Revisiting Helen's Garden

Dear Readers,

I began writing this series of essays in the summer of 2023. One of the earlier essays, “Helen’s Garden,” returned to me a week ago as I walked past the little brick house that once belonged to Helen. When I wrote that column, Helen’s wonderful garden was just gone. The only remnants were the overgrown remains of her roses and Rose of Sharon bushes. But today I was so happy to see that there are fresh perennials planted in front of the house. There’s even a small rose bush! It may not be the extravagant yard-filling garden that it once was, but its cared-for and beautiful nonetheless. Have new people moved in? I don’t know. But I imagine the soil beneath those new plants must be happy, occupied once more with hungry roots to feed.

So, I have decided to offer this early column again, now that it’s June, the month of roses. May Helen’s garden inspire us to never lose hope, because the flowers within us persist, ready to bloom, despite all the challenges we face.

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August 6, 2023

I’ve always, always been a walker. Alone or with a companion, I am happy when I move my feet. Although I’ve lived in the same house for over 40 years now, my walking routes and routines have changed over the years. Different streets, different distances, different times of day. About 35 years ago, over a period of a few years, my route brought me past Helen’s house. I met her a few times, as she would often be tending her garden as I passed, and I would sometimes stop to chat with her.

Helen was 80 years old when I first met her. To say she had a garden isn’t quite correct. Helen tended her property, front and back, and the entire thing was planted in flowers. She had very little grass, just enough to create gentle paths between beds of so many different flowers in so many colors, offering so many fragrances, that it became a highlight for me during my forays to stop and just take it all in. The flowers were mostly the perennial type, the kind that spring up year after year, blooming for only a couple of weeks before fading. But Helen had planted flowers for every time, all summer long. There were rose bushes in June. They were the old-fashioned kind, the ones with big, blousy blooms and that intoxicating aroma. Later there were lilies, and then the big Rose of Sharon bushes would bloom all at once. Hers were many, in shades of pink and white. Hollyhock, Black-eyed Susan, tall cone flowers, daisies of every description, asters, all carefully tended, filled her yard with amazing beauty. Sometimes as I stopped and chatted with her she would cut me bouquets; armfuls of summer, to brighten my own home.

Over time I changed my walking route, and didn’t see Helen again. When a few years later I noticed that her front garden had become a mowed lawn, I knew that she was gone. It’s been over 30 years now, and this past June my walk took me along my old route. There was Helen’s small brick house. The yard is now mostly grass, with some large bushes that have grown wild. Not everyone is a gardener. But as I walked by, the scent of rose slowed my steps. Tucked into the overgrown brush were Helen’s roses. Big, yellow centers, bright pink petals, and a scent that literally stopped me in my tracks. Looking around, I noticed the big Rose of Sharon, not blooming yet, and entangled with Mulberry. I remembered then, all the colors, the bright white, the girly pinks.

Where do flowers go? I wonder how long it took to turn a garden into a lawn. I wonder if under all that grass, there might still be roots of flowers. Maybe they are just completely gone. It has been decades, after all.

And yet some things persist. The Rose of Sharon, as invaded with Mulberry as it is, persists, and is now, in late July, blooming. And the rose …

I think that our lives are like Helen’s garden. We cultivate flowers for every season with our hope, our joy, and the blessings that only we can give. Many of these precious flowers are mowed over, yanked out, and covered with the grass of ordinary life, disappointment, and the many sadnesses that every one of us experiences. But underneath, maybe deep down, some of the flowers of our hopes and dreams persist. They bloom, and bloom, and bloom, over and over and over again, despite the thorny tangles. And these persistent blessings that live inside of us and do not die continue to bring beauty, surprise, wonder, creativity, and hope to the entire world as we make our way in it, one rose-scented step at a time.