The Secret Garden

Spring is on my mind, which reminds me to wonder about that secret garden across the street from this house. It's not really a secret garden, but it always looks forgotten. Like it's lost in the landscape of the decaying urban jewels that surround it.

It's actually a community garden at the corner of McMicken and McMillan that I've been walking and driving by for years. It has these cement pillars at the gate that have mosaics on them, made by neighborhood children that have long grown up and had children of their own.

The garden is surrounded by a high, black, wrought iron fence. There is always chaos, unruly inhabitants, growing through and around the gate. I've never seen the gate open, nor have I ever seen anyone go in or come out of it. You would almost get the impression that the garden had been abandoned long ago.

But every year, without fail, when spring finally rolls around, the straining crowd stages a revolution of its own. Everything blooms in the most glorious colors as far as my eyes can see from the locked gate.

Every year, I feel relieved that someone still cares for that secret garden. This year, I realized that it doesn't matter if someone cares for it or not.

That garden, all urban and tenacious, will always take care of itself, as long as it has some dirt to grow on. That garden is self sustained and propelled by it's own will to survive. This spring it will bloom, in all of it's unruly glory, just like it has every other spring before.

So there you have it. A nice spring metaphor for you.