When I got there it certainly lacked the beauty I remember but somehow it also lacked disappointment. It's roman trellises were not overflowing with luscious flowers, it's luxurious fountains were not yet turned on, and it's marble statues were still hidden in their weather resistant encasings. The remnants of winter's harsh desolation were still prevalent, but somehow not overpowering.
I found a rose bush that, in the summer, blooms alongside rows of columns and other bushes lining a pathway on both sides and where vines overhang on the trellises to create a majestic alleyway. Only right now all I saw were twig like branches covered in thorns instead of flowers and leaves. Being one of those people that need to touch and poke and feel, I tested the sharpness of those thorns; prickly as they may be they didn't hurt when touched with tender curiosity. As I was so close to the bush I noticed small little points toward the outer limbs of the bush, at first mistaking them for smaller thorns, but it was only because I was inches away from the branches that I could see the differentiation that these were small buds. Remembering what the rose bush looks like in summer, I knew it was only a matter of months until you would have to walk up equally as close to notice the thorns behind the blossoming roses.
Again my mother's statement passed through my mind like the chilling breeze. Why is it that we only care to visit these gardens when they are at their peak season? Is it because we need it's impeccable elegance to find enjoyment? Or is it because we only smile at the result of steadfast hope and endurance? Or is it to escape to a land full of flawless beauty because our own lives lack it so entirely?
I guarantee the gardener doesn't see it like that. The gardener is there overlooking the garden during the painful blizzards. He is there after the snow melts and unveils the garden like a defeated battlefield. He is there in the quiet months when all the growth begins down below, unseen. Constantly the gardener is tending the surrounding grounds that these plants will rise to call home. And when they sprout he makes sure they get the necessary nourishment both from nature's good care and from his own attentive care. Then when summer comes, and summer goes the gardener watches the season's flowers shed and he waits in excitement for the day they blossom again, never once leaving them unattended.
I can say without a doubt that the gardener appreciates the summer's flowers far more than the seasonal visitor, not just because of his laborious love but because he knows the weather they endured and the strength they required to grow again. He looks at the blossoms clothed with incomparable beauty, and knows where they flourished from.
But more so, he looks at those plants year round like I am looking at them now. I may see barren bushes and empty flower beds without a single blossom in sight, but there is a smile on my face that equals, if not exceeds, my joy on a bright summer day because I know what they will become and they are no less beautiful now. They are but an unpolished diamond that only the gardener can appreciate because he sees them at their full bloom no matter the season. And one day soon tourists and locals, strangers and friends, will come to see their blossoms and walk away not knowing they missed out on the flowers' full year-round allure.
As I sat there, barefoot in the middle of a depleted fountain, I knew I belonged there for I too have a Gardener that is with me in my seasons of prosper and my seasons of distress. And yet everyday my Gardener looks at me as if I were in full bloom whether the world notices my flowers over my thorns, or my thorns over my flowers.
So, mom, the flowers are not blossoming yet, but the garden is just as exquisite. And when the flowers do blossom and embellish the already existing beauty with ravishing elegance...I will smile just like I did as I walked through the garden today for today I too saw their bloom.
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