[Garden Memories: XXIX]
While I was in middle school my family experienced quite a disturbance on our small five acre property. A welcomed disturbance, but still a destabilizing shakeup. We renovated our entire house while we lived in it.
We included a detached garage in that renovation. And as part of the garage—a humble 8x8 square in the southwest corner—we finished out an office space for my dad. Finally, after decades of sharing space with a bunch of rambunctious sons, Dad had a private domain, furnished with the bare necessities: a metal file cabinet, an old oak desk, a stuffed pheasant on the wall, and peace and quiet.
To the right of Dad’s door, just under the singular window, was a raised garden bed. For vegetables, herbs, flowers, or otherwise, I don't know. No one will ever know. To this day that bed serves no purpose other than to hold a half cubic yard of soil. And weeds.
Dad finally got his oasis but didn’t put the finishing touches on it. He finally had peace and quiet but left the entryway incomplete. There’s always that one final project we never get to on the house, that scratch we never buff out on our car, that bare spot in the yard we never cover with grass.
It’s as if our subconscious refuses to allow us to pretend that we’ve finally arrived. If the exterior of our lives was totally polished, we might actually start believing it. Truth is, all our lives are undergoing renovation; all our gardens have an empty bed with weeds.
And it’s okay.
