Exhilaration beats within my heart. The last iron gate slams behind me, revealing an astounding scene. The expanse of the sky above melts the sun into a pool of fire. Hazy pink light butters the leaves of plants, the smooth green surface shines almost brighter than the sun itself. Wind licks the tops of the camellia bushes and swoops low to tease the grass. The treetops glow in celestial summer light.

This is my garden and my best friend. It is here, where I feel like I am safe to be whatever I feel like being at that moment because, the plants, the wind and the soil don’t judge me. It is also where I find inspiration in myself. The only place where I see even my mistakes as beautiful. In this garden, it’s hard to think of something that I dislike, about myself, about others, even about life in general. Unfortunately, in took a very painful experience in my life to make me realize all these things about my garden.

***********

It was 1:03 am. The eerie block numbers of my alarm clock glared at me in disdain, “Are you really planning to stoop this low? Is that all life means to you?” I glared back at those numbers, so flawlessly sharp and always accurate, what would they know? My hands shook, looking down, they didn’t seem like they were really mine, mine would never hold a knife, not so close to my own skin, never so close and never, ever with the desire to hurt, especially myself. Buzzing shot through my head and I saw myself in third person illuminated by the white, flickering light of a buzzing alarm clock. This was not me. Not me, but I didn’t know that at the moment. I was thinking how everything would be better, there would be no more worries and all the pressures of life would be gone if I cut. It was that simple, just a small slice across the flimsy protector of the vein in my wrist. But what I didn’t realize is there would be no pressures in life because there wasn’t any life to begin with.

A week after that night, I stepped into my garden and the wind blew around me, sifting through my hair and kissing my wrist. It was at that moment, I realized I didn’t need a knife any more, I had found another sanctuary, in joy, not in pain, in my garden.

***********


Looking back now, I realize that cutting wasn’t a release, but an excuse to forget for a couple of seconds. Once I step through the last threshold to my garden, a sense of hope and euphoria engulfs my heart; like a blanket, it circles around me, warming me. The sky is dyed with soft pastels, dripping like sand dunes across the blue canvas. Pillows of fuchsia clouds billow out in soft swells like sheer curtains to heaven. Branches dance, stepping delicately on the toes of the growing wind. The plants dance with them. My garden is welcoming me home.