The Path

I have a favorite garden in Kyoto. It wasn’t one of those totally immaculate and famous gardens. It was part of a larger park up on a hillside. But whether Japanese gardens are formal or not, they are meant to be seen by walking through them, allowing the path shifting your perspective, revealing and obscuring views. Stone steps lead your eyes as much as your feet. Meandering about this particular garden, I came to a point where two paths converged. They met up and led me another ten feet to a dead end. I found myself stopped short at a scraggly lumpy little azalea plant.

I found this both funny and sweet. The language of the garden is subtle, full of commas and parenthesis, but here was an azalea exclamation point. “Look at me! Aren’t I fantastic?”

I’ve got paths on my mind as I plan my garden for spring. We’ve lived here not a year yet, and our yard is already marked by use and habit, and the course of everyday life. Paths have been worn into the lawn, now mud. I see the path from the side gate to the shop, well worn. I see the patio to the chicken coop, well worn. I see the turn around spot that the dog has made on her wild ricochets across the yard and back.

These paths tell a story, and it is a factual account. I can respect that. I may even lay down a stone path to formalize them. But I also find myself with an urge to lay down some shiny mosaic stepping stones on the way to my rhubarb plant, way at the back of the yard. It is growing little by little while I go about my business. Sweet, tart, and sturdy. I should travel that path often and give my rhubarb a few kind words. At some point it will be the path to pie.