Overstated statements about gardens

I had this thought today, which is simply an addendum to what I have been doing, throwing myself arms reaching forward into, for a long time now. There is a complete coming together, a sigh of “it’s okay” a breath of “oh, this is why” when we are outside. Every time we step outside and are truly “outside” for this reason of finding that breath of okey, we are splashed, even if for only a moment, with clarity.

“My garden is the most beautiful place on Earth,” i thought to myself this morning. Then shaking my head at myself, for having such an overstated thought. I walked to the kitchen and turned on the kettle, between making tea I stepped out of the door onto the veranda and breathed in the air that was fresh with rain, blowing towards me, away from me, between the trees. And I looked around at the wet ground, at the dripping flower pots and at this specific space of grey sky between the high tree branches of the oak tree a little way in front of the house. I looked at this spot of air and the leaves around it in one whole glance and an affirmation of “everything is fine” passed over me and with a breath resembling a sigh I returned to my tea. Later that day, after trips to the shopping mall and car rides with my mother and brother and between happy conversation with family I passed by the glass doors framing our back garden. And I paused, I had to pause, it made me pause, to see the grey on top of the red light falling behind all the wet green of my father’s garden. Greens cascading from trees to grass to bush and framing pond and bench and each other. I looked out the glass doors framing our garden and felt a beckoning to come and be whole, to feel as fresh and flowing and pure and free as everything outside of the house, and even felt a a tinge of it from the other side of the glass doors. And I thought to myself again “My garden is the most beautiful place on earth,” and this time didn’t shake my head; because a garden is the most beautiful place on earth. And then I walked back to the kitchen to make dinner and live the other part of life that I sometimes have to come out to the garden to from.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.