My Secret Garden
Would you like to know what my garden is like? Before I tell you, why don’t you stop and close your eyes and picture in your mind’s eye what you think my garden looks like? That’s right, conjure up the image that forms when you think of me and what my garden might be like. Take your time, move around it and ensure you have given it due consideration as you generate the image.
Have you done it? Did it take you long? I suspect you managed to envisage it rather quickly didn’t you, after all, you are well-known for your amazing imagination aren’t you? I often find I have to apologise for your fantastic tales and over the top comments, but that is to be expected of somebody like you. Anyway, let’s leave your behaviour to one side for the time being (although I will return to it when nobody is looking, you can be assured of that) and let’s consider what you created in your mind.
I should imagine that the landscape you have formulated is one of two outcomes. I expect that some of you will have pictured nothing but concrete. All plant life and flora banished by a solid slab of grey cement that has solidified into an impenetrable barrier that stretches in all directions, lifeless and uninspiring. Once there might have been a flourishing and verdant garden but it has been banished by this concrete covering which has extinguished anything that grew or blossomed. If the concrete carbuncle is not what you saw in your mind then you will have opted for the alternative.
You will have pictured solid, barren and lifeless soil which will not sustain anything of beauty. A toxic and poisonous stream flows through the centre of it, dead fish floating on their backs as they drift lifelessly along. Not even algae grows on this polluted stream. The few trees there are in this garden are dead. The bark grey and lifeless, forlorn limbs stretching into a dark grey sky, where there is always cloud. The branches and twigs are leafless. The bushes consist of brambles which hinder anybody who might try and move through this uninviting place. There is no grass and there a few brown, dried-out husks which suggest there might have once been something greener and vibrant. There are no sweet smelling flowers here, only the awful stench which rises from the slow-moving stream which looks more like treacle than water. Even the weeds are few and far between, struggling to find any sustenance from the sterile soil.
Is this what you saw?
Come and follow me as I take you into my secret garden. I produce a key from my jacket explaining that very few people ever get to see my secret garden but I am letting you inside because you are special and I like you. I open the thick gate and usher you inside. You do not see me hurriedly lock it behind you since you are busy staring at the beautiful garden that rolls out before you. Capability Brown must have laboured long and hard here. The lawn is flat and even, the grass has been rolled so that stripes have formed and there is not one blemish to be seen amidst the green, green blades. The edges of the lawn have been carefully cut so that no grass overhangs so that there is a distinct line between the lawn and the flower beds. The soil looks fertile, well-nourished and is free of weeds. A dazzling array of flowers grow from this well-tilled soil.
Strong stalks reach up towards the azure sky, shiny leaves sprouting from the stalks before the injection of colour appears. Every shade of the rainbow is represented amongst the many varieties of flower that flourish in my secret garden. Brilliant blues, fiery oranges, ruby reds and sunshine yellows abound. The flowers have short petals, long petals which move in the gentle breeze, there are bell-shaped flowers, trumpet shaped flowers and others shaped like stars. White, purple, scarlet and ochre all combine to create this tapestry of beauty. A stream gurgles as it passes through the garden, cutting across the magnificently manicured lawn, so that an intricate bridge has been created allowing one to traverse from one side to the other. Bushes ring the flowers, an expert in topiary having crafted them into sensational shapes. Beyond the bushes are the trees, tall and trimmed so that they form a fence around this paradise. You stand on the edge of this magnificent garden utterly transfixed. The scents waft from the roses, from the lilies and the sweet William combining to create a heady concoction of fragrances. You are over awed by this display.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
You are dumb-founded, unable to speak. All you can muster is a slow nod as you feel a tear trickle down your cheek from your left eye as you are overtaken by how beautiful it all is.
I beckon to you and you follow me to a nearby apple tree which is festooned with fruit. The red and green apples hang from the branches and I pluck one and pass it to you. You smile and take a bite anticipating how fresh and crisp the apple will be. Your teeth easily sink in as you are surprised to find the flesh of the apple soft. You taste bitterness in your mouth and instinctively spit out the piece of fruit.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as I select an apple too.
“It is sour,” you explain. I take a bite from my apple and you hear the crunch as I take a chunk from it. I chew and through the mouthful explain that mine tastes fine. I hand the apple to you and you bite into it. It is soft and again tastes sour. Confusion rises inside you as you look at the apple and see a maggot wriggling beneath where you have bitten into the apple. You hurl the apple away as I invite you to sniff a magnificent rose nearby. You lean in and inhale its perfume, pulling the petalled head towards you. There is no scent and instead you sneeze.
