Garden

I think of how green it was.

I was diminutive, inside the oceans of this subtractive colour, shades of blues and yellows ubiquitously. I could explore the whole vastness of it and never bore. I would lose myself to adventure and exploration I created for myself. In the jungle, the rain forest, my mind.

Borders of beautiful flowers, of course, but there were always rows; orderly and neat --a multitude of perfected queues, continually methodical and organized. Many, trailing along the floor of the plot; yet many more, towering above and beyond, like vines, climbers and creepers.

Yes, it was superfluous, but serene, peaceful and undisturbed. My grandmother’s garden was an oasis of green fern, emerald, olive and jade.

Only enhancing its precise beauty, was the intense and piercing use of violet, blue, yellow, orange, red and magenta – applied with Hydrangea, Delphinium, Digitalis (Foxglove), Cyclamen, Pelargonium, Chrysanthemum –Marigold, Rhododendron, Weigela, Salvia-patens, Cornus nuttallii-Dogwood and an assembly of sundry Rose. Meticulously placed, affectionately tended, dutifully cultivated.

The only employment, I’ve ever known my grandmother to do, besides caregiver and custodian, was operating her garden. It was her occupation; her trade was of gardener and giver. This obedient labour was rewarding for my grandmother and her dedication to its nurturing, remarkable.

A ‘green-thumb’ is not a genetically acquired characteristic. It’s a proficiency which can be developed and encouraged through edification and practice. I was not an illustrious contributor or student of my grandmother’s toil. Desirous of egocentric attention, I would ignore my obligatory exterior chores. I would display resentment at having to engage in its maintenance and preservation, though inwardly and silently, my admiration for its splendour was an accumulation of wonder and delight.

My grandmother would never come to know of the immeasurable instruction she donated to me and the joy which having my own Garden, gives me. It is my therapy and lingers as cathartic. I must only imagine that my grandmother believed the same. I express my gratitude for her indirect lessons, with slogging in my own garden, and sowing new life each spring and in her name, a section of what flourishes without any assistance from me, is known as “Trudes Land”.

I think of how green it is.