A Sort Of Metaphor

Over the weekend, I sat on my patio and looked across my yard, and I saw this. . .

My pergola.

A cool and private oasis in my landscape. 

Green. 

Shady. 

Comfortable.

And it got me thinking. . .

because . . . well . . . it wasn't always like that.

Four years ago it looked like this. . .

Nothing.  Just dead-ish lawn and a clear view to my neighbors' house.

I had always, always dreamed of having a pergola . . . or an arbor. . . or a gazebo.  With a swing.  And wisteria.  But I never really thought I'd actually have one.  Not in that spot, certainly.  Not anywhere.

But then I got cancer.

And needed to occupy myself during the four months of chemo treatments.

So I dreamed.  With landscape design books and gardening magazines open all around me.

I decided I wanted to change my view.

I decided I wanted to create the spaces I'd always only dreamed of having.

I decided to make my dreams . . . happen.

And I had help.

My friend, Sandie.  Who encouraged.

And Tom.  And Brian.  And my Dad.

They dug in.

They plowed under.

They raised up.

They set down.

They hammered in.

My pergola.

Because they love me.

And there it was. . .

Raw.

Naked.

Stark.

In need of planting.

No one would see the pergola and not know it was . . . new.  Raised from what used to be there.

Kind of like . . . I was. 

But now . . . 

Why, it looks like it's been there forever.

And always.

The structure is sound. 

The roots are deep. 

The edges are smoothed out.

Kind of like . . . me!