In all the years I’ve spent time in Maine, I’ve never lost my fascination for and appreciation of all the beautiful colors and textures that dot the landscape.
It doesn’t matter whether it’s the profusely blooming Rockefeller Gardens that open to the public for a short period each summer
or the quiet of Asticou Azalea Gardens
or ones that are in any yard. All are special and the flowers, as my daughter says, are brave and outspoken.
Not all gardens are blooming ones. Some are the years long effort of an individual to create spaces for whispering winds.
A lily pond invites one to sit quietly on the bank and listen to the wind’s whispers.
In gardens so individualistic, one has to pay careful attention to what is there.
Stones gathered and stacked collect wind whispers.
As the creator of this garden has discovered, everything has a purpose.
Everywhere are surprises like a cacti so out of place in Maine but seeming content in its environment.
Whether left behind or placed on purpose doesn’t matter as everything seems to belong. Every object may be something found or holds a special memory.
Nothing in the garden is without detail whether it be the crafted decoration on buildings
or a building’s relation to what is around it.
Wandering through this expansive garden that represented one man’s effort, it became obvious to me that gardens are places of imagination, dreams and memories.