come to my garden

 

The heart of my new house is the garden.


The roof terrace has a view.


The house has living space.


The garden has soul.


The plants have a hodge-podge look.  That is because they were assembled by different owners.  There is no master plan.


One fact that amazes me is that most local gardeners hired to tend these areas have little idea how to garden. 


That is not shocking.  Why would they?  Gardens are not a coastal phenomenon. 


Most locals encounter plants either by hacking back the jungle or burning dry grass.  Neither skill is very helpful in a home garden.


I have taken a closer look at the plants.  There are limes, a sour orange, a mandarin orange, an avocado, a banana, a mango.  I could make my own fruit salad.


And more types of flowering shrubs and plants than I could possibly name.  In fact, I will have a little quiz for you later in the week.  (What good is democracy if it is not participatory?)


The garden suffers from pruning that would make a discount Las Vegas plastic surgeon blush.  Not to mention damage from leaf cutter ants and a lot of overgrowth.  (You would think those two problems could resolve one another.  Unfortunately, the ants tend to eat the wrong plants.)


But none of that really matters while sitting amongst the plants while I eat breakfast on a Sunday morning or read on any afternoon, and the laguna's frogs and birds offer up what might be called aurel therapy.


I once thought the sound of the ocean was calming.  Compared to the peace of my not-so-secret garden, the ocean is a loud-mouthed matron in a woman's prison.


If I had a little more time, I would leave my hand on this garden -- as it has left its peace on my heart.