“It was the lock of the door which had been closed ten years…She put the key in and turned it…she held back the swinging curtain of ivy and pushed back the door which opened slowly…She was standing inside The Secret Garden” - The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett
We all simply love a good story! Whether told by a grandmother, nestled between the pages of an old book or perhaps sweeping over the big screen at a movie theatre. Whichever way it’s told, there is nothing quite as magical as witnessing a great story.
One of my favourite childhood stories is The Secret Garden. I clearly remember my dad reading it to me and how he would lower his voice into a whisper at certain parts - like when Mary pushes aside the ivy and enters into the enchanting beauty of this hidden garden. The story goes on to tell of how Mary begins to restore the neglected garden, untangling the matted climbing roses and painstakingly digging out the weeds that choke the daffodils and tiny dewdrops.
As she starts to work, so the magic of the garden and the story begin to unfold. We get caught up in the poignant process of new creepers blossoming and old ones being cut back, leaving us silently contemplative. And so, the narrative does what every really good narrative should do - it moves us to think and reflect on our own story…
This past weekend I’ve spent some time tending my own garden. I love gardening, but much like The Secret Garden upon its discovery, my garden is sadly neglected. In some parts the overgrowth runs wild and in others (where the Cape Town drought has taken its toll), it is sparse and left longing for sustenance. Tugging at strangling weeds, I can’t help but think that my inner garden must often look much the same as my garden outside. It’s neglected in some parts and overgrown in others.
Caught up in the myriad of obligations around me, my life quickly becomes overcrowded and messy. I think as women particularly, we all find ourselves pulled and entangled in so many different directions, tending and nurturing everything and everyone else around us that we seldom find the time and the discipline to nurture ourselves.
Clearing the small patch where last season’s vegetables had grown, my nails now caked in dirt, I begin to carefully place new seedlings into the soil and think how the chaos of my outer story often determines my inner one. Yet I know full well that it should be the other way around. Our inner worlds should be ordered, uncluttered and well-tended and this, in turn, must dictate our outer activity.
As I line up my little veggie seedlings into neat rows, I am certain that my inner, secret garden will require more attention if it is to become the well-ordered center of my story- that still axis around which all my other obligations and activities can revolve. From this still place of inner harmony outward harmony will follow. I sprinkle water on my neat rows of seedlings knowing that with this nourishment they will grow and in turn nourish others.
“How still it is!” she whispered. “How still!” … She was inside the wonderful garden, and she could come through the door under the ivy any time, and she felt as if she had found a world all her own”. - The Secret Garden