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Friday, June 2, 2006 – 2:25 p.m.
The Secret Garden
Looking like the canvas of an artist from the sixties, the colors so brilliant, so vibrant, that even a man born blind would be able to at least see their glow; filled with the aroma of a million fragrant species of flowers and plants so strong, so aromatic that their smell could penetrate a wall of lead many feet thick; flowing with the sounds of all things natural and lacking the din of anything made by man; the lush, verdant surroundings of the hidden flower garden once again beckoned and lured Benita Noveen into its midst and gently guided her to the beautifully constructed and painstakingly hand-crafted iron and wood bench which sat precisely in the middle of this circular oasis. It was Benita’s hideaway, her small piece of tranquility on earth, her getaway from life and all things evil.
In this garden, flowers of every kind dwelt. There were beautiful roses in every shape and color, tulips of all varieties, daisies to make the head spin, daffodils and chrysanthemums to fill in the voids, blue-bells guarded by Indian paintbrush, rhododendrons with colors and smells beyond one’s wildest dreams and so many other varieties that a gardener would have to spend most of his day in constant chatter just to explain each and every one. The ground that surrounded the bench and the small, circular cobblestone walking area was almost invisible due to the abundance of plant-life that made up this garden delight. On one side lay a pond connected to the outside world by a small trickling stream that gurgled and flowed over the rocks lining the streambed. The pond itself was spring-fed, so it continually bubbled forth as small goldfish, frogs, and other tiny aquatic life darted hither and thither in the waters of this liquid pool. On the other side of this circular paradise sat a birdbath unlike any other. It was a birdbath possessing great beauty and intrigue. Hewn from solid rock, it had an overhang that protected the pool in which birds of all varieties could bathe. The rock itself was rugged and worn, yet had the capacity to welcome to itself creatures of a petite and delicate kind. It had a beauty all its own, one that was hard to explain, yet easy to see.
Benita loved sitting here in front of this unique birdbath watching these little creatures, these birds, flit here and there, chirping and chattering about whatever birds chirp and chatter about. To watch them land so lightly, so gently, so trustingly in the yawning mouth of the stone fountain was always a joy to her. She often wished she could be as free as they could, flying wherever they wished, whenever they wished for whatever reason they wished. They had no worries, no cares, no problems. If only she could be like them.
As far back as Benita could remember, her life seemed as if it had always been filled with disasters. She felt as if problems and worries had been her playmates when she was small, had followed her through school as her schoolmates, and now were her lifelong workmates. If nothing else, they were trustworthy companions, always there, always with her wherever she went. Because of that, Benita loved coming to this place. The pure tranquility of it all, the exquisite peace with which she was enwrapped, the harmony she felt with nature and herself in this garden of beauty always seemed to clear her mind and give her the strength to live another day. Today, Benita needed that feeling like never before.
As she rested quietly on the bench, taking in deep breaths of perfume-laden air, watching tiny creatures animate the scene while filling her eyes with the sheer beauty of all that God had made, Benita thought carefully about her life. It was too much to handle, too hard to take. She was just no good, she couldn’t do anything right, always screwed up everything she did, and never received any kind of compliment or pat on the back from those with whom she interacted. Interacted, yes, that was the right word for her relationship with others. She had no real friends, just acquaintances. She never really did anything with anyone. She didn’t go places, didn’t do things, and didn’t have fun like everyone else her age. She just interacted with people, going about the daily grind of life, living but not alive. She did what she had to to survive, nothing elaborate, nothing exciting, nothing out-of-the-ordinary. She bought groceries, paid her bills, went to work, ate to stay alive and slept. Outside of that, she lived in the same rut day in and day out. She was depressed, blue, downtrodden, maligned, crushed by the sea of humanity and the problems of life. Moreover, as if all that wasn’t enough, today she’d lost her job. She was a failure, again. The world would be better without her. That’s what sent her over the edge. That’s what drove her to want to die. That’s what pushed here to find solace and comfort in her hidden garden.
Without thinking, she had mindlessly carried herself here to squeeze whatever optimism in life there was left. She just wanted to be happy. So here she was, alone, sitting, watching, listening, jobless.
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