As you let go of the rose you give a short cry of pain and find that a thorn is wedged in your finger, the blood already spooring from the wound and trickling down your finger. You sneeze again,your nose irritated by something and you keep sneezing as your eyes water. You stagger away from the rose still sneezing and into a bush but it is not the sculpted creation you saw moments earlier. Instead, you feel a prickling sensation as you are stung and realise you have stumbled into a bed of nettles. Pain rising you stagger away, eyes streaming and make for where you recall the stream is hoping to use the cool, clear water to wash away the irritation you have suffered.
You can just make out where it is through your blurred vision as you drop to your knees only to cry out again. You have knelt on some thistles.Where did they come from? This lawn was flawless before. You reach out flailing for the stream but there is nothing, The water has gone and the stream has dried up. You feel something wrap around your left wrist and as you try to wipe away the tears from your eyes with your free hand, you feel pain as a vine begins to tighten about your wrist. You pull trying to free yourself from it and twist around to call to me for help.
The smooth lawn is no longer there. Gone is the rolled grass. Instead you are looking at a mountainside, rugged and steep. You yank your arm as the vine is trying to pull you and look upwards. You can see me standing there smiling at you, looking down from my lofty position atop this mountain which has sprung out of nowhere. A cold wind begins to blow as you shout for help, another vine beginning to snake towards you. I tilt my head as if I cannot hear you, a smile still plastered across my face.
“Help me, what is happening?” you shout.
“Nothing,” I call back, ” I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“This. The garden, it has changed,” you yell above the gathering wind. You see that I am shaking my head.
” Not it’s not, everything is just the same, Beautiful isn’t it?” I reply.
You frown. How can I not see what has altered? The beautiful glade has become a hostile and hurtful place. How has this happened to you? You try and crawl forward and I stand watching you, offering no help as more vines snake towards you, the ground beneath you hard and stony. The vines wrap about you and threaten to pull you into the abyss below you. All the while I stand and watch smiling.
Welcome to my secret garden.
13 thoughts on “My Secret Garden”
Dear Mr Tudor,
Your beautifully written article resonates with me whereby the weasel had this tiny garden, filled with gnomes (I hate gnomes, creepy, just like him) an archway with some paving, a small mural painted wall, garden knicknacks, clumps of sweet white alyssum flowers, a tiny patch of lawn he clipped by hand and a couple of large pots with Woolly bush plants
It was quite cute n charming when we first layed eyes on it
However, over the course of our friendship, it slowly deteriorated and everything was near dead
The last time I saw it, I asked what happened
” I don’t know ” was his answer
Luv Bubbles xx 😘
Very well written! I imagined something totally different. I imagined a garden of horror with statues of the bodies of your exes, a cemetery of broken hearts, ghosts flying around, crying and screaming in pain “WHY?”, and “HELP US”!”, a dark place where there´s no sunshine, dark an cold!
This is still one of my favourite articles.
The more I read it, the more I appreciate it in different ways.
I was surprised this time to realise that not once does the ‘guest’ think of leaving.
I feel like that ‘guest’ was once us, in our own narcissistic relationships.
That’s what I love about HGs stories. You can really enter into them.
Absolutely, that guest was once us. And this time I saw that she (let’s say ‘she’) was not thinking of leaving because she missed all the red flags, thought something had changed (when it was just the illusion evaporating), and still relied on the host for help!
I was thinking: ‘you can taste that the apple (the apple, of course, in that garden of Eden – a fruit that stands for knowledge of Good and Evil) is sour, though you are being told that it’s not – well, it might not be for the narcissist, but if it is for you, trust your senses and get out’.
The fact that I saw this aspect, this time, might well be a sign that ‘look out for the red flags, trust your own perception’ is something I will do automatically, from now on.
(Side note: I try to avoid the word ‘hope’ – I was about to write: “I hope that the fact I saw this aspect etc”; HG says that hope is a false mistress. A few days ago, I was reminded of this as I was listening to a radio programme about this author, Imre Kertész, a Hungarian Jew who spent some time in a concentration camp in 1944-45; he said that hope is a variation of evil. And yesterday, I came across the Greek myth of Pandora again and realised that I had forgotten all about one essential element of it: Pandora opened the box (or jar) full of evils that were then unleashed onto humankind. She tried to close it quickly but managed to keep only one of those *evil* things inside: Hope, which can also translate as “deceptive expectation”. So… it has to be certainty, or nothing!)
