Our gardens are incredible self expressions. Brush strokes with ever-changing paint on participant canvases. The resultant masterpieces evoke increasing satisfaction both in the artist and the viewer when they are least diluted by fashion, convention, the neighbours. When they are uniquely us.
Can we dare to be outrageous in our gardens? Not so much an outlandish display but more an example of having taken the risk and having pleased ourselves?
It is a challenge, because taking a step or two into the consideration of such an adventure soon brings awareness of just what distance we are from our true selves. How much we have compromised. And this is unpleasant. And, oh, how we avoid such feelings.
This is where the guardian angel (garden spirit, in this case!) gives a nudge and a hug and encourages an amble through the distress. We risk it, feel it, and shoot out of the darkness with the most enormous relief, the realization that the fear of the feeling was far, far worse than allowing ourselves to experience the ‘what will people say’ angst. Most importantly, the fear of what our inner voice will say. A liberated soul exclaims, “Well, finally. Aren’t we just fine!”
Some f’r’instances from my journey…
(And I cast a wry look at self as I wonder why past successes have not yet resulted in a totally confident knowing, why I continue to have to question and challenge and conquer – oh, shucks.)
Years ago we built a summerhouse (this is not the royal “we” – I was a twosome, then) and, after some thoughtful, feelingful consideration, we faced it, not frontward, but backward, and the sides were of slats arranged so the spaces were rectangles, not squares. Great consternation amongst all who initially saw it.
After answering so many “why..’s” it became simpler to invite the questioners into the summerhouse, ensconce them cozily in one of the tub chairs, leave them alone for a time.
They came out nodding. They understood our vision. The trees and bushes that peered in at them through the doorway gave a solace greater than the facing-the-world-of-humans could have. And that carefully patterned lattice slid in sun and light and warmth and breeze in the magic five to eight ratio.
In retrospect I think that summerhouse was a grown-up version of my very first, very own house: the heart of a lilac grove.
My palette continues significant. The meadow instead of a lawn. Interestingly shaped (broken, to some, perhaps – it is all in the perspective) pieces of mirror in the flower beds, on the fence; giant marbles (snooker balls) around the base of the hebes; a genuine pulpit for the sermons in trees; sculptures made of the least material (a shovel, three pairs of boots- pop’s, mom’s and kid’s – and a pair of gloves); three pieces of curved re-bar for an instant arbor frame.
If I can find and transport river stones large enough I’ll do some imposing rock characters. And reconstruct the tete-a-tete with a more pleasing proportioned curve.
Waiting in line for a church sale to open its doors yesterday (and some of my best ‘finds’ occur before the sale begins, as in this case), I was thought-provoked by the happy astonishment of two ladies talking about their gardens who discovered that they both felt that the plan of plants was already in effect when they bought their houses, perhaps had already occurred with some previous owner, and that they were just fulfilling that meant-to-be. Since both gardens they were discussing were now more than thirty years old they felt that time had affirmed this belief with such an appropriate outcome. “Plants and trees and bushes just kept appearing from friends or sales or chance and I just kept planting them and, now, the overall effect is perfect.” is how one expressed it.
When we open to what suits us the ‘details’ flow in. And the garden spirit smiles.
Karen Skowron touches the earth and blesses the sky from her cottage in Fernwood, Victoria. BC