Garden of the Soul

Disclaimer: this is a deviation from my normal postings.  I'm going to delve into the world of creative fiction today.  Sometimes I get these stories and words that just clog my mind, I can hear the words and even if I close my eyes I can see words floating by.  Faster and faster so that before long all I can hear is this huge static noise in my head.  Then I can hardly function or sleep or work or even drive because of the distraction.  I've tried many different ways to get rid of this buzz or static or whatever you want to call it.  I try to get louder than it, turn my radio up, or try to drown it, or any other number of ways to deal with it.  But have finally realized that the only way to calm the noise is to start typing and unscramble all the flying words into something that hopefully makes some kind of sense.  Most of the time that helps, I can then throw away or delete it and I'm good to go.  But today, I have the urge to keep these words, once I get them in some sense of order.  Call me crazy or whatever, but it's my blog so here goes...

Once upon a time there was a young girl.  And from the time she was very young she was given her own special garden.  Nothing pleased her as much as skipping through her garden barefoot.  Feeling the soft, warm earth squish between her toes, stopping to pull up a wriggling earthworm, or just gently running her fingertips across the young, gentle leaves of the small sprouts.  This was a very special place, and for the most part the sun shined happily upon the girl and her garden.  Rain gentle watered it and both the garden and the girl flourished.  One day the girl learned to read and noticed signs at each row of plants.  The signs read, "trust", "love", "security", "hope", "peace", and "joy".  She didn't know what the words meant, but it didn't matter to her, nothing could change how much she loved the garden and the feeling that overcame her at seeing her precious plants grow beautiful and strong.  With delight she watched each new leaf unfurl and lift it's head to the warmth of the sun, or gently bow down as the rain drops slithered down it's stalk.  But one day she came running to her garden and to her dismay some rabbits had been nibbling on the leaves of the plants.  It had never occurred to her that anyone, or even any creature would harm the garden.  She pondered what to do and decided to build a fence.  It wasn't high or strong or even wide, but she thought it would define her space as hers.  And for a time, all was well in her garden.  But once again, something broke through and damaged the tender shoots.  This time she built the wall a little stronger, a little taller and a little wider.  In the fence she added a gate...with a lock.  Again, time passed and she continued to enjoy her garden.  Occasionally she would look around and feel sad that she had to build the wall, but she didn't know how else to protect the garden.  Naively she felt that with this new stronger wall and a locked gate no creature could enter.  And in a way she was right, no creature could enter her garden.  But one day a person kicked and fought and ripped the gate off of it's very hinges, the plants were ripped and the straight rows were scattered.  She was devastated.  It took a while to rebuild this time.  The roots were all intact though so the plants continued to grow.  However, the garden didn't give her the pleasure it once did.  Instead of joyfully running to her garden each afternoon she warily walked down the path, wondering if yet again it had been broken into and pieces of it left in shreds.  How could she so freely play in her garden, knowing in the back of her head, that it could be taken from her?  Each day she carefully latched and locked the gate behind her and for many years it seemed that all would finally be ok.  She gradually relaxed and one day she met a gardener.  He promised to help her care for her garden, to help water it, to keep the weeds and creatures out, to expand it and to walk side by side with her down the rows and rejoice together in the beauty of the garden.  He said all he needed in return was the key to the gate.  She held the key in her outstretched hand and very slowly, finger by finger, released the key until it dropped into the waiting hand of the gardener.  And while he seemed to work and enjoy her garden nearly as much as she did, she started noticing things.  Storms would happen more frequently.  The once gentle rain that helped the plants to grow became fierce storms where the rain pelted the leaves so hard sometimes they tore and the wind would rip through without mercy.  But after each storm the gardener would assure her that it was normal, that this is what the real world and real gardens were like.  He was the gardener after all, so gradually she came to believe him and accept this as a normal part of owning a garden.  But while she accepted this as normal, she still had an innate urge to protect the plants and in desperation she built a very strong, very tall wall around it.  Yet, the gardener still had the key.  This new wall didn't always help and she became desperate at times.  At night she would sneak into the garden and water it with her tears.  This seemed to help the wilting plants to a degree, but it never lasted.  She became more desperate.  Even angry.  And one day in her anger, she went to the garden and cut the leaves, kicked the dirt and shouted at the plants.  "Just go away, you once made me happy, but now you frustrate me."  But after the emotion faded she looked around with great sadness and regret at the damage done to the garden, by her own hands.  