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Home
and Family
In the Garden
by Rifca Goldberg
It looks like so many other gardens: A green picket fence
surrounding shade trees, a grapevine gripping its way up a
wooden terrace, a footpath with smooth stones carefully
lining both sides. The smells of ripe fruit intermingle
fragrantly and the slightest of breezes ripples through the
overgrown grass.
But this isn't like other gardens. I know, as I open the gate
and step in.
This is the garden of my heart, where the flowers of
creativity are tentative buds; colorful, soft, shy. Where the
almond-shaped leaves of doubt sometimes droop, yet lift
themselves high none-the-less, the doubt cool shadows of
motivation. Where the grass of excitement is so kelly green
and fresh that it tickles the feet of my perceptions. Where a
tree stump of writers' block sits stubbornly directly in the
middle of the garden.
I go over and sit on what stumps me. I settle down, get
comfortable, and from that quiet place, the words of a story
or poem reach out like delicate new branches, my pen flowing
along with the stream surging past the pansies of thought
bursting forth beside me; gurgling, gushing, refreshing.
I bend over to the herb garden of adjectives and pluck one
that will add just the right flavor to the article I'm
working on . . . and I write. The more the words flow, the
more the garden flourishes, the more the buds open and
blossom, the higher the leaves raise themselves, and the
ideas come, new, clear waterfalls, from this oasis of inner
dreams, in the growing garden of my heart.
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