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Tropical Leaves

My Garden

When I feel in need of restoration, I like to spend some time in my little private garden.

It is located well off the beaten path. Down at the end of a side alley which branches off the main path, I push my way through a thicket of ferns, and there I am. My garden is really a small glade hemmed in to all sides by thick redwood trunks and dense undergrowth, and the ground is covered by soft grasses and mosses which morn a luscious carpet.

A spring bubbles up in the center, its source undoubtedly deep, deep underground. Its waters are diverted out of my glade via a narrow channel, which I believe was dug by some forbear of mine, as evidenced by the neatly arranged stones lining this trough. I welcome this spring very much for the wonderfully soothing sounds it produces; many a twilight have I spent lounging amongst the ferns and mosses, being lulled into half-slumber by the gurgles of my boisterous friend.

This garden means very much to me, and I hold it closer to my heart than anything else. It matters not what might transpire in the external world, for I know I can always retreat to my green glade for a bit of rest.

Sometimes, I have visitors. These are always very polite, and wait outside the ferny entrance for me to invite them inside. This I always do, for so far each of my visitors has had an agreeable energy, and this bids me to welcome them.

Once inside, my guests tell me their business. Invariably it emerges that they are some alternate version of myself, whether from another time or space, or from another dimension, or a different reality matrix entirely. I know this to be true, for I can feel our connection in my heart, and I would not let anyone into my garden who was not myself, so to speak.

Our conversation generally focuses on how various motifs and themes originating in their lives have managed to percolate down into my own life, and what steps we might take to resolve these tiresome chains. In the end, the solution is nearly always the same, and involved acknowledging the source of the troublesome bugaboo, and holding it as it gradually unknots itself.

Though my garden is undoubtedly on the outskirts of things, I cannot help but feel that in actuality it is the very center of all.

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