Out of nowhere, a robin landed on the concrete fountain. It took a drink, pivoted, and flew over my head towards the dogwood. Wings stirred the air just inches from my face. I felt the rush.
Birdwatching was an added bonus on my frequent trips to public gardens like this one. On lazy Sunday afternoons I would amble down moss-covered brick paths flanked by ancient boxwoods and towering magnolias. I was captivated by blankets of wild roses scrambling over weathered trellises and fragrant lilacs peeking through picket fences along the winding paths. While blissfully lost in contented thought, a bird would always appear to punctuate the scene. Spending time in any garden became the respite I sought more and more often. Gardens promised joy – and birds flew in to seal the deal.
I found myself traveling farther and farther for the experience. I had to. The sense of calm in these outdoor spaces was remarkable. It was a feeling I loved and needed, so traveling to find it was never an issue. Besides, there was no way I could recreate that level of serenity in my own back yard.
Or could I?
At the time, my yard consisted of a pitiful patch of sickly grass flanked by two haggard shrubs and an old crepe myrtle, their placement decided by a previous owner. I only passed through to take out the trash, but lately I wondered whether I really had to rely on the horticultural efforts of others. Surely, I could create a garden of my own, not as large, but just as amazing as those I visited!
My excitement drove me outside to assess the yard. My disgust drove me back. Wow, worse than I thought.
Resigned to the ugly truth, I trudged back out for another look. One shrub needed pruning and the other was actually dead. The jury was still out on the old crepe myrtle. And not a bird in sight. After accepting the status of my bleak little space, I did what any rational person would have done. I grabbed my car keys and left home. Hurriedly, I drove to the next public garden on my list and felt the familiar peace wash over me. Out of nowhere, a bluebird dropped from above to snag a beetle in the grass.
Before the next weekend, I mentally regrouped. Then, with renewed confidence in my ability to transform, I ran into the tiny yard and feverishly dug at the yellowing grass to scratch outlines of future flowerbeds into the dirt. Would that look good? Should the borders be straight? Maybe curved? Wait, birds would never come anyway. There’s no way to replicate a fine garden here.
Defeated, I grabbed my car keys and backed out of the driveway, list of public gardens in hand. Once seated on a bench overlooking a patch of blooming irises, I felt the familiar peace wash over me again. Harmony at last. Out of nowhere, a cardinal landed on a nearby branch.
Later, back at home, while pulling the trashcan across my dusty plot it dawned on me. I didn’t need to recreate a thing. No garden is wrong. They all change with seasons and years and mine didn’t have to compare. It had only to make me happy.
Determined now, I walked bravely back outside to tackle things anew. Shovel by shovel my vision would be revealed. I began work that evening and in spite of fleeting flashes of frustration, felt no urge to grab my car keys.
For days, I dug grass, said goodbye to the shrubs, and filled empty spots with fresh plants. The old crepe myrtle looked grand after a light pruning. I wrestled with hoses, tripped over trowels, and fell into holes I had only just dug. But I enjoyed getting every bruise. Paths appeared, and beds aligned. Jaunts to the local nursery were made, repeatedly, to purchase seeds, bulbs and vines. I even bought a concrete fountain as the final crowning centerpiece. I was done.
I thought fondly of my list of public gardens. I would still visit them, but that day I need not travel. Sitting on my new bench under my old crepe myrtle, I watched foxgloves sway, ivy creep, and water sparkle in the fountain. The little dogwood I planted would show off soon enough. Flowers, bees, and butterflies began to appear that before the transformation had absolutely no reason to be there. It had all come together.
Yet, I watched in vain for a bird.
My satisfaction with the little garden was amplified by the fact that I created it myself. As the garden grew, so would my delight in its metamorphosis. My elation was overwhelming as I listened to the trickling water and there, in that moment, I felt the familiar peace wash over me.
Out of nowhere, a robin landed on the concrete fountain. It took a drink, pivoted, and flew over my head towards the dogwood. Wings stirred the air just inches from my face. I felt the rush.
Stuart M. Perkins
Storyshucker 