Monday, April 28, 2008


The Tulip Spring
The garden spread before the manor in complete and appalling disarray, her grandeur lost long ago in the uprising. The gardener’s knowledge and skill hadn’t been good enough for the stately tulips who staged a coup early that spring. They could not have anticipated the annual ritual of vicious uprooting and choking they would unleash.

But unleash it they certainly did. Still hidden beneath the soil, the red tulip bulbs conspired with the yellows to finally rid themselves of the gardener. She had kept them confined in only one area of the garden. Fully aware that their supreme dignity and vibrant color contributed to the garden more than any other flower or shrub, they determined to secure a broader presence for themselves.

Beautiful but rather small minded, the tulips did not expect an insurgency by the roses once they buried the gardener behind the weeping cherry. This, of course, precipitated riots among the pansies, petunias, and peonies. Feeling threatened, the variegated greens on the western border sent roots sprawling in all directions. The azaleas and rhododendrons reacted by spreading their branches up and out. It wasn’t long before the holly, great pine, and dogwood felt the need to usurp some control over their shorter friends.

The first season after that Tulip Spring, as the rebellion became known, ended in disarray. Each passing season the former grandeur sank further into confusion as the plants struggled for control and dominance. For years now, this patch of ground drew only sad nods as passersby longed for the return of the gardener.

It took a yellow tulip. She whispered to the tiger lily about her longing for yesterday’s beauty, even if it meant the tulips would be confined to standing tall in their narrow patch, and for so short a time each spring. The tiger lily excitedly passed along the glimmer of hope. Soon flower and shrub, bush and tree, buzzed with conversation.

It wasn’t easy, the negotiations. Getting the variegated greens to be satisfied with their place along the western border required intense diplomacy. The rose bushes didn’t want to be pruned. After all, they had grown quite dominate through the gardener-less years. But finally the azalea convinced the roses that less presence would mean more beauty. Of course, the azaleas had to agree to severe pruning, as did, well, just about everybody else.

The members of the garden finally began to realize that each plant had its place and value to the whole, even though they all looked, smelled, and stood differently; and even though they all grew at different times and contributed their beauty for different lengths of time.

Attitudes began to change in the garden. Regaining their grandeur in order to bring delight to the occupants of the manor – and every passerby – became their common agenda. Sadly, they still lacked one thing.

A gardener.

Perhaps, they thought, if we combined the life in each of us, as if we were one large plant, enough of it would permeate the garden so that the gardener, lying under the weeping cherry tree, would return to life.

They did. And she did.

Then it happened. They hadn’t anticipated this. Full of new life, the gardener’s mind brimmed with new ideas for the garden. It would be grander than it had ever been! But this would mean moving the tulips, and the pansies, and, well, just about everything.

The garden, still in appalling disarray, sat in shock. What ideas did the gardener have in that head of his? Would they like this new arrangement? Who would get positions of prominence?
The resurrection of the Gardener presented them with a brand new choice. And again, the tulips led the way.