In my mother’s garden are some of the most beautiful flowers you’ve seen. There are lush leafy greens and flowering plants in wildly vibrant colors. Hues you didn’t even know existed, exist there. The trees in her garden grow for her. For her. Not because it is what trees do, but because they are proud to be steadfast sentinels keeping watch over delicate seedlings, robust perennials and one amazing stone owl. My mother’s garden is her canvas. It is her ever-changing masterpiece. Her gardening gloves have seen joy and sadness and have touched the soil and shared in the earth’s secrets. Her hands and her gloves have welcomed new life in to the world, and softly said goodbye to one that left us too soon. A life that returns to us each year and reminds us that while they can’t be with us, they are always here. With each plant that she lovingly creates a home for, she plants a little piece of her beautiful heart along with it. She nurtures and calmly coaxes each tiny bud up and out in to the world. She knows the value of the sun and the beauty of the rain. A walk through my mother’s garden will ease your mind and calm your soul.
My mother’s garden is my home. Just like every flower that’s ever grown in her garden, she chose me. Her hands welcomed me, her arms cradled me and gently created a home for me. Her love is my air, my water and my sunlight. In my mother’s garden is where my spirit was nurtured, and calmly coaxed up and out in to the world. It is where I learned about death and rebirth. It is where I learned about the joy of family and that sometimes, the hardest work creates the most beautiful reward. My mother’s garden is where my dreams were allowed to flourish. It is where I learned about diversity and resiliency. My mother’s garden is where I go when I cannot go to my mother. When I think of my mother, I think of her garden. My home. I think of the beauty of that garden, and even more so, of the beauty of the gardener who created it.