She'd kept up, and grown high and tall,
And thought she'd reached the pinnacle,
But looked across the land and wept:
Why was she here? What use was there?
A blade of grass, so meek so strong,
A stranger with no airs at all,
Stood steadfast by and took the breeze
And gave a friend the gift of peace.
Almost a quarter of a century ago, I was privileged to move to a small island that had the early makings of a garden. More than thirty years before, an old man for whom this place was therapy for depression had planted some flowers that tolerated the rocky, dry soil. After over twenty years of tending this garden with the help of pollinating insects, I have watched it become a small paradise that in June-July defies the wildest imagination.
In between the heavier poetry and prose in this blog, this is the story of a garden in spontaneous unedited images and butterfly words. It's all play, but that is survival in the most challenging of times. Through play we experience perspectives that change us and our relationships to the world around us. In a garden there is rhythm but also the promise of a new way.