She wanted to cry and gently lift the plants back up, but she knew the tears didn't really work, and besides, she had none left.  But the roots were still intact, so the plants once again tried to sprout.  She realized that the garden would never be the place it was when she was young, when they were both young, the little barefoot girl and the soft, young sprouts.  When all was optimistic and full of joy and hope and only rainbows existed and storms never came.  No matter what happened, she knew that garden was part of her, and she could never leave it and somehow over the course of time, the roots of the plants in the garden were intricately tied into her very soul.  No matter what happened to the garden, the plants kept their roots and stood firm.  But the gardener was jealous of the garden.  And he secretly began spraying poison on the ground around the base of the plants.  This was done a little at a time, but each day he added more poison.  It wasn't noticeable at first, but the girl finally realized that the plants no longer lifted their heads in joy as they reached for the sun, they no longer were able to drink up the nourishment from the gentle rains.  And that the storms covered them in splatters of mud.  She was bewildered at this change.  For from the outside all seemed to be in order.  The sun still shined, though the clouds often blocked it.  The rains still fell, though more in the viciousness of a storm.  The wind still brought oxygen, though often roughly instead of a gentle breeze.  Still she was perplexed.  The plants continued to shrivel, turn brown and dry up.  This made the girl sad because she realized that now matter how strong a wall she could build, it wouldn't help her plants this time.  One day as she was walking to her garden, she walked slowly with her head hanging down and in doing so she noticed something off of the path.  She stepped from the well worn trail into the weeds growing along the edge and saw the edge of a container.  She feared she knew what it was, yet felt this strange compulsion to pull it out and hold it in her hands.  She grasped it and with a tug it flew upward.  It was what she had feared.  A huge container of poison.  She sucked in air, feeling like none of it was reaching her lungs and with lurching steps stumbled to her precious garden, flung the gate open and saw with gut wrenching heartache that the plants were dead.  What more did she have to live for?  The garden wasn't just her most precious thing...it WAS her.  She wandered up and down the rows, looking for any signs of life, and occasionally would give a start as she thought she saw green, but she would touch it, and it would fall off into her hands.  How could she just abandon the garden?  She knew she could never leave it, dead or not.  So each day she slowly put one foot in front of another and almost painfully took the path toward the garden.  But each day was the same, and she would fall against the great wall she had built, and slide down to the earth.  Now dry and crusty.  No longer soft, warm and welcoming.  At times she wished she could just lie down in the dirt and die like her precious plants, yet deep in her was still life, a heart beating, strong and steady.  By this time she no longer bothered locking the gate, who would even want a garden filled with dead plants?  Inside the walls was no longer a thing of great beauty, but of sadness and destruction.  She didn't know how long she continued to visit the garden each day, but one day there was someone else in the garden.  Sarcastically she asked him, "Having fun?  Do dead plants amuse you?"  He didn't run, just looked at her slowly and gently.  At last he spoke and said, "I am THE gardener."  "Humph!" she replied, "yeah, I know all about gardeners..."  He didn't say anything but instead knelt down into the dirt and reached a hand out to a dry, brown wilted stalk and slowly lifted it up.  She thought his behavior quite odd, but even more strange was that she noticed holes in his hands.  She didn't know what to say to him, but figured at this point, why bother caring what someone said or thought about her.  So boldly she asked, "How come you have holes in your hands?"  He didn't respond, look her way, or move at all.  Just continued to gently hold the stalk in his hand.  Extremely curious now, she took a step forward and squatted down to see what this odd person was doing.  In amazement she noticed that at the base of the stalk a green streak was growing.  How could this be?  The roots were dead, weren't they?  But the green was growing taller and wider.  She quickly blurted out, "How'd you do that?"  This time the stranger did turn toward her.  He held out his hands and said, "I am the GIVER of life, the keys to life and death are in my hands, and your garden I purchased with my life.  That is how I got these nail scars.  If you will allow me to be your gardener, besides I am the only TRUE gardener, I will bring your garden back to life."  She wanted to run and fling her arms around him, she wasn't sure what was stopping her, or why her feet felt like lead.  Finally she gave in to the desire and rushed toward him, watering his shirt and her plants with the tears she thought she no longer had.  She glanced around and the first green plant she saw was on the row marked "hope."  Yes, she thought, if my plant "hope" can grow, then surely the rest of the garden can also come back to life.  In that moment she gave her garden to Him, every dirty row, every wilted plant, even every storm beaten stone in the wall surrounding the garden.  For she knew, with Him all things are possible!