There is a garden. It’s my secret garden. Tucked away in the secret streets of a quant old neighborhood. It is secret because it is hidden in the shadows of two other very famous parks. One known for its absolutely infamous view, and the other for its sunsets. This little gem is often driven past without a glimmer of attention. Enveloped in trees, bushes, and hedges, it keeps it’s goodness in, only sharing it with those who have taken the moment to stop, and see past the green colors that plague the scenery.
I stumbled upon this garden years ago, and have taken it on as my own. Whenever I discover others there, I feel as though they are infringing on my secret space. I would eat lunch there, read books there, cry there, and dream there. It was my place to be me; to be enough. My heart was exposed there, and so often deeply tended to, just as that garden has been and continues to be tended to. The trees were a covering, the benches a comforting support, and the flowers, a gentle touch of joy and hope.
This garden is perfectly imperfect. It’s got mud, and dirt paths, that hold puddles when it rains as it so often does. It’s lop-sided in shape, and the layout sort of doesn’t really make sense. Zero symmetry, yet it feels absolutely flawless. Space to run and be free. Tress full of emotion, covering and comfort. Secret paths unseen to the eye with benches to rest on. Colors that bode of life when pain and suffering feel so inevitable.
I miss my garden. Some day I will return.
This is a view from under my favorite tree in the park.
