Thus begins the fate of the garden behind the wall, locked up and forgotten by the current generation. A shroud of nervous tension, almost fear, hangs on the place. Here a lonely girl finds solitude, purpose, and new life.
I might be very different from introverted and pinched-faced Mary Lennox, and yet I have always felt a kinship with her and her garden.
I fell in love with Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden when I was very young. Perhaps it was the whimsical ‘dreams come to life’ theme with the sense of not fearing to get dirty in the process. When I read the book, it was as if I was there. Warm dirt between my fingers, the sun on my back, breathing life into flowers and trees, watching it all grow and stir with life. Spring has long been my favorite season, and I could spend hours out among the flowers, digging in the earth. I’ve even talked to the robins-but don’t tell anyone. It is still my dream to have a huge garden of a yard, full of roses, delphinium, foxglove, baby’s breath, and lavender. For that is where the snow melts and the birds sing, where the smell of soil mingles with the first scents of crocus and daffodils. A place of escape, where time stands still and only life and hope survive.