The Garden: An Anecdote

I went for a walk down a path not yet taken one afternoon in August. In time, I came upon a garden gate that curiosity couldn’t help but open. Once inside, I could see the garden rambled on for acres, dotted with fruit trees and long rolling spaces of rich green grass– the kind you’d lay upon to stare at the sky. In the center of the garden was a pond and on the edge of the pond, an old rotting dock jutted over the water.

Around the pond, flowers grew. Blue bearded Irises whose petals looked like fat blue feathers. Lilies the size of saucers in every color imaginable. Roses perched on the ends of thorny green stems. Flowers so lovely and strong and well-tended that one knew there must be a gardener. Indeed– he came sauntering from some hidden corner to greet me with a smile.

He led me to a mighty Oak that sat in the farthest corner. Without a question or a concern, he sat me down on the ground and began a conversation. From his pocket, he pulled a knife and soft piece of wood. As we talked, he whittled the wood into a child’s whistle. His hands were strong and sure– sinuous beauty on a delicate instrument. I watched them with fascination as we talked away the day.

Finally, he glanced at me and said without hesitation. “I will not pick you a fine bouquet.” I laughed and kissed his cheek (for he felt a familiar friend). “I have no need for your fine bouquets.” And I left him by his Oak.

The very next day, I took the same small path. When I arrived at the garden, the gate had been left open with a note that said, please come in. I walked across the grassy hill and down towards the pond. The fragrance of the flowers was heavy in the air. He met me by the lilies. He was tending the ground beneath. He said not a word, but shook the dirt from his hands and led me to the Oak.

We sat the same as the day before, gazing up at the summer sky. He spoke of the sky in such a way that I was arrested by his words. I listened to their sing-song chant and saw through his liturgy a whole new sky that I’d never seen before. It became not a sky but the blanket of God laid with celestial love over my own world.

Silence fell between us, and I rose to leave. He too stood over me and said with defiance, “I will not pick you a fine bouquet.” I winced a bit before smiling and brushed the back of his hand. “I have no need for your fine bouquets.”

On the third day, I came again to the garden gate. He waited there for me. We walked in comfortable quiet across the grassy hill, by the pond and through his flower garden. The scent of the flowers had grown stronger through the night. I couldn’t take in a breath that they hadn’t already claimed.

By the Oak we sat, my head on his shoulder. From his garden bag, he pulled out an old and faded book. He opened it and began to read. My heart broke in a dozen places. I asked him where he’d found the book. He brushed the hair from my face and said, “It’s just an old book of mine.” I touched the cover gently and said, “It is the same book I used to read every night when I was a child”.

The sky above turned dark as a summer storm began to roil. He stood abruptly, took his bag and turned to leave the Oak. He stopped for just a moment, tension in his bones. “I won’t pick you a fine bouquet.” I couldn’t help but close my eyes against the tears. “I have no need for your fine bouquet. I haven’t even a vase for flowers such as those.”

He stared. Then walked away.

On the fourth day, I came again to the garden. The gate swung open. The sky still grey. I could see across the stretch of land that he sat beneath the tree. I came to him and sat close enough to hear him breathe. He spoke not a word. At length he took my hand and stretched out my palm. He traced the lines on the inside of my hand with his fingers. Then he drew an invisible picture of his own.

I asked, What is it you’re drawing?

It’s you, he replied. When his gaze met mine, I saw myself in the reflection of his eyes.

The flowers suddenly sucked away all the air. The rainbow lilies and thorny roses and blue bearded iris possessed the whole of the garden. He stood and pulled me to my feet. He walked me back towards the gate.

“I cannot pick you a fine bouquet,” he said as if he were sorry.

A sadness so profound washed inside of me. I replied, “I have no need for your lilies or your roses or your irises. I haven’t a vase at all. I haven’t a desire for this smell on me.”

I glanced along the edges where the grasses were less trimmed. He had already begun to walk away. “But I would have loved one of the wild daisies that grow here along your fence. Why couldn’t you have thought to pick one to tuck behind my ear?”

I left the lovely garden. The gate swinging wide before coming to a close with a soft unquieted click.

***

I was advised recently to resist the urge to explain my music, my poetry and my metaphors. That the message of these is found most clearly in the receiver, not the giver. Excellent advice that I’ve come to mind more often. So I won’t explain this little parable in full… only to say that it’s a reflection on the ways we hurt each other in relationships. I have been both gardener and visitor at different times of my life. In this parable, both wound the other. We protect ourselves too fiercely from unseen threats… we assume too often that another knows what it is we need.

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