Rosy Dreams

The chilling nights still yield to sun-warmed days which beckon me to play amongst the still-prolific gardens -- this verdant playground that once stood barren, save the scrub of nature left from gold-fever days (which ended only 52 years ago in these parts).

Once, not so long ago, a man gazed across this cast-off land and spun a dream of planting an English cottage, family-sized, among the few remaining trees on the generous plot. He and wife raised two and moved on, making way for another hopeful couple to bring five along with dreams of a garden for the cottage. Little by little the newest dreamers cleared the neglected land, laid bare by overuse and vicious harvest. The peelings from their daily fare piled up, broke down, and fed the dream. Over time, seeds and seedlings, slips and roots gathered together in celebration of a garden home. Roots dug deep, lush growth fed fruit, and perfume spread the glory of the bloom as the dream unfurled. Success smiled with the first plump bud peeking from the flourishing fringe around the porch and grew to be acres in chorus of Eden’s memory. Just as the cottage builder hammered nail into board to commence the cottage dream, so the following couple forked seedling into bed and dreamed cottage-garden dreams.

More than eight years have passed since that family with the garden dream laid eyes upon the pretty cottage sitting upon the harvested land, pregnant with expectation for a lush dressing in its made-over moment. Where once these “rounded-up” acres lay still and silent, organic hospitality now invites birds and bees and creeping nature of all sorts. The hum and buzz of a summer’s day lends orchestration to the arias of the bathing birds. Life sings triumphant where once only dream appeared.

And so, as seed catalogs and garden offerings begin flooding the postal box, and fall’s cleaning necessitates the dusting and inevitable perusing of each garden book upon the shelf, inspiration calls out from many places, converging at the earthly easel of life’s mural and the dream grows. Like a magic carpet, the ideas carry the homespun gardener over the acres called home, finding joy among the wisteria-and-rose-laden dreams for tomorrow soaked in the joys of today wrought with yesterday’s hope and toil. As the gardener’s trowel touches each “new” garden she wonders whether this may be the final stroke; but then an overlooked spot of barren soil cries out, “Shall I be passed over?” Thus, the dream grows a bit further.

* * * * *

The teakettle whistles as she pauses, duster in hand. She blinks and returns to the present moment, smiling as she recalls Frost’s delicious words:

The woods are lovely, dark and cold,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost (1923)

“Ah, yes,” she sighs, “Miles to go before I sleep,” and spins a rosy dream of fresh promise.

* * * * *

Would you like to take a walk in my garden? Here's a path. Or here. Or here.