A Walk Through the Garden

Before you begin

Find a place where you will not be interrupted for ten minutes or so. Sit in a way your body likes. If you are reading on a screen, you might turn the light down a little. There is nothing to achieve here and nothing to get right. If your mind wanders, that is simply what minds do; when you notice it, come back to the page.

Each stop has three parts: a short picture of the place, a pause, and a question. The questions do not need answers. Let them sit beside you like a cat that has decided to stay.

The gate

The wall is old and warm, and something green and patient is growing along the top of it. In the middle of the wall is an arch, and in the arch is a gate. The gate is open. It does not look as though anyone opened it. It looks as though it has never been closed.

Pause. Take one slow breath in, and a slower breath out. Notice where you are sitting and what is touching you: the floor, the chair, your clothes, the air.

Ask. What did you bring with you through the gate today? You do not have to put it down. Only notice that you are carrying it.

The pale path

A path of pale earth runs ahead, still holding a little of the day's warmth. It is not straight. It bends around a stone, around a young tree, around a place where something once dug and was left alone. Paths in this garden go the way the ground wanted them to go.

Pause. Let your shoulders drop a finger's width. Unclench your jaw if it is clenched. Let your hands rest.

Ask. Where in your own life have you been trying to walk in a straight line across ground that wanted a curve?

The labeled beds

On either side are beds of plants, each with a small wooden label pushed into the soil. Some labels are newly painted. Some are faded almost to nothing. A few plants have no label at all, and they are growing just as well as the rest.

Pause. Breathe in for a count of four, and out for a count of six. Do it twice more.

Ask. Which words about yourself feel like good labels, clear and kind? Which feel faded? Is there any part of you that is growing well without a word at all?

The arbor

At the far end, a vine has been trained over a wooden frame to make a long, green room. Under it are shelves, and on the shelves are books and papers left by people who walked here before you: essays, stories, a few poems. Some of them were written in a hurry and some over many years. All of them were written by someone who wanted to be understood.

Pause. Notice the sounds around you, near and far. You do not need to name them. Just let them be there.

Ask. If you were to leave one page on these shelves for someone who will come after you, what is the one sentence you would most want it to say?

The sundial

In a sunny corner stands a stone sundial, worn smooth by many hands. Its shadow moves so slowly that you cannot see it moving, only notice, after a while, that it has. Around the edge someone has carved a line, now hard to read. It seems to say that every hour is on its way somewhere.

Pause. Let your breathing find its own pace. Do not count. Only follow it in and out for a little while.

Ask. What has changed in you so slowly that you only noticed afterward? What might be changing now, too slowly to see?

The great tree

At the center of the garden stands the great tree. Its trunk is wide and furrowed, its branches reach out over all four paths, and small gold fruit hang among the leaves. At its roots a spring rises, and from the spring four thin streams run out toward the four corners. Birds you cannot see are talking in the upper branches.

Pause. Imagine, for a moment, putting your palm flat against the bark. Feel how still it is, and how much is moving inside it.

Ask. What in you is old and deep-rooted, the way this tree is? What has it been feeding, without your noticing?

The bench by the pool

Under the tree there is a bench, and beside the bench a pool so still that the sky lies in it without a ripple. Sometimes a heron stands at the far edge and does nothing with great concentration. Sometimes a fox crosses the grass and does not hurry. Today it is only you.

Pause. Sit for a full minute without reading anything. Look away from the page if you can, at a window, a wall, your own hands. Then come back.

Ask. Nothing. This stop has no question. Just sit.

Leaving by the gate

When you are ready, walk back along the pale path, past the beds and their labels, to the open gate. Look back once if you like. The garden is the same garden it was when you came in, and it will be the same garden when you return. You may find, though, that you are a little different, or a little more yourself.

Pause. Take one more slow breath. Move your fingers and toes. Notice the room you are actually in.

Ask. What is one small, kind thing you could do for yourself in the next hour?

Other quiet places

If a question from this walk stayed with you, the year of questions offers one for each week, to keep in a private notebook. The bench has a breathing circle and thirty thoughts to sit with, and the poetry shelf is close by. If you are carrying something heavier than a walk can lift, please read wellbeing and care, and talk to someone you trust.