The Garden alone has a Language….


The garden alone has the language that speaks to the unhinged side of me when events become too chaotic, too hopeless and helpless to bear thinking of! Then the purple whisper of the Gynura comes to my soul, repairing the rubble in there. When it seems like the end of my world has finally caught up with me, sweeping away every vestige of hope or help, the garden begins to murmur of mini bits and pieces of magic strewn around that we could check out, since there was nothing else do be done with despair and dread having won!


Then the garden knows to glimmer inside unknown potholes of pain and penance when regret sizzles like a million Diwali crackers! Or when loss sucks up every bit of the bones inside one, so that it feels like death. Then you will find the dahlia (which you could never nurture like your neighbor next door) has decided to favour you with its arrival for the first time inside your silver pot on the terrace where it shines in total abandon, leaving you speechless.


Speechless silver and plentiful pink is the curtain the garden has created for just such a doleful day – when a friend has cheated on you, gossiped meanly, or the office cancer cell has infected you horridly. Or the cat you are trying to feed fresh fish, has decided for some reason to look and glower like Donald Trump or your very own Prime Minister who has drowned the country in money messes, so that you want to kill them both!


Then the garden sneaks into the disarray and minds all malignant matters with the glistening of a silver and pink lining, filled with cuttings, composted soil, fresh and coffee colored, repotting and watering, and just resting inside the self, and the very heart of silence where no one and nothing can get you, except a magical tenderness!


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