Invitation Into The Mother's Garden
The Invitation
“Jesus,” I said on the last night of my recent silent retreat, “I get distracted during the day, but you can communicate with me in my dreams.”
"I own nothing: I live in my mother’s garden."
The Dream
He accepted the invitation, but at first I didn’t recognise him.
The dream happened just before I woke up, and started at a birthday party. The crowd, in trendy casual dress, were in groups, around high bar tables that had spilled out onto the pavement. Waves of conversation rose and fell, glasses clinked. I wondered how long I – the opposite of a party girl – would stay. The hostess was a close friend and drew me into conversation until he distracted us.
He looked like he was in his thirties, with a neat beard and dark brown, wavy hair, and wore an old-fashioned, cream fisherman’s jumper, which seemed strange on a warm evening. He moved gracefully through the crowd which gently parted around him, confident, but somehow enigmatic, pausing to greet people.
My friend became excited. “He’s a doctor,” she told me, sotto voce, “some kind of specialist I think. He’s recruiting people to audition for a radio program or something. To be participants for a good cause.”
She pushed me towards him. Our eyes met across the distance; he began to smile and move towards me. Mortified, I glanced down at my gardening jeans. I couldn’t meet him wearing muddy jeans. What was I thinking? I needed to put my good jeans on, which fortunately were in my car, parked nearby.
Too slow, my friend grabbed at my arm, but I escaped, running to my car with some half-baked idea that I could change my jeans and be back before he made it to our table on the edge of the crowd. But when I returned, he had left. In mock exasperation, my friend rebuked me for missing my opportunity, saying he never stayed long, but they’d spoken before he left and she was sure he was interested in me, and what an exciting thing it was that he’d noticed me.
Disappointment was fleeting, and I made my excuses, left the party and got back into my gardening jeans before taking a walk. I came to a large garden full of roses and sweeping, verdant lawns. I strolled along the rose beds, savouring the joyous riot of colour and scent, noticing that even though there were thousands of them, they were all modern – mostly under a hundred years since their release. It seemed strange there were no old, heritage roses in a collection so huge that it could only be curated by a serious collector.
The warm sun was getting low in the sky, casting inviting patterns through the branches of a large tree. I lay on the lawn in the shade, enjoying the peace of the garden.
He didn’t seem to notice me at first. He wasn’t alone. There was a woman with him, older, dressed in immaculate blue and white. She was enchanting and they enjoyed animated conversation while they walked the rose borders. He was clearly a dedicated rose lover. He stopped at every rose, cupping his hands around each bloom as he called it by name and buried his nose to inhale the perfume of each in turn.
When he saw me, he left his mother with a smile and walked across the lawn. “That’s better – you’ve got your gardening jeans on again,” he said, his eyes twinkling amusement as he offered me his hand to help me up. “I came to see the roses before the sun went down.”
“It’s a beautiful garden,” I said.
“You like it?”
“Yes.” I paused, then blurted out my question. “Why don’t you have any old roses? What you’ve got is amazing, but I love the old ones best.”
For a moment, he teleported me to a different garden, full of ancient roses from bygone days. They were beautiful, evocative, even glorious. Loaded with history and often exotic names, commemorating the past – or the dead. But they weren’t the same. Something was missing.
We were back in his garden in an instant. Walking towards his mother slowly, pausing at every rose. He knew each not just by name, but date of release. Watching him closely, I realised he wasn’t just imbibing the scent. He was also breathing life into every rose. Each rose represented a person alive right now. That was the reason there were no ancient ones.
He was a good listener, and I found myself telling him some of the sad things that had happened long ago. Then he stopped and looked at me. “How wealthy are you?” he asked calmly.
Glancing around the incredible garden that covered acres, surrounding a lovely Victorian-era stone home, I didn’t know how to answer. Clearly, he must be loaded.
I told him I had enough, and gave him details of my financial position.
He silenced me with a shake of his head and a beatific smile.
“That’s not wealth.” He spread his arms, indicating his surroundings, glowing in light of the setting sun. “I don’t own anything. I live in my Mother’s garden.”
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