The lesson of lilies and lilacs

     As a child, I squatted in the grass in amazement as evening primroses opened before my wide eyes, revealing their beauty only once the harsh sun had set. I played kickball and tag on the rolling expanses of lawn, imagined stories of pirates and adventurers with toys boats on the pond, and built empires in the sandbox. I hid in the open arms of the maple tree and sneaked raspberries before my mom could pick them.
     As I grew older, the garden worked itself into all aspects of my life. It taught me hard work and joy.  When I wanted to be a writer, I wrote prose and poetry about the miniature world full of tulips, evergreens, bees, and wind chimes. When I wanted to be a photographer, I took countless pictures of the carved stone and wood figures, the roses, the thorns, the silhouettes of the trees, the pond, in every stage of life - in beauty and in starkness. When I wanted to paint, I painted the luscious red lilies and the enchanting ochre sunflowers half melting into the shadows, half dappled by the sunlight. When I wanted to perform, I contact juggled and spun poi and danced on the grass, among birds singing and daffodils busily blooming.
     The garden nourished my body as well as my soul. What little bit of sun touched my skin, did it in the garden. I made jam from the fruits of the garden. I ate cherries and mulberries from the boughs of the trees. I partied there, posed for prom pictures there, relaxed and rejuvenated all in the comfort and mystery of the garden. More sacred than a stone and mortar chapel, closer to the divine in its daily living and breathing and growing than silent statues, the garden is a touchstone in my spiritual journey.  This is a journey that may have no destination, but the garden teaches me that it is still worthwhile to grow and bloom and revel in the sunlight day after day, and that perhaps it is exactly that day to day act of living that is the purpose.