Straining for the Sun

My life feels like the Denver Botanic Gardens...cold, tired, and aching from storms of snow and ice. Her half frozen streams that once flowed so vibrantly are thawing out from the bitter cold. They trickle around the sea of withered grasses and brown earth. As far as the eye can see, there is no hint of color or life. I find myself praying that this quilt of brown, blanketing her ground would wake up from it's slumber.

I stand unable to move; the wind bites at my heels and whips bitterly through her gardens. The wind sweeps me into a run. I feel my feet hurrying along her cobblestone paths; I feel my heart racing to keep up. Where is she taking me? I see a beautifully carved bench with names on them, markers where people tended to her and supported her. Next, I'm taken to nearby prairie grasses. In front of me I survey the damage from careless ones who trampled all over her.

I'm running again through a bamboo forest, over bridges and winding around evergreens. I past the summer tea house and find myself face to face with a giant wall. I can't help but wonder what is on the other side...is it a secret garden? I run my hand over the dirty surface, looking for a way in. Walking further along, I hear heavy machinery. I find a square window built into the fence. As I peer inside I see a new foundation being laid down. There is a new beginning just around the bend. She must know that there is something grand on the horizon!

Something jumps within me and I'm frolicking down the muddy path and into the rose garden. I find myself twirling and looking up towards the sky like a flower straining for the sun. That's when I see the greenhouse. I wonder why I didn't start my journey there. I hop inside and I'm transported to a different place, a tropical paradise. Her insides are teeming with life! I can't help but reach my hand out to touch her green leaves. I can't help but gaze up at the towering pillars of life all around me. I stop and smell each red, orange and pink flower. With sweat pouring down the small of my back, I blush thinking of summer.

In here, hidden inside of her, is a wellspring of life and love. Someone has been tending to her, every day. Her gardener has given her the sustenance she needs to thrive. Water gushes over and around her, folding itself into her. We may despair when we look outside at the impossibilities of her life, but when we look at the fiery hot greenhouse, the impossibilities finally look possible. Very soon, the gardens that look almost dead outside will rise up and bloom again, more magnificent than before.