Story 3: The Question Garden

Clara walked through a field that was bare as a bone.

“Where am I?” she asked to no one in particular. 

The moment the words left her lips, a tiny yellow daisy poked up from the dirt.

“Where did you come from?” Clara said with a start. 

And just as she said it, a whole bed of pink roses unfolded around her feet. 

Baffled, befuddled, and a little bit alarmed, Clara tip-toed backward, careful not to crush any of the marigolds peeking through sod. Curiosity bubbled once again to her lips. “How in the world?” she asked.

At the cue of her voice, a long row of lilacs and lemon balm popped up at her side. 

For every question she raised–What? Where? Why? When?–a new bloom would rise up from the soft brown dirt. Clara loved all the flowers that sprang from her questions.

In her boundless curiosity, she raced through the garden. With every question she popped–How? Who? Whom? Whose?–fresh buds and bouquets opened around her until she was in a small garden.

Then a flower farm.

Then a rainforest.

Then a paradise as far as her eyes could see.

Every morning she woke with the dawn and stood in her garden.

“What’s new?” she would ask. And a bright red blossom would burst.

“What’s your name?” she would say next. And the red flower would grow larger, and a dozen more petals would scuttle up beneath.

“Which do you like?” would grow pansies.

“How far are the stars and how many are there?” grew palms.

“How do you feel about the weather today?” grew papaya.

The simplest Whats and Hows and How do you dos caused the whole garden floor to burst with color and marvelous smells.

Deeper questions, like What do you believe? and Why is that so? and What’s at the end of the universe? popped up huge purple willows and ivy-covered oaks.

Clara was very happy in her garden.

For months.

And for years.

But as time passed, her curiosity slowly started to fade.

As her questions grew less, the garden began to wither.

And after many years, Clara’s mind had turned stiff as stone and her questions all but stopped.

She grew old and wonderless.

The world called it “growing up” but it was really more like “shrinking down.”

And when she looked at the place where her garden once flourished, now she saw only weeds and a few mangled stumps.

 

It had been so long and her curiosity had so hardened, Clara felt certain what had happened to her garden was the natural order of things. “Life passes,” she said, with hardly a tear. “Gardens fade. Flowers fall.”

At times, she tried watering and weeding and laying down new soil–for she missed the flowers and forests she’d known–but nothing worked. And by now, she no longer remembered how to tend her garden.

Until, when she was old and gray like the desert where she now lived, a little girl approached. “Ms. Clara, what’s something you learned in all your years?” the girl asked.

The question rang in Clara’s ears. It made her think. Made her wonder. Made her remember a thing she’d forgotten. And she looked down, and right between the little girl’s feet stood the tiniest tulip.

“That’s a good question,” Clara said. And with a smile on her face, and a fresh wonder in her mind, she said, “What’s your name, little one?”

“Delilah,” said the girl, just as a hyacinth bloomed out of the sand.

“Delilah, my dear,” said Clara. “I learned, and am learning still, to never stop asking questions.”

Together, their hearts and minds buzzed, and all their questions turned into the most fruitful and beautiful garden either of them had ever known.