Allusions of an autobiographical garden
Envision the dwelling place of your soul; is the landscape big or small, lush or barren, wild or tame? Is the temperature cold or warm, what time of day is it and how does the weather appear? What does it smell like? Does it have tall trees, trimmed bushes or wild tendrils? Is it inhabited by other creatures? How would it represent and reflect your being?
I envisage the garden of my soul to hold a lotus lake. It is encircled by weeping willows that have pendulous branches cascading and drifting on the water’s surface. A small waterfall cascades and streams into the lake, gently frothing and fueling the heart of the landscape. Everything is alive and blooming wildly- foxgloves, kingfishers, dragonflies, moths and deer inhabit the space; if it were sounds instead of sights, there would be an ensemble of windchimes echoing in the spirit of the night.
The garden embraces impermanence and adapts to seasonal cycles
My garden is ever-changing and it never repeats itself. The garden adapts to changing seasons as it endures torrid summers and frigid winter months. Some flora go dormant and prepare for a revival in the spring, while others such as camellia, beautyberry, sweetbox and hydrangea blossom in winter’s embrace. Another such plant is the Midwinter Fire dogwood, its poetic name alludes to the way it bears its flaming red stems in the cold. The changing seasons and adaptive garden tells me that everything is transitory, and the dormancy of some plants make space for the renewal and rebirth of others.
The garden assures me that I need to be patient while things are unfolding for me: Whatever I’m feeling will eventually pass. My heart will heal, my tears will dry, this season will change. There are no good or bad emotions, just easy and challenging ones to navigate- much like different seasons that the garden endures.
The garden does not fear chaos, instead it leans into Surrender
My garden does not fear stormy weather. Instead of crumbling under pressure, the garden reveals that sometimes, chaos can act as an activator for healing. Through turbulent winds and rumbling rainstorms, my garden acknowledges that storms have many benefits of rehoming animals and fertilising soil through lightning. I have often thought chaos and the loss of control to be a frightful thing, but the garden never arrives nor leaves, it was always there. It gently reminds me to rest and surrender, especially when I am at my lowest.
When I’m feeling lost, I remember that some trees lose their leaves every year, but they withstand the toughest seasons only to bloom and leaf again. To the garden, there are no good and bad elements, only a harmonious ecosystem that embraces interconnected yet opposing dualities- the water, stone, earth and winds. The garden welcomes fungi, compost and weeds just as it embraces bursting buds and butterflies.
I tend to the undergrowth just as I tend to the harvest
Japanese farmer and philosopher Masanobu Fukuoka advocates a "do-nothing" philosophy on growing systems. In this dwelling place, one’s body becomes like bare soil, that just is. In this "do-nothing" philosophy, notions of pause, stillness and gentle spaces between breath each allow for retreat and renewal. Just like the spaces between each inhalation and exhalation, this dwelling space welcomes all seasons, especially chaotic rains and frigid winters. In this sense, I learn that it is okay to face repressed sides of my being - the fearful, abandoned, rejected, resentful, lost parts of myself, the black sheep, the rebel, and the emotional parts of me that are all parts of this ecosystem.
The garden invites me to be acquainted with these dark sides of myself and to nurture the wildflowers and shrubs just as I tend to the harvest. Each time I step towards the undergrowth and the dark parts of the woodland, I step into a space of identity transformation, with the potential to reclaim a once separated part of myself.
My garden is my responsibility
For years I neglected nurturing myself, because I was so used to putting the needs of others first. I spent all my time ploughing and sowing in the gardens that belonged to other people, expanding my energy to care for others before I could care for myself. As I wander in the garden of another’s soul, I am reminded to appreciate and honour other beings without needing to change their landscapes. When I have nurtured close relationships with others, sometimes we make marks in each others’ lives by planting, pruning and purging aspects of ourselves together. At times I’ve sought refuge in gardens that were not safe, and other times I’ve overstayed in gardens where I am no longer welcome. I’ve learnt that it is not my job to tend to another person’s garden, but it is my role to nurture mine.
It is my role to make sure that I stop shrinking to fit spaces that I’ve outgrown and to honour parts of myself that grow to occupy new spaces. In retrospect, I had been preoccupied with creating a space that looked beautiful but was not necessarily liveable- I was engrossed with over-achieving, out-performing and out-doing myself. These days, instead of needing my garden to be a showpiece for others to see, I am preoccupied with making it a place that can be full of love and life.
The autobiographical garden can embrace change and thrive in harsh conditions when it is well-nurtured. It is all-embracing, ever-changing, ever-present and relentlessly regenerative. As the garden’s guardian, how attuned are you with this landscape, when was the last time you tended to it and are there parts that have yet to be explored?
