The Wild Garden of Childhood ...

Everything is ceremony

in the wild garden

of childhood.

Pablo Neruda

Winter Garden

My search for objects of wonderment began very early in childhood.  My boundaries for exploration were limited so most of my discoveries occurred in the empty lot next to our apartment building.  As the lot was ill kept, things could easily be hidden in the tall weeds.  Most of these items were more than likely discarded junk, but to me this empty lot was a sacred garden of treasures. 

The corner lot was huge viewed by my child's eyes and my daily jaunt was an imagined safari.  I generously gathered random items and kept them in earlier discovered boxes with ornate lids.  I found old coins, and a small collection of military medals. It was always pure joy to find a discarded notebook containing empty pages waiting for me to sketch all over them or write to my heart's content.  Buttons were good, and sometimes old leather bound books were worthy keepsakes even if they were beyond my understanding.

At times, some adult would toss a stack of bound newspapers into the tall grass.  This provided a cushioned place for me to sit and it was low enough to hide me in my lair.  I could over hear conversations as strangers walked down the city street or snippets of information from neighborhood children racing by on their bikes.


To sit in this special space I experienced solitude and an awareness of birds, butterflies, and unfortunately unwanted snakes.  I would hold rocks in my chubby little hands and place wildflowers around me. My day dreams frequently crossed the threshold into other realms.  I loved every cloud in the sky and etched floating words into my diary.  My writings were safe in my diary with the little key and lock.


After many hours of play, I would wander back into our apartment where my mother would cast her eyes filled with disdain upon my filthy appearance.  She would promptly put me in a bathtub where I would then soak trying to scrub the dirt from behind my fingernails.  I never wore shoes and the bottoms of my feet were like leather.  If asked, the bruises on my knees from crawling around in the height of discovery were difficult to explain. The warm bath water, however, always comforted me and prepared me for the nap that was yet to come.


All these years later, I still collect rocks and keep random treasures in old wooden boxes.  I frequently write in journals after spending time outside exploring mother nature.  Taking a bath has grown into a ritual with soft music, a candle and sometimes flowers.  After surrounding myself with books, a nap still follows.  Words still float by me, and with any luck, I still cross the threshold into other realms.