where the writers are
My Favorite Garden
Award-winning book helps young children cope with a loved one's cancer diagnosis and treatment.

There was a time when I was lost; a time of pain and discovery when all I knew was wrong and what I had to learn seemed more than I could handle. It was during that time that I'd found comfort and strength in my garden.  


I would sit on the same stepping stone every night, the one with the striations from millions of years of pressure. It held the warmth of the summer sun, long after the sun had set. I'd take my flip flops off and place my feet carefully on the rough mulch, now and again feeling a prick from a wooden shard, but I didn't care. No physical pain could hurt me as much as the emotional pain I felt. 


More often than not, a cold tear would run down my cheek. Taking a deep breath, I would scan the ground around me, trying to find something, anything, to focus my mind on. The tiny, bird's nest fungus, camouflaged in the mulch that popped up during the previous night's rain, had already dried to a crisp in the mid-afternoon sun, their tiny black eggs ready to explode to life once touched by rain again.   Brightly colored pansies illuminated by the moonlight would smile at me and the smell of roses filled the air. There were over fifteen varieties of rose bushes, but the most fragrant were the Old English roses, petite and pink.  On the southern border of the garden stood a row of forsythia, their springtime yellow blooms long gone and replaced with lush foliage. Tall ferns lined the western edge of the garden which led into the dark shadows of a stand of oak trees.   To the east was the willow, tall and lofty, it's trunk majestically reaching for the stars while it's branches desperately grasped for the ground.   A soft breeze whispered through the leaves and crickets would sing.  Bard owls would call in the distance.  


The garden was a place of peace and wonder.  A place where I could be at one with myself and the world around me, with no interruptions other than the beauty of life itself.  It is where I grew, I lived and I survived.  I long to see it again.  


1 Comment count
Comment Bubble Tip


The family sat down to the table near the garden in this far away land. The green vegetables that they ate were a lot like the roses that grew up the side of the house. They were over grown and had out stretched their boundaries like a massive tree whose roots had destroyed the sidewalk.

The ferocious wind suddenly slapped the side of the stucco house like a giant chastising hand. Maybe the wind was embarrassing and had made the sides of the house red; they were like cheeks that had begun to blush. The red roses that covered the walls were coloring the edifice like a kiss from two big red lips.
Excerpt from "The Knights of Theunoan: The Gift of Dreams"