The Garden (Garden #1)

One night, I find that I can’t sleep.

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I’m sitting in a hammock in a garden. I’m not sure how I got here, but it appears the Spirit is sitting in the hammock with me. It’s difficult to tell what the Spirit looks like, and I’m struggling to orient myself. In fact, we might be on a porch swing instead of in a hammock.

Around the perimeter of the garden is an old wooden fence covered by vines. There are deep purple flowers growing from the vines. They are pretty flowers, but the purple is so dark and deeply beautiful and painful that it’s scary. The vines from which the flowers have sprung are a mixture of dark green and inky black. There’s more black than green, and the vines are scary too. Not scary like when someone jumps out and says “boo!” but scary like I want to cower closer to the Spirit, or what I think is the Spirit. I’m not too familiar with the Spirit, having spent most of my life ignoring him, pushing him down and away, only thinking of him ambiguously.

There is a wide gate in the fence. I know I could leave, and a large part of me would like to leave. I’m nervous and terrified, unsure of how to act in the Spirit’s presence. We’re gently rocking on the hammock or swing, and he’s silent. I suddenly, without warning, recognize that I’m talking to--or rather, at--the Spirit. I’m verbally throwing things at him. I’m telling him about my day, what I’m afraid of, why I can’t sleep. I’m trying to remember a phrase from an email I received that day. I’m wondering what I’m supposed to do for work in the future. I’m arguing with past friends, past bosses, past mentors in my head. I can’t stop. I’m already mad about things that are going to happen tomorrow. I’m “praying” about my fears for my wife and my family. I also throw some frantic praise and thanksgiving in his direction. I try to remember who else is on my prayer list and shout some intercessions for them, too.

Eventually, my throat hurts. I realize I’ve been yelling. I’ve been screaming at the Spirit nonstop. I’ve fallen out of the swing or hammock. There are thoughts everywhere on the ground. I rush to pick them all up--I’m losing time, my heart is pounding--when I hear the Spirit whisper something. I mean, it was absolutely a whisper. I’m kneeling, holding some of my thoughts in one arm while I use the other to scoop up the rest. Did you know thoughts can move? They’re quite squirmy. When I hear the Spirit whisper, murmur, barely move his mouth, I whirl around, some of the thoughts wiggling free of my grasp.

“WAIT, DID YOU SAY SOMETHING?” I shout. My vocal cords must be bleeding. I hardly give him enough time to answer before I start reaching for more thoughts. I need to collect all of them as soon as possible before they escape. But thankfully, he speaks slightly louder this time.

Put your thoughts down.

My ears are ringing after my cacophony of shouting. Did I hear him correctly? My own voice is echoing in my ears, so it almost sounds like I’m the one who said it. But at this point, I’m willing to try anything. The black and dark green vines and purple flowers are terrifying me--the colors feel wrong, slightly off.

I cautiously drop my arms to my side, letting my thoughts go. I’m still kneeling, so they don’t have far to fall. They’re stunned as they land on the soft grass, but after a few seconds, they begin to shimmy away.

My gaze returns to the Spirit, expectantly. Five seconds pass, then ten. My eyes grow wider. The Spirit isn’t saying anything. He’s completely silent. I strain to listen even more, but still nothing. Are you kidding me? Did he actually tell me to let go of my thoughts, or was that me? If I don’t have my thoughts, worries, and ideas, how can I expect to be in control?

I look around frantically. There’s still time to grab most of them. I crawl towards the thought that seems most important. I snatch it and reach for another one. As I do, I feel something on my back. It’s a feeling of peace. It’s not cold, not warm; not heavy, not light; not slow, not urgent. I’m in awe. I don’t even realize it, but that crucial thought is no longer anywhere to be seen. It, along with the rest of my thoughts, have fluttered away and are fading from my vision.

I’m back in the hammock. We’re rocking gently. The Spirit isn’t exactly speaking, but I could almost swear he’s singing. It’s not a song I recognize, but again, I haven’t exactly spent a ton of time in this garden.

This is a peace I crave--a song I love. Every once in a while I start to say something. But the touch comes back and my mouth closes. I want to ask questions--what is my life going to look like in a year? Am I forgiven? What should I do for a living? But they seem so pointless at that moment, in that position. I never want to leave. My breathing has slowed. My muscles are relaxing. My stomach isn’t churning.

And fear is dissipating like fog in the morning sun. I’m not surprised to see the vines are turning a brighter, healthier green. The purple is still deep, majestic, but it’s no longer terrifying. There is still some blackness in the vines, but I’m not too worried about it. The mistakes I’ve made are still there but seem so unimportant. In the Spirit’s presence, my thoughts, worries, impatience, and questions don’t mean anything.

At some point I know I’ll have to leave. Or maybe the rest of my life will meet me here in this garden. I’m not sure.

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I fall asleep.