My elderly neighbor used to have a beautiful garden. He and his wife were there all the time. Everyone admired their garden. They were proud of it. It showed their hard work. The man died soon after I left home and the woman sold the house and moved back to the town in which she was born. The new owner doesn’t like gardening. He has grass that he mows over. The garden now has a different view.
My dad didn’t like gardening either. He did some of it, but didn’t put all his heart into it. And it showed. I picked up the pieces. Then I planted my own garden and I tended to its every need. I am still there, but many of my plants died in the last few years, many I gave away. In my parents’ garden my dad’s trees still stand, but what I used to have are long gone.
Now I enjoy the beauty of wildflowers. They grow freely, effortlessly in the fields that are home to bunnies and bees and butterflies. I used to wander around the field with my friend and collect bouquets there while my mother preferred gerberas and carnations.
A garden is more than the plants and flowers in it. It’s sweat and dirt and skin cut by the thorns of beautiful roses.
I walked into a garden a few days ago. It is magical. It is beautiful with a variety of plants. I could smell the roses and the jasmins, lean on the walls and take it all in. I am not familiar with all the plants in this one but I am with the concept.
We are born and we learn. We learn from our elders what was passed down to them. The expectations, the patterns.
This story is not about flowers. It’s not about words that are on the surface. It’s not about beauty. It’s about the meaning, that layer underneath. It’s about opening the gate and going for what we want. Many will live their lives and won’t think much of it. Live it like everybody else, accept the way, bowing to it, kneeling. And then there are those who remember, who are curious. Those who stand in the garden one day and stare into nothing because it dawns on them or at the sink in the kitchen, the water still running. Then walk and that doesn’t seem to make any sense to others. It makes perfect sense.
The book is well thought out, beautifully illustrated, structured, the pictures are otherworldly, the botanical descriptions and the opening observations are spot on and profound. It’s easy to digest, but deep. It’s worth taking in slowly and thinking about each part before moving onto the next. It’s a living-breathing metaphor in our hands and it’s the Gardener who breathes life into it.
Joe Nichols’s new book is available for purchase on ko-fi and Amazon.
I said "This story is not about flowers. It’s not about words that are on the surface. It’s not about beauty. It’s about the meaning,", but it's as beautifully written as it can be expected from a writer of this volumen. The story isn't personal only because of the story line and relationships described in it, but because it grabs something in the reader. Realization is planted into presentation. It seeks up on you and hits like smell of flowers can in the shop. It makes you think. Reevaluate. Garden and beauty? Yes, of course. Garden and truth? Haven't thought of it that way before. Read it. It left a profound impact on me. Who knows, maybe it will do the same for you, too. Buy it. It's pretty, too. Well done, @Joe Nichols. Links for purchase are in the bottom of the post.