Our busy lives take us away to school and on errands, or to offices, where we stay all through long days. When at last we come home from school, or jobs, from long drives and band practice, vacation, the market, then we have other places to go, and things to do, and there is less time... less time to see that the pots and broken cups, and bits of string have shifted around, that flowers have popped up, and old, tired things have become something new, something enchanted. This is the place, in every good garden, where small wonders happen, and they beckon us to notice, to stop awhile and play.
Behind the birdhouse, I saw the cup I'd painted, a shell, a clay tea pot, more flowers, tiny meadows, a wooden fence, a foot path, a paved road through a small woodland. The trees were bare, with hints of new growth to come. The longer I stayed, the more appeared. I saw things that were dear, that brought back memories. I saw hints and glimpses of picnics, celebrations, fairy lights, cookouts, family reunions. I could see gardens tended, and cobwebs swept away. I recalled beach outings and long walks along the shore, collecting seashells, watching crabs, touching sea anemone. I imagined we could be in the redwoods, hiking a fern lined path over jutting roots, along a cold creek that bubbled and dashed to the sea. And off the path, a little ways, an opening where we could sit and watch mushrooms grow, hear tree frogs sing, and feel streams of sunlight falling between towering trees to cast shadows, and make the trillium bloom.