And then, is back to my little Paradise. I love coming back home; coming back to my enchanted garden and to everything I love and cherish.
Last Saturday in the garden, magic took hold of me...
The sky was bathed in sapphires blue and the garden of scents, and the border on the North side against the bedroom window of roses; perfect dark pink roses and snapdragons at their feet swaying in the breezes in a most splendid arrangement of colors; each of them lovely and perfect, and all day, and every hour of every minute I rejoiced in what I saw and what surrounded me; in total perfection.
And then in the house…
From May through the end of August my big square table is a happy big square table. Why, it gets to be embellished by flowers from the garden that’s why!
Roses; particularly roses…
I’m always on the hunt for beautiful flower vases and have collected a few... always finding real treasures and most perfect vases at thrift stores; and always wondering in amazement what makes people give away such treasures. It makes me feel sad in a way to think about these things... think about how these precious vases I collect today had once belonged to some caring soul out there whom, perhaps many moons ago, took her time to enjoy them and filled them up with precious posies from precious gardens so cared and loved by them. Did they ever thought that one day some unknown person whom they'd never get to meet nor ever thought of, would be doing the same?—cherishing that same precious vase they then hold so dear to their heart, filling them up with precious flowers from some other precious gardens? We'll never know who we work for, do we? It's almost like being lost inside of someone else's life.
Like everything if life; we build, we give shape to things and amend hearts and nourish souls; we construct, we make beautiful things with our hands and bestow magic with our thoughts and desires, we create and donate our time without ever knowing who will be enjoying that what we own and so enjoy today, 20+ years later. How you ever thought about these things? I do... all the time.
Who will be enjoying this garden I have created here with such love and faith and tenderness, twenty- thirty years from now? What little girl, born or yet to be born will be cutting my roses and flowers, just as I’m doing today? And who will be worshiping the Creator of all things where I pray every day—under the purple leaves of the smoke bush, under the same brilliant blue sky; among lilies and roses planted and cared of by me?
It’s a scary thought. But that’s how it is with everything under the sun. The end of all is just but a memory in the memory of those who loved us, until finally that memory is no more—vanished we are from the memory of the earth. I take comfort in the thought that we may be forgotten; our name might not be remembered by a living soul; yet, God never forgets. We’re safe in His memory. "Faith consists in believing when it is beyond the power of reason to believe.” Voltaire
