The Hand That Unfolds

©1991 Debra L. Clifton

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The hand clamped around the flower top, pulling petals from its center under its dark pressure. All at once, the heavy weight released as quickly as it came. The flower stem popped up, casting forth seed that had been jarred loose. The flower’s companion looked dolefully at its friend.

“Well, you are a sight for sore eyes, Violet. Gone is your beautiful crown of petals, and your precious gold eye is no more. Tsk, tsk. At least you are bent over, not broken. Perhaps with some light and rain from the gardener you shall survive in time, though I doubt you will regain your former glory.”

The bruised flower winced, “Why does the gardener tend to us so carefully only to crush us within his hand? See now, I’ve lost some of my seeds! Truly to look at me is no longer a delight in man’s eyes.”

“This is such a curious garden,” piped the nearby rose. “I’ve heard it said by the visitors that there is none such as magnificent as this in all the land. They say that the gardener must be an odd fellow. Never have they seen him, but surely he comes, for no garden can maintain itself without a keeper.”

“We have beheld him, though,” added the violet, indignant over his bruising by the gardener. “Why, he crushes us all in his hands! Is that any way to bring forth beauty? Humph! Some gardener is he!”

“Yes, Violet, he may crush us,” interrupted the rose, “but your memory has been damaged by your crushing. Why, you know that each day footprints appear on the grasses where he has walked. Have you forgotten, not one grass blade has complained yet of being broken?”

“That may be,” added the violet, “but I don’t agree with the way he does things. Whoever heard of a garden where there is no night? He is always trimming and filling those infernal lamps of his! Day or night he keeps them lit. Never has one gone out completely. You call that normal? Whoever heard of a garden with no darkness!” The violet stood up straight now, satisfied that he had silenced his companion’s estimate of the gardener.

The stillness was broken by a rushing wind passing through the trees in the garden. The nearby trees seemed to bow under the wind’s force. “You’re right, my friends,” chimed an olive tree. “This is a peculiar garden. The olive trees of ancient times have recited a tale from generation to generation about this very garden. They claimed that in this spot a man travailed so great with the Creator that he washed the ground with tears of blood. Many a man refuses to labor to bring water to a garden, let alone feed it with his precious blood!” The olive tree’s branches bent over as if weeping. “They say he was taken away by a mob that very night, to later hang from a tree. No, my friends, this can be no normal garden for such a thing to happen here.”

“Ugh!,” exclaimed the rose. “What curse is this that caused such a plight within this garden! Perhaps the gardener keeps the lamps lit to prevent this curse from consuming the garden.”

“Curse! Humph!” scoffed the violet. “If he is so worried about us why did he crush me in his hands? You’d better be wary of him, Rose. Have you not seen him with those shears, snipping the other roses from their source? You may be next. We will see what your opinion is, when he comes to cut you off!”

The violet railed on, caught up in his estimation of the gardener. “What kind of caretaker is he? Have you not noticed the strange plants growing among us now? If he is so worried about us why doesn’t he pull up these intruders before they choke out our food and light? Besides, how can we rest if there is no darkness? No, my friends, I don’t buy that tale! I don’t see how any good can come out of all the evil that is happening to us.”

“Oh, little Violet!,” chastised the olive tree. “You know not the ways of the gardener nor this garden you are in. Be still for a moment and observe what deliverance he shall work.” A sudden gust of wind caught the Olive tree’s branches, sending the sound of its rustling leaves throughout the garden. The noise seemed to add to the little violet’s rancor.

“Oh, why can’t you be still, Olive tree! Always offering your advice as if somehow you know all the gardener’s thoughts and ways! Besides, who would believe your tale? How could blood come from the sweat of a man? I’ll just bet he pricked himself on some thorns. Travail indeed! Curse indeed! Why, the only curse around here are those intruders. I know they aren’t flowers. If the gardener is so smart, why doesn’t he see that!” Satisfied with his argument, he stopped.

“Ouch! Now why did that child have to step on me! Why can’t these visitors stay on the paths? It’s crowded enough with those intruders growing up next to me,” complained the violet.

