Gravel crunched beneath tires as two gardeners pulled into the uncrowded parking lot. Commenting on the luxury of weekday shopping, the pair selected a flat wagon and entered the first of five greenhouses. Each hooped dome brimmed with an explosion of rounded, spiked and serrated greenery topped with blossoms in shades of pale yellow, midnight purple, flaming fuchsia, orangutan orange and every shade between.
One gardener was like an untrained border collie executing an obstacle course. She moved from one display to next selecting plants that appealed. She didn’t consider if plants went together, or if their heights were complimentary, or if the hues of green were too similar or disparate. Instinct was her guide.
She’d take her eclectic flats home and paint her pots beautiful, come what may.
The second gardener moved like a guide dog, the guardian of her pots and beds, methodical and cautious. She picked up dahlias, petunias and vinca vines, considering their individual attributes. She held one flora to another—comparing, contrasting, considering compatibility.
She’d plant a spectacular display per preconceived plan.
There’s no right way to plant a garden, just as there’s no right way to live a life.
Spontaneous or structured,
Monochromatic or polychrome,
Pure bred or mutt,
There is no RIGHT way….
Will you consider holding judgement—against yourself and others for methods and results?
Learn and consider, yes.
Judge and berate, why?
Who does that serve but the devil himself?