“We don’t know what we don’t know. And beyond our grasp, always, is the next, more secret space, hidden in plain sight. This more than anything, holds true for gardens. Perhaps its the tangible, sensible, tactile, and overtly sensual qualities of gardens, that give us permission to keep extravagant dreams alive, and forever restore them. But as with Don Quixote, such quests, or at least those worth remarking upon, must be shambled into, clueless. We’d hung three hand-made signs, utilizing Japanese Origami, flower-print paper, and a spare-few cryptic words, advertising our trowel-work; one near the check-cashing kiosk of a local supermarket; one at a nearly deserted cafe near the ferry access; one on an outdoor board, subject to the elements. We were disappointed, generally, when no one called. “Everyone has a gardener already,” I sighed. “Or they ask a neighbor who’s inspired garden-envy, for the name of their gardener”. We sat in the truck, chewing on sandwiches, staring out the windshield in front of us, as clouds began to thicken, and a warm, spring rain, plash noisily on the glass. I admit, I was still depressed about having lost track of my new Fiskars hard rake, along with the leaf rake, from Tractor Supply. I’ve no doubt, it was coloring my outlook. Fast forward, four weeks. Now, too many jobs, and too many clients, is the problem. “We have to get to Bill’s”, I said. “I don’t think his annuals are going to make it through this heat wave, without being watered in the next 24 hours”. “But we told Nick we’d get to his place tomorrow,” my associate said. “Right. And Rachel’s been so patient. I think I told her a month ago, we’d edge her border by the pond”. I picked a cheese twist out of the bag, and crunched down on it, drawing out and exaggerating the noise. We looked at each other, eyebrows raised, until one of us started to giggle. We labored under the hot sun, for much of the week, to fulfill the goals set before us. Fragments of the week’s conversations wafted thru a sweaty haze of exertion. “Are you the boss lady? ... all these roses have to go ... this area should look like a wild garden ... you’re working awfully late, aren’t you?”. Yes, we did work late, until the day cooled, and I stayed even later, long enough to feel the breeze riffling my skin, under my tee shirt, and the long shadows caress my mind, and a quiet, deepening reverie of night begin to sway me. The electric pinks & phosphorescent blues shimmering in less light, the pathways darkening beneath a distant view of a distant lake, grown ominously near. A wood poppy in a plastic pot sits by the stone wall, a dug present from my client, I won’t forget to take home with me. There are a few other things in pots. My life, perhaps, is in a pot. Shoveled up from below root level, to be stowed, & artificially contained, until a more robust location can be secured. The psyche roves, and rambles, and home is merely what comes between the arrow, and a lost target. I’m grateful to be the last one in the garden, tonight. My small pile of hand tools lie still, next to golden seal, and ghost fern; my half-shovel has moved towards the exit: a darkening isle leading into the trees. A bag of stakes, empty, collected, along with a tangle of twine, and titanium scissors. My pants are damp from the last cloudburst, the knees stiff with mud, and I’ve needed a belt, all day. Going to the truck means I’ll be able to stop pulling them up. This, I look forward to. Along with sitting on a cushion, while the blowsy spring trees flop above me, on the village road out of town.”
