That’s an old tale : watch inside a home, or even a bedroom, and you’ll guess a lot about the owner.
Then the contrary : hear the “judge” know-it-alling about it, and you’ll guess a lot about his mind…
- If it’s a mess, you too much easily could tell about a messy brain – maybe the owner’s mind is not completely orderly. Maybe he suffers, or maybe he’s a genius artist, maybe he’s silly. See? You can say everything thus nothing, in fact.
- If the bed’s done like a funeral one, and the pajamas are perfectly daily folded on “this” chair (and not another one), THEN you can tell…
Today with you, my reader, let’s gossip the same way about a garden.
When I think about a garden, I think about peace and silence, butterflies and dragonflies, about the grass I could walk on post commuting evenings. I think flowers, curiosity, trying to plant and take care about unknown species, watering, welcoming birds, combining these green/colored friends together for harmony, I think breathing little winds and smelling roses (and the earth, the soil).
Soil Festivities is the title of a great album of Vangelis.
Then I hear some people about their garden. All they talk about is invasion of spiders and nasty caterpillars, chaos to be contained, trimming everything around and cutting/pruning trees. Everything’s a enemy. They want order, taming, obedience, snapping scissors on short grass.
Tonight I realized they maybe want to repair, to fix, to contain nature, instead of repairing, fixing, containing events of their now life or past life, probably… right?
(Crummy psychology, I know. I’m sorry. I wish I had a garden to wander in. I’m jealous, that’s it!)
Today I took this picture. I offer it to you. Thank you for reading!