My house is surrounded by one of the most peaceful (and manageable) gardens in memory. The walls are tall, made of stone, and what I imagine old colonial residencies to look like. You can vaguely hear noises from the outside -- an occasional car or dog or piece of music from a neighboring house -- but overall the walls do their job and create the illusion that your space is yours, enclosed and impenetrable by distractions or influence. For this reason I sat and read in the garden today. I did the same yesterday with the same book. I have devised the perfect positioning system for a long bench and its cushions, where it falls under direct sunlight for most of the afternoon until the sun itself disappears in that distinct moment behind the trees as dusk.
The garden is made possible by a gardener who lives out back in a small wooden shack lit by one bulb. He is old, going on blind, and spends his days living harmoniously with his little green creations. The image of him preening shrubs from a ladder is imprinted in my mind as much as the plants themselves, and his absence I believe, this far in, would certainly change the essence of our little paradisiacal escape.
I was told recently that all his sons have been killed in Guatemala City, an hour up the road. There are a million reasons one could speculate, but the sad fact is it happens all the time there. It is one of the most dangerous capital cities in the world, sprawling out in various zones rampant with corruption, narcotics, and gang-related violence. While newspapers and other things bring it close, it all feels very far away in the garden.
I drifted off into a nap today and woke up to a breeze and a significant drop in temperature. I was also a shade darker and coaxed in that layer of grass, sweat, and soil that comes with prolonged time outdoors. Then I got up, walked inside the cabin, and shut the door in an act separating the gardener's world from mine. There are those omnipresent doses of perspective that arrive each day in Central America if you give yourself enough solitary moments in a quiet garden.
The garden is made possible by a gardener who lives out back in a small wooden shack lit by one bulb. He is old, going on blind, and spends his days living harmoniously with his little green creations. The image of him preening shrubs from a ladder is imprinted in my mind as much as the plants themselves, and his absence I believe, this far in, would certainly change the essence of our little paradisiacal escape.
I was told recently that all his sons have been killed in Guatemala City, an hour up the road. There are a million reasons one could speculate, but the sad fact is it happens all the time there. It is one of the most dangerous capital cities in the world, sprawling out in various zones rampant with corruption, narcotics, and gang-related violence. While newspapers and other things bring it close, it all feels very far away in the garden.
I drifted off into a nap today and woke up to a breeze and a significant drop in temperature. I was also a shade darker and coaxed in that layer of grass, sweat, and soil that comes with prolonged time outdoors. Then I got up, walked inside the cabin, and shut the door in an act separating the gardener's world from mine. There are those omnipresent doses of perspective that arrive each day in Central America if you give yourself enough solitary moments in a quiet garden.
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