It's neither secret nor garden, but it will do.

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There has always been an allure to me about the cloistered mystery of a secret garden. I have read about many, none the same, almost all much alike. They are secluded places set apart from the rest of the world. Some are enchanted. All would like to be. They're usually lush with flowers, vines, and overgrown green vegetation. Ancient moss-covered stone walls keep the garden hidden from prying eyes. The garden cannot be entered through its gate because the gate is sealed by lock or rusted disuse. Access is possible only from a secret opening known only to intimates.

Such a place holds great charm for those disparate from the rest of the world, most often young lovers. Sometimes one person, alone. In either case, a quiet place away from an unquiet world. A place where solitude can be fulfilled.

I have had such a place for many years though it is neither secret nor a garden. It is the second-floor backyard deck of my home. Tall trees surround the deck. In summer their foliage obscures any hint of neighbors. All is secluded.

Though not a secret garden it has something of the same charm.

It's a private retreat from the noisome bustle of everyday affairs; a solitude that has a timeless quality of greenery, open air, and unscheduled time. I read and watch the many creatures that come for the seeds I put out for them. When the kitties, Calico and Gray, are with me they chase the birds and squirrels - to no avail. They're pampered housecats that have never developed the predatory skills of their wild kindred - they try, anyway. It's serious business for the kitties, less so for the outside creatures, probably more like a fun game. It seems entertaining for all of them. It is for me.

Peaceful summer days, a whiskey or coffee in hand, a good cigar, an old well-written book, a balmy breeze; more than I deserve, a blessedness I'm grateful for. I treasure this time and place. I'd be happy to have it go on forever. It won't. Too soon, the cold days will come again. We'll all be housebound until the spring.

Now I see the kitties getting hungry. It's dinnertime. Life is relentless, even here. I'll see what I can get for them. Mmm, hard food or soft? For myself, rice, black beans, and olive oil seasoned with salt and pepper. Simple food, simply prepared, a simple life, simply lived. Less than some. More than most. Enough for me.

We'll leave the garden for now but we'll return tomorrow and tomorrow and the next day, too, until we can return no more. My cup runneth over.

It’s not really a secret garden.

It will do.

By K. L. Shipley

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