyes – as if the Magical Garden had been listening in secret all the time, not just to their conversation, but to their very hearts and souls - it transforms. In a matter of seconds, it passes through its four seasons:
The animals flee, and the flowers die; leaves of all the colors fall from the sky; snow appears, as if conjured from thin air; the cherries blossom, the grasses sprout, green and fresh; and then, again, the sunflowers nod their heads, and it is the height of summer.
And so, as they express their love for the Magical Garden it expresses its love for them in turn.
THE END
Comments