Hi Fiddleress, yes, missing those red flags is something we’ve probably all done. And ultimately paid the price for, as well. We saw what we wanted to see (having been presented to us in a nice neat little package by the narcissist) and blinded ourselves to what we didn’t want to see (because surely the contents of that package were not an illusion).
Thoughts on hope. Sometimes it’s all we have to cling to. It becomes delusional when you have been deceived in the first instance (which we always have been with a narcissist). It is possible to rest on it as a means of inaction, but by and large what hope does is hold out promise. Therefore, in my mind, hope becomes a motivator to action. Hope is the inspiration that things will be different, that they can be made different, that we can will change and possibilities. It’s one word I will never delete from my vocabulary, though there is certainly a reason to temper the idea when it comes to recognizing the narcissist.
I can see how such a thing may be a grey area narcissists can’t contemplate, but it’s one most empaths will embrace. Which is where once again we become impaled on that devil’s pitchfork and the narcissist is able to take advantage of us. At the same time, the opposite of hope is despair. Hope is the thing that keeps us going through the toughest of times. Hope of change, of survival, of so many things. It creates the vision which then promotes the action. Despair will only lead to despondency, and worse. It robs us.
I’m afraid I’m going to keep hoping … part of my essence as an empath.
And continue to trust in one of the three things remaining (faith, hope and love).
Hope is also what keeps people ensnared and suffering longer than need be. Hoping things will be different and return to the golden period, hoping they won’t hoover, hoping that with your help they will come to see the error of their ways…
Hoping is waiting for someone or some unknown force to alter your reality and put you on a better path. Hoping is waiting and none of us know how much time we have.
Better to decide your own path and use the information and tools available here to act instead of hope.
I can see what you mean lickemtomorrow, and I can really understand as I am only in the process of reviewing my outlook on life, but now I try to rephrase my thoughts whenever I can feel the word “hope” popping up. Because to know that someone who spent time in concentration camps said hope was a variation of evil, was really striking. I will read his book about it, because he obviously didn’t rely on hope in order to survive, and indeed ended up seeing hope as something negative. (Here I think of Dante’s “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here” – here being hell.)
Of course we must delete the word when it comes to narcissists. But even with non-narcissists, I rephrase, by saying precisely “I wish you all the best with this or that.” For instance.
I do not see despair as an alternative to hope; stoïcism might be a better alternative. I prefer to say from now on: “we shall see – what will be, will be”, because there is a limit to how far we can influence the outcome of events.
This is why I do not see hope as inaction either, but in this case maybe you meant ‘a will’, more than ‘hope’?. Just knowing that you did your part as best you could where you wanted to achieve something, and that the rest is up to other factors beyond your control, is action – you had a will then, more than hope, acted on it, and the outcome will be as it will be.
Interestingly, this discussion about hope prompted me to search for a word that I couldn’t think of in English – and that’s because it doesn’t exist in English! We have a word (espérance) which is translated as “expectation” but it is not quite that, because we have another word for “expectation”. ‘Espérance’ is between hope and expectation: it carries less passivity and more trust in the outcome than ‘hope’, AND less certainty than ‘expectation’.
We also have a saying that means ‘Hope is what keeps you going’ or ‘Hope helps you to go on living’, but it is mostly used very ironically (meaning you can always hope for this or that, but you’ll never get it).
I agree that hope is indeed part of being an empath, but maybe we can temper it with a form of stoïcism so as to avoid disappointment.
Gosh I’m getting old, haha!
Narcissists have a different perspective than we do regarding Hope. In my last office, we would say to my narc boss, ‘Wish me luck’, and he would always answer, ‘You don’t need luck, you’ve got skill‘.
I think Hope, to a narcissist, is not a black or white word, it’s a gray word. It’s suggests an outcome that could go either way, it’s got 50/50 odds. It’s a word that means inaction, that you’re not going to do anything, you’re going to leave it to fate to decide. A narcissist must control everything, they harbor no doubts that whomever they meet will like them, whatever they do will succeed. They don’t leave it to hope or chance. They’ll do whatever it takes to ensure an outcome, and if it does fail, they’ll shrug it off and move on to the next one. ‘It’s a numbers game’ the boss would always say.
I am not a narcissist but that is how I see hope also. As inaction.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
No. I don’t like it.
I don’t like it because it makes me sad.
It makes me sad because something that was so beautiful has become something wicked and cruel.
It has become loathsome and derelict. Bereft of all beauty and solace.
This is not the garden of truth and peace, but of deception and disease.
It is the destruction and dismantling of goodness.
I don’t like your garden.
I will go now and make my own.
Beautiful. Sad. Terrifying. Apt.