I was lying on my bed, sobbing. Who cares? What’s life worth anyway? I just can’t keep it up anymore. That was years ago. It is fifteen years since my escape from swirling on the merry-go-round of psychiatry and still, the ghosts of my past can haunt me but when they do, the emotional intensity just isn’t there.
My garden makes all the difference. It is mid-summer now and my early morning garden walk-about sets the tone for the day. Early this spring, I noticed two eyes peering at me from beneath the overhanging greenery of the pond. A little green frog with tiny red eye stripes had made its home in the watery muck. This was the time of year that I thoroughly clean the pond, a recycled kitchen sink, and fill it with crystal clear water. I like it that way and now I had a resident frog thriving in the muddy stale water. Who was I to evict it? I put off the spring cleaning. I watched the frog as it hopped around the garden and splashed back into its home. Each day, I trickled water into the pond and in the evenings, I listened to its calling. On sunny days watched as it warmed itself on the nearby greenery.
I worried whether I should clean the pond. If I didn’t, would the water be diseased and if I did, would it disturb the frog? Finally I compromised. I gently wiped away the worst of the dirt, leaving sufficient muck for the frog. During the cleaning, the frog watched from the rock plants. When I was finished, it splashed back to its home. I read that green frogs are shy, but this little one allowed me to work around the pond without jumping away or into the water. It even “posed” for a photo. We had formed a relationship.
After a morning’s hour in my sanctuary-garden of listening to the hummingbirds, savoring from the sweet scent of the honeysuckle, breathing the cool air in the shade of the Pacific crab apple tree, and now watching my little green friend, I am assured that all will be well during my day ahead. The garden is for sharing and that is good.