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MY HIDDEN GARDEN
This Spring I planted a garden in a little corner of the yard, hidden away from the world. Or at least I imagine it to be.
I planted herbs for cooking and for teas. Some just for the fragrance.
I scattered seeds that people have sent me. I guard the little seedlings as the lift their leaves toward the sun.
Planted along the side are a row of roses.
This little outdoor room of mine has given me a place to contemplate the mysteries of life. In the stillness of the evening, I can imaginewhat Heaven must be like...
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"My Grandma's Garden"
My grandmother was one of those old time Catholics, with her statues and crucifixes.
Her religion was ingrained into each moment of every day of her life. I cannot think of her
without thinking of her devotion to God.
As a child I spent many weekends at her house. It was a quiet and peaceful refuge for
me. She had a room filled with books that her nine children had read and left when they moved
away from home. But many of the books were hers. She had dozens of biographies of saints and
stories of miracles. Books were stacked upon books, and I read as many as I could.
She had as many stories of her own to tell. She would tell me amazing stories of miracles
she had seen in her own life. I felt as though it would be easy to become a saint at her house, listening to her stories, with the rooms overflowing with books, and Grandma's Garden.
In her back yard she had a garden, surrounded by trees that had grown so dense over the
years that in some places it was impossible to enter. Within the circle of trees was a border of
flowering plants. I remember the flaming red hibiscus bushes. At one end of the garden was a
statue of Mary, housed in a large stone grotto my aunts and uncles had built. The density of the
foliage eliminated much of the outside noise, giving the inner circle a strange, peaceful silence.
My cousins and I played hide and seek in the garden.
I remember hiding behind the statue of Mary, trying to conform myself to her concrete
shape. No one ever found me when I hid there. I thought of it as a holy place, where the rest of
the world disappeared for a time. I could imagine God walking in this garden in the cool of the
day. It seemed a likely place to encounter God, and indeed, I did.
In the summer I spent several weeks at a time at my Grandma's house. I spent several hours in the morning reading, then went into the garden to lie on the soft grass and watch the clouds go by. To me, it was a most special place and time.
The clouds tumbled and spun through the sky, and often I slept there on the grass, within the embrace of God. I dreamed of the saints I had read about, of their lives and how close they had been to God. Saint Francis and his animals gathered in the garden in my sleep, and I dreamed that I could speak to them. The saints and their shining halos departed, replaced by the sun in my eyes.
I am sure the garden is gone now, replaced by something more practical by the latest owners of the house, but it remains in my mind as real as before. In my own little garden, still in it's seedling stage, I hear faint echos of the silence I remember. In the silence, I dream and listen. Like so long ago, I imagine that Saint Francis and his animals gather in my garden, and I walk with God in the cool of the day.
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