nourishment and guide
by Jodie Gonzalez
Centennial Gardens - March 11, 2023.
PROMPT: What pulls me - feels nourishing? What does this place have to offer me? As a guide, what answer does it have for me?
I am drawn to the water. Always the flow intrigues me, I want to be part of it - submerged, the sounds muffled around me. I see the water cascade down the hill and take pointed steps in its glistening direction. But wait, it’s not the water pulling me, it’s the image of the mountain I’ve been turning over and over in my mind all these months. The circling round and round, gaining perspective, yet feeling defeated by the same view as I loop round again. I know this is the spot. I feel a strong need to park myself at the bottom, no longer yearning for the top, knowing I must return to her - the old self - the young one with so many wounds. To see her, and to feel her, I must go back to the beginning.
But wait. A stream of water catches in the periphery. My steps slow, I turn my gaze from the hill ahead and sneak into an alcove - a secret path to the fountain. Its aqua tiles draw me closer, the tinkle of water on water soothes me. I wait. Is this nourishing me? And as I begin to look around, I see it. The tall black doors fierce against the loveliness of the gardens. It draws me closer, curious. What is on the other side? Why is it closed? The Questioner in me takes over the bus - she is driving faster now - so intriguing, this gate with strong black bars shutting me out. My mind skips around, hopscotch like, to all the thoughts. But the loudest one screams out to me: You have to go in! At first I think it is literal - I check the handle. Is it locked? the Questioner asks.
But I quickly realize I don’t want to go inside there. I want to go inside here. Inside my heart - to all the pain, the scary parts I’ve avoided all these years. I had thought it was a dark forest, filled with wild beasts and shadowy passageways; the fear of going in alone had diminished my desire to go back. But now I see a perfectly manicured garden on the other side. Maybe it’s not so bad, if I just open the latch. Slip through the gate unnoticed, and sit with it. Stop standing outside wondering if I can go in. Fearing the going in.
My secret garden is actually called Celebration Garden. I read this on the sign as I turn to find a place to sit. It seems fitting. That after all the years of pain and heartache, I will find cause for celebration. The freedom I have been yearning for - desperately clawing toward - could be mine. I feel it here, with the birds chirping, the breeze cool on my toes, feel freedom from from responsibility - no requests other than to keep the pen moving, to pour my truth onto the page. The freedom to create, pursue my curiosity, ask the hard questions. The clouds have turned gray overhead; I know this will not be all sunshine and rainbows. Insights shine like rays through the cover, but the storms will be harsh. Nourishment will be necessary.
When I ask my guide “How will I write my story?” the answer comes as the garden: By tending it. With deep care and love and compassion for myself. For the self who is writing - here on this bench, in this city, this year. And the one from all those places before - and all of her flaws and all of her mistakes - and all of her growth. The guide continues: And slowly. I understand that this will not be a sprint. That I will need to return to the gardens, the breeze, the flow, to stay nourished.
And then, I will celebrate.