photo credit: magnio

Sometimes, as a way of relaxing and letting go of the worries of the day, I listen to a guided imagery recording.  The faceless voice, accompanied by soothing music, encourages me to imagine a “special place” where I can relax and refresh my spirit. Here’s the story of my secret garden…

Legend has it that once upon a time, nestled up in the foothills at the end of a paved city road where it turned into a rough and potholed dirt track, past the abandoned kids’ camp and the rusting reservoir tank, there was a flower nursery. They say that bulbs planted by the nursery owner appear every year, row upon row of sweet blooming narcissus. And I’m here to tell you, it’s true, it’s true!

Someone else must have taken me there. One of the big kids, maybe. A fleeting memory tells me it was Robbie who was a couple years older than me and lived closer to this special place. I was probably about seven at the time which suggests to me-the-adult-Ellie that I didn’t go alone that first time. After all, what mother would, even in those naïve and innocent days of the early ‘50’s, let such a little girl wander alone into the foothill canyons? And anyway, someone told me the history of the place, at least I don’t think I made it up. But be assured, during my growing-up years, go-alone I often did.

Worth the Hike

It wasn’t easy to get to – a bit of a hike down through cool canyon floors strewn with boulders, gravel and rocks on a slippery, sandy bottom. Then up a steep wooded but worn path, dodging that dreaded curse of California underbrush, poison oak, to a plateau dotted with gnarly old California Oaks. And just beyond that grove of trees – a little meadow, smooth and mostly level, cleared of rocks, carpeted year round with low brush. Sometimes the undergrowth was green with delicate branches sprouting miniature mustard-yellow flowers and sometimes it was covered with dried, brown, stickery twigs.

Yet every spring, magically, after weeks of my watchful waiting, row upon row of narcissus would appear! Long lines of delicate greenery, dancing gently in the breeze with sweet smelling flowers – delicate yellow teacups perched upon dainty white saucers. Yes, truly! Out there in the middle of nowhere – or at least a good hike away from somewhere called home.

Waiting, Watching & Worrying

For weeks, whenever I could escape from school and chores, I would sneak away to this solitary secret garden I called mine… waiting, watching and worrying whether the miracle would happen again this time. But back then I didn’t really understand about growing seasons – how would a wee suburban California girl child know about winter, spring, summer and fall growing seasons??

So I wistfully waited and watched and whiled away my escape-time daydreaming of when I would be a grown-up who could do as she pleased. (Let me know when I get there, will you?)

Impatient but powerless, I willed the flowers to return. And while I waited I pretended that one very special old oak tree – it umbrelled a level area at the edge of the narcissus beds – was “my” house. I’d clear away the rocks and little twigs and acorns… piling acorns and smooth pebbles into mounds from which I would create lines that plotted the rooms and doorways and cupboards of this pretend home of mine. Sometimes I would climb my special tree to examine the order and rightness of my design, planning and making alterations as my whimsy prompted me. The number of rooms (and uses of each) varied – “this would be my room, here’s where we’d have company in for tea and cinnamon toast, here’s the kitchen…”  Funny, I don’t remember who the “we” were.

And Then the Waiting Would Be Over

And then, wonder of wonders, one day my faithful flower friends would once again peek out among the greenery.  I would gather great bunches from this magical field of narcissus that bloomed all by themselves, and decorate my oak tree home. And tote home armloads of sickly sweet blooms until my Mom would ban them to the back patio.

We moved away and I forgot my secret garden for many years. Once, in college, with my husband-to-be, I searched out that magical meadow. But I don’t remember finding it. Maybe it was the wrong season. Or maybe I lost my way. Maybe I just didn’t need it anymore.  Yet, even to this day it serves as a refuge for me.

Do you have a favorite way of relaxing and letting go of the worries of the day?  Tell us about it!