Welcome To My Broken-Down Garden

Welcome to My Broken-down Garden

Welcome to my broken-down garden.  An herb garden is marked by a bent piece of rebar that was cast away.  A folding table that no longer unfolds provides a step between the baby spinach and the young Romaine lettuce.  Tomato plants find support in wooden chairs with no seats.  The slats from the chair-seats tangle with fallen-down tree branches to form the outer perimeter of a kitchen garden. 

In the center of the kitchen garden, the glass globe from a birdfeeder and a metal mushroom are transformed into a gazing ball.  A bird trapped itself inside the birdfeeder two days after I had hung it one winter.  I rescued the bird -- safe but scared -- and took down the feeder.  Now the copper top and bottom form shelves to a better-designed feeder that hangs from a branch of a distant tree.

Rosemary grows tall and mint grows wild around bits of shattered birdhouses in the broken-down garden.  The footrest from an Adirondack chair provides a bridge of shade for tender strawberry plants. Mismatched planters contain the beginnings of parsley, coriander, basil and sage.

On the outer edge of the of the kitchen garden, marigold and coreopsis reflect the sun’s light and sweeten the air, while Mexican heather and Gerbera daisies try, without success, to tone down the more garish hues.  A rusty sundial settles into a secure corner, away from the blades of the lawnmower and the distracting shadows of tall trees.  A glass balloon rises from a rod and chimes with every breeze or gust of wind, its blue  iridescent glass doubling the function of the gazing ball.

There is always part of the garden where nothing grows.  Even the weeds will visit, but soon pack up their roots and move on to more welcoming soils.  And here, in this space of nothingness, is where I inevitably want to plant.  I cannot accept that the land in front of the riotous azaleas and before the forlorn stone bench should remain empty, barren.

And so, this year, I cut off and uproot a section of the potted lavender that has flourished despite, and not because of, my ministrations.  I take the scrawny sprig and two discounted bulbs, a bag of potting soil and an old trowel, and try to break the curse of the fallow land.

The lavender I plant first, halfway between the curved stone bench and the peacock, because I somehow know that peacocks, even brightly painted metal ones, love lavender.  I dig holes, one on either side of the lavender, and settle the bulbs into their new and, I hope, not inhospitable homes. 

For a moment, I admire the green life seemingly sprouting from where death once multiplied.  Then I turn the metal peacock to face the lavender as if to say, “See? I know how you have suffered.”  Even then, I know I may be planting more disappointment.  But I also know, perhaps more than most, that sometimes something wonderful can grow from brokenness, and emptiness and barrenness.  And there is always room for hope in my broken-down garden