In March, I read 'The Secret Garden. ' While I am well acquainted with Frances Hodgson Burnett's, ' A Little Princess, ' I had never read the famous story of a secret garden. So I put myself to it, to be rewarded by such passages like this one I stumbled upon again just yesterday:
'I'll tell you who would put you in the humour, perhaps,' said Mary, reflecting. She felt as if she would like this to be settled one way or the other. 'I believe Dickon would. He's always talking about live things. He never talks about dead things or things that are ill. He's always looking up in the sky to watch birds flying - or looking down at the earth to see something growing. He has such round blue eyes and they are so wide open with looking about. And he laughs such a big laugh with his wide mouth - and his cheeks are as red - as red as cherries.' She pulled her stool nearer to the sofa and her expression quite changed at the remembrance of the wide curving mouth and wide open eyes. 'See here,' she said. 'Don't let us talk about dying; I don't like it. Let us talk about living Let us talk and talk about Dickon. and then we will look at your pictures.' .... It was the best thing she could have said.'
Last year, I read along with a writing group, Stephen King's , 'On Writing; A Memoir of the Craft.' I have no need of any of his other books, and only one movie, based upon one of his works of fiction, 'The Shawshank Redemption.' The story of Andy Dufresne, who is falsely accused of a murder and sentenced to life in Shawshank Penitentiary, delivers us an opportunity to meet 'Red' who is also a 'lifer.' Red shares in the story how he would guide his younger self, who made a poor choice, suffering the exponentially awful consequence of prison life in the 1950's. But his philosophy is one I hold sacred: 'Get busy living, or get busy dyin.' Red and Dickon have much in common. Red found ways to look for things to hope for, meaningful ways to keep himself occupied and invested himself in a safe group of friends and collegues. Dickon lived with his family in rowdy houseful of children, but found his way to a garden to work and make things beautiful, even without employment or even the ability to read. Meaningful work in a garden which is the epitome of hope.
So today, I'll put up the Christmas tree. I'll finish the decorating and complete the tasks at hand. Our tree is one that Mom passed along to me- one now whose 'pre-lit' lights no longer work, but have been clipped and replaced with strands of white lights for each layer. I've narrowed down the ornaments to one large box. I'll put a few strands of icicle lights on the outside of the house and we will embrace December looking up to the stars and down to the dirt lying quietly until Spring returns. We will live with a confident hope that there is life worth living- and we will be busy living it.
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