the garden, seen through the glass of the sliding doors on a rainy day, appears to take some pleasure in this break from the relentless sunshine of the california coast. its colors are richer (alright, they have been somewhat enhanced digitally,) but that ‘help’ brings them into line with what i am feeling about the garden on this particular day/moment/lifetime.
the garden, when seen through the scrim of memory takes on new meaning: it is romantic & mysterious & warm & distant; it invites you closer all the while pushing you back & when you look at it through this veil you begin to contemplate (& yes, remember) this time of year as one of eager anticipation (the holidays!) & dread (the holidays!)
the garden, this time, brings to mind thanksgivings past (childhood: cook a dish, drive to aunt & uncle’s — or grandparents, play by self or try to help by setting the table, avoid the ‘game’ on tv, the smell of beer lightly sprinkled with salt — my uncle — avoiding my cousin by sitting in the upstairs bathroom on the carpeted floor & reading ‘men’s detective magazines’ with their promises of sin, sex, & men); of course, that’s just one memory, there are many more & as the curtain is drawn back, little sparks of color begin to sparkle & shimmer in the rain & blossom into more recent memories (more on that later, i’m not done yet with this past.)
the garden then, even then a memory, is still a cypher, a golden sheen of time pushing back at the sparks/bumps/textures/odors of my fading personal history. what this time of year & this rainy day & this garden do fully reveal are my fondest memories of time well spent. they are not specific (& yet, they are.) they are not fully realized in technicolor & dolby stereo (& heavens, there is not 3-D.) justly & so, they are seen in snatches of wind-blown photos & rainy days hidden behind glass & fabric & fog & time.