THE SECRET GARDEN

I had never read "The Secret Garden" and so for a little light reading, this summer I decided I would.  It might be a children's book, but I really enjoyed it.  I'm sure most people know it's about three children who find a walled in garden that has been locked up for 10 years.  It brings them great delight to bring the garden back to life.  It's a joyous book filled with beautiful descriptions and endearing children. Mary and Colin start out being frail and sickly but running in the wind and breathing the fresh air gives them health, appetite and strength.
The book, though, is really about the power of our thoughts.  As we believe so we are.  Colin believed he was a sickly child who would die at any time, but when he changed his thoughts, surrounding himself with beautiful growing things, he changed too and became well. He believed magic was in the garden and in him and so he got healthy and full of life.

I believe in magic.  As I sit here writing, a thunderstorm is shaking my windows, and my dog, Yukon, is worried and whining. Who wouldn't believe in magical forces when nature rumbles and lights up the sky? The sounds are frightening and awesome at the same time. Apparently, when lightening strikes it heats up the air to 48,000 degrees fahrenheit.  That causes the air to rapidly expand and as it does, it makes the loud sound that is thunder. And yet, I prefer to think of it as magic.
I think everyone needs a secret garden, if only an imaginary one.  A place where one can go to be alone and clear out the rubble of thoughts that accumulate all day. Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, "There are voices which we hear in solitude, but they grow faint and inaudible as we enter into the world."  Magic is there all the time but we need a sanctuary of solitude to let the magic blossom.  But then maybe magic happens all the time and we're just too busy to notice.  I could be doing housework right now, and ignore this light show of nature, but instead, I've chosen to sit at my desk to watch the storm play outside my window and give Yukon a reassuring pat now and then.

Which brings me to Yeats. He is a poet. Yeats sits inside his own walled sanctuary quietly observing what nature has put on display for him.   He sees the the dragonflies and ants, the birds and feathers, the daffodils and the dewdrops on the leaves. He watches the ivy grow and the clouds change shapes overhead. Here, he can observe, and think and write. He allows the magic to flow through his pen, creating beautiful poetry.
You can enter the Secret Garden, too, but there is a price of admittance.  You have to pay attention.