I love spring anywhere, but if I could choose I would always greet in a garden.
Working in the garden . . . gives me a profound feeling of inner peace. Nothing here is in a hurry. There is no rush toward accomplishment, no blowing of trumpets. Here is the great mystery of life and growth. Everything is changing, growing, aiming at something, but silently, unboastfully, taking its time.
Working in the garden gives me something beyond the enjoyment of the senses. It gives me a profound feeling of inner peace.
The unmulched garden looks to me like some naked thing which for one reason or another would be better off with a few clothes on.
There is peace in the garden. Peace and results.
If 'heartache' sounds exaggerated then surely you have never gone to your garden one rare morning in June to find that the frost, without any perceptible motive, any hope of personal gain, has quietly killed your strawberry blossoms, tomatoes, lima and green beans, corn, squash, cucumbers. A brilliant sun is now smiling at this disaster with an insenstive cheerfulness as out of place as a funny story would be if someone you loved had just died.
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