The gardener

Not the constant gardener, just the one who appears with the first cherry blossom to tend to every need of the waking nature. To cut and clean, to plant and water, to beautify that which is already beautiful. And the gardener makes me think about the path my life takes. About the twists and turns, the ups and downs, the doubts and the shadows cast over days and years.

The gardener I always envied when I walked into the prestigious building of the BBC. White City. Starting at the top was maybe not the best of ideas. I knew very little else, I just did what was required of me. Dozed in a trans, I got off the bus after having spent an hour lost in the world of the fabulous Jewel or Patty Griffin or Rosie Thomas. Having to walk that flight of stairs or travel those minutes by elevator, I was slowly crushed into the smallest I could be only to survive. To live through the harsh conditions that were awaiting me once I found an empty desk. Hot desking. A cruel game to play on a rookie. Find the desk that’s empty and claim it as your own for a day. The battle starts all over again the next day. There’s no glory. There’s no constancy. Dreading every minute, my only wish was to be not there. They were all too busy marching to higher places to notice that they were trampling on me. A real stampede and I wonder how I even survived.

In an empty moment I glanced outside and wished so badly to be that gardener. He seemed happy and free. He didn’t have to hot desk. He didn’t have to obey to commands so foreign to his ears. He only needed to work with the plants that neither hurt him nor saw through him. He could find refuge on a patch of green amongst the beings he helped into existence. And it was all his secret garden. Peace and beauty outside when all that surrounded him from the inside was shmoozing and whispers of ladders to climb and projects to get on board with. But all he needed to care for were daffodils and lilacs, the turf and the bushes with blossoms of white petals. So I envied him, I envied the gardener for his luck in life.

Seasons came and seasons passed and not until a few days ago did the gardener appear again. Almost two years on, I see a gardener on the lawn coming into my office. Only after a few mornings do I realise how much I envied the BBC’s gardener. It all seems a bit silly now. This gardener gets all my respect but none of my envy. Where I am now is peaceful. I don’t need to hot desk anymore. Got a desk all to myself. I don’t need to reduce myself to a tiny shell almost invisible to others around me. I can show all of me. I can want more than the graceful nature of trees and bushes and flowers around me. I can be me and the gardener can tend to the garden without my longing eyes on him. I have my path to walk and he may always be near, but he won’t take its place. He’ll stay outside and I’ll stay inside and between us there is only a secret garden that I hide.