The Twelve Gifts from the Garden . Charlene Costanzo
morning, however, they discovered that it had been destroyed. Footprint evidence suggested that someone had stomped through their little creation, deliberately swishing and smashing his large feet around in it.
“When I saw the hurt on my children’s faces, intense anger rose in me,” says the mother. “Who would do such a thing? Why? I wanted to crush whoever did it. Fueled by fury, I marched down the beach, cursing the young man who I imagined did it, and, I have to admit, wishing him all sorts of harm.” With a chuckle and a smile, she says, “I’m guessing that to passersby I looked quite fierce.” She says that she had walked until her anger was spent, which brought her to the lighthouse at the end of the island. There she sat and thought, “What are my children learning from this? That some people are senselessly mean? To mistrust? To hate?”
“When I released the last of my anger, I felt something open,” she says, “and the Dalai Lama came to mind. A sixth of the Tibetan population was killed in the 1950s. When he is asked about that holocaust, he responds with compassion for the people who did it. I then saw other possible lessons my children could learn from this experience.”
She explains that when she had arrived back at the site, she had asked her family to forgive the perpetrator and to help her repair the garden. At first they resisted. So, she started to rebuild it herself. Soon, her husband joined her. Then, the daughter. Finally, the son. After a short time, they worked again in a playful way with ease and trust. They enjoyed another morning in the sunshine, arranging flotsam and jetsam in attractive patterns. They forgave the debris-garden vandal, wished him well, and agreed that what emerged this second time around was actually far prettier than what they had made the day before. She says, “When we finished, my son suggested adding the word ‘Welcome’ as a greeting and an acceptance of whatever would become of it.”
For a moment I’m speechless, in awe of the mother’s wisdom and compassion, and the son’s maturity and understanding.
“Thank you,” I manage to say. “Thank you for telling me your story. I admire you. What an example for your children. Not only to forgive him, but to wish him well. And for your son to suggest adding ‘Welcome!’ I’m so impressed. I will remember you.”
I take several photos of the beach-debris garden before leaving the family alone to enjoy the rest of their day.
giant bamboo—Dendrocalamus giganteus
Notice that the stiffest tree is most easily cracked, while the bamboo or willow survives by bending with the wind.
—Bruce Lee
During today’s garden stroll, I stop where the Wedding Arch Path meets the Bamboo Corner. The paths here are not actually named. They don’t bear signage the way many trees and plants do. But, out of necessity, my husband and I have named a few. “Where are you?” he asks, calling my cell phone from the beach. I look around, wondering how to describe where I am.
“I’m on the Dockside Pool Path,” I tell him. Another time he tells me he’s on the Avocado Path.
Where Wedding Arch Path meets Bamboo Corner is one of my favorite locations here. I’ve stopped to give my full attention to the bamboo concert that’s happening in front of me. This group performs regularly but at unscheduled times, like impromptu jam sessions. What moves this group to make music is the wind, of course. As the stalks sway, they knock and clack; the leaves swish. I’m soothed by this natural percussion.
I sit on a nearby bench to listen. I watch. The bending bamboo reminds me of a fourth-grade girl in a school in Soldotna, Alaska. After reading The Twelve Gifts of Birth to the class, I asked the students to name one of the special abilities that make up their unique mix of talent. One hand shot up ahead of others, so I called on that child.
“I’m flexible,” she said.
I’ve visited hundreds of classrooms and talked with thousands of students and I had never heard that response. My first thought was that she did yoga. Instead of simply, and wisely, asking her to tell me more, I went with my interpretation and asked if she did yoga.
“Yes,” she said. “I do. But what I meant is that I’m good at accepting change and adapting to it. I’m willing to change my thinking and how I react to things.”
Yes, a fourth grader said that! That insightful girl has become a touchstone for me. Like the bamboo in this garden, she is strong and flexible. She’s able to bend without breaking in both her body and mind.
Nature’s lessons are everywhere. I see the flexible aspect of strength in the bamboo and in the Alaska student.
The wind picks up and so does the music. The swishing, clacking, and knocking get louder. The bamboo bends lower. Along with keeping the concert going, the blowing wind keeps the no-see-um bugs away. I decide to stay and listen. And think. How accepting of change am I?
What nature delivers to us is never stale.
Because what nature creates has eternity in it.
—Isaac Bashevis Singer
Some days I feel drawn to a particular path. I call it the Time Traveler’s Path, largely because, when I walk through this area, I feel as if I have one foot in the here and now and the other in the long ago. It takes no effort on my part to experience this; it just happens. I believe the traveler’s palms are responsible. With their enormous, paddle-shaped leaves, they look old. They feel old. As a matter of fact, they’re anciently old. Well, not these specific trees, but the species is. It’s believed it has been around since 12,000 BCE.
Native to Madagascar, this exotic plant is actually not a palm. It’s closer to banana trees and bird of paradise plants. Its proper name is Ravenala madagascariensis. How this huge, exotic plant acquired its common name has a few interesting claims behind it. The plant’s giant leaf sheaths catch and hold a large amount of rainwater. Therefore, a traveler could count on obtaining water to drink from these plants. One legend says that if travelers or passersby make a wish while standing directly in front of the plant, the wish will come true. Another says that travelers can use the plant as a compass because the leaves tend to grow in an east–west direction.
I don’t know how much truth those legends hold, but I do know that this intriguing area of the garden kindles imagining and dreaming. Almost every time I am here, I feel transported.
This section of the garden is miniscule compared to forests, yet I find here a measure of the silence and peace that tranquil forests offer. I suppose it’s the ferns that blanket the ground beneath the palms that produce the cool, quiet forest effect. I can easily imagine a doe and her fawn resting here. I almost want to nap here myself. I wonder what dreams would come from sleeping on a bed of ferns beneath traveler’s palms that reach thirty to fifty feet high.
I recognize that my habit of becoming imaginative in nature as an adult reaches back to my early childhood sense of wonder. I recall the untended yard on the side of the apartment building where I first lived. Instead of unsightly weeds, I saw wildflowers in a mini meadow. As young children often do, I perceived beauty in the tiny yellow and purple blooms on the tips of tall weeds.
Memories of the child I was become a time-travel vehicle. While one foot remains firmly grounded under the traveler’s palms in the here and now, the other steps into the past. It’s the early 1950s.
I’m sitting on the bottom brick step of my paternal grandparents’ back stoop, watching birds drink and splash about in the birdbath in the center of their backyard. Shrubs of