The Eye in the Garden

BREEZILY the wafting winds channelled the petite scarp and crisp though somewhat heavy was the air. The light caressing the glistening foliage, perspiring with dew, almost in unison with everything else the eye sees. All the colours contort to magnificence. Soft and soaked in entirely the right atmosphere, the eye takes it in, hardly but a gasp from tranquillity. The eye in the garden, this garden, is blessed beyond belief. It too blesses the rest of the being, the holder of the eye.

As the springs bubble and the stream trickles harmlessly on, the eye sits mesmerised and glad. Time seems timeless. The minutes and hours pass, or not. Who cares? It makes little difference. Eden this seems, for everything is in order, from the air to the water, the well-groomed flora and even the scurrying creatures which occasionally appear in the mid of the serenely silent sound of life in the garden.

A model setting gives way to things perhaps more real, certainly more pressing. They invade the gentle, quieted space, interrupting the flow of tranquil meditation. And then they pass... again, thoughts occur, wanting to trap the eye, removing it from the garden. They vacillate in and out of the eye’s conscious vision. Meditative interruptions purge over and through.

The eye becomes an ear. The ear in the garden hears bliss-filled white noise; strange, alone and pure. The ear’s stimulus equals that which was experienced by the eye. It captivates the imagination. The eye and ear collude and build a complementary depiction, the latter overlaid with the former.

Enter the reality of analysis:

Eyes and ears see and hear all sorts of things, weird, wild, wicked and wonderful. They represent only forty percent of the known human sense realm, yet they individually and collectively represent truth—on the witness stand of common experience. Yet, truth is so cut and dried.

The garden is God’s dominion, his alone.

It does see change and this is what the eye sees occasionally. No moments are truly alike though they seem to us to be carbon-copies.

Every moment and every piece of matter styled by an eternal Craftsman.

© 2009 S. J. Wickham.