The olive tree laughed. “Oh, little violet, stop your murmuring. Can you not just rest and enjoy the sunlight?”

The violet, offended by the olive tree, decided to punish him by not conversing with him. The days grew longer and hotter, and the violet regretted his decision no to talk to the olive tree. In fact, he needed his friend’s help to determine just how big the intruders had grown. There seemed to be a lack of abundant food and light since they had settled in. The violet felt such a tightness on his roots, he could barely send them forth for moisture anymore. Perhaps the olive tree would have wisdom on how to rid himself of these intruders. “But I’ve neglected the olive tree so,” he muttered to himself, “do you think he will listen to me now?”

The days grew shorter and the violet began to lose strength. Still, he could not bring himself to speak to the olive tree. From time to time, the great tree would send forth speech by his rustling leaves. But the little violet knew not the language of the leaves.

“Oh, I hope it is not too late to talk to the olive tree,” he wept bitterly. “Why, I’ve grown so weak I have not the strength to project my voice. Those intruders have cut off all my nourishment. I can see clearly now that they are not flowers but weeds! Ugly, greedy weeds that have ensnared me! Where is the gardener? Does he not care? Is he blind to my circumstance? Perhaps the olive tree could tell him about my plight,” he anguished.

Suddenly, he heard the scattering of stones from footsteps on the path. The gardener at last! He mustered up all the strength he had left in him and shouted, sure that the gardener could not hear him, for his voice was now but a whisper. “Forgive me, gardener, for I have not esteemed you! Nor did I heed the counsel of the olive tree!” Completely devoid of strength now, he crumpled into a heap. The gardener stooped down and ever so gently caressed the violet with the palm of his right hand.

“Ouch! What is that pain!” cried the violet. The gardener had pulled up the intruders and swiftly threw them beyond the garden. “Well, at least I’m rid of those pests.” The violet was able to view the garden for the first time in months. “But where have all the other flowers gone? Have they succumbed to death by other intruders?”

He gazed up to thank the gardener, only to see him pick up a rod and begin beating the olive tree. His heart began to fill with compassion for the olive tree. “Stop!” he screamed. “Why must you beat the tree so? Of what value is his fruit when you can pick anything else grown in this garden?” But the gardener did not heed his voice.

The cold and the rain overtook the violet and he withered away into the earth. He remained in the darkness of the cold ground, his mind racing with thoughts of the garden. “But what will become of me? And why did the gardener beat the olive tree so mercilessly? Is my friend the olive tree alive?” He despaired throughout the winter.

The violet’s remorse began to retreat as the sun’s rays warmed the ground. Each rain seemed to bring new life to his small body. “Could the tale of the garden be true?” mused the violet. He felt as if blood coursed around the ground and through him, invigorating him, bringing life. Then one day, he knew it was so as he burst through the ground into the welcome sunshine. The moment he broke through the ground, the violet glanced up at the olive tree. “He is alive!” rejoiced the violet. The flower marveled at the green buds all over the tree. He eyed the tree for evidence of the gardener’s beating, but there was none. “That’s odd,” he pondered. “Perhaps the gardener cut off all his injured limbs. What’s this? For every one limb that was beaten there are now two!”

The violet could no longer keep his thoughts to himself. Maybe the olive has forgotten my silly feud. “Hello, Olive tree!,” he shouted joyously. “I thought you were dead, but now I see you are alive!”

“I have never left, Violet.” He spoke with such compassion. “It was you that died. But look about you now and rejoice, for your seed has come forth also.” The violet peered around, astonished. All about him were dozens of plants such as himself.

“Truly, I do not understand about this garden, nor its keeper,” he exclaimed to the olive tree. “Except that he brings life from death and overcomes the intruders. Perhaps,” submitted the violet humbly, “you could teach me to know him and his ways as you do?”

The olive tree’s leaves rustled in the wind as if to nod approval. The sound of which was music to the violet’s ears.

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“The Hand That Unfolds”
Copyright 1991, 2004 Debra L. Clifton

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