The Garden

You’re My Inspiration continued…

Weeks went by after my meeting on the lake with that shape-shifting man. Part of me wanted to obsess over it—to attempt to draw him with pencils and write down his words, just so I could make more sense of what exactly he was to me.

But I didn’t have time for that. I had practical things to do like going to work and writing snappy website copy for clients. And then after that, I was much too tired to create, so I ended up watching online videos instead. This is the reality. Besides, all that stuff about staring at fireflies and remembering were just a dream.

Another weekend came around, and I found myself with a wide open Saturday. It was a day with nice weather, and the possibility of sitting on my porch and enjoying it all was inviting. After blending a strawberry banana smoothie and grabbing a book on graphic design fundamentals, I relaxed on the lounge chair outside.

Part of me was like, “This is the perfect day for reading a novel, not some book about work.”

But it’s been so long since I’ve read a novel, I didn’t have a clue of what I would read. Besides, I enjoy graphic design. There’s nothing wrong with brushing up on my craft while enjoying the breeze.

I read a little bit, but I found myself getting distracted. The occasional yellow and orange butterflies that flitted by were delightful. The buzzing bumblebees and wasps were a bit unnerving, but as long as they stayed industrious and far away from me, that was fine.

And then I found myself reliving what felt like a memory.

I wandered into a garden without meaning to. The sky was that quiet blue-gray of late afternoon, where time stretches like a lazy yawn. I didn’t remember how I got to that garden. I remembered no roads and no gate.

And then I realized, this was no memory.

I was actually walking through the garden. There was the touch of rosemary brushing my knees and lavender leaning towards me like old friends. And there were also these exquisite yellow flowers that gave off a scent that felt so familiar.

It was like I had stepped into a memory that never quite happened. The garden path curved gently beneath me, worn smooth by invisible feet.

And then—he was there.

Not waiting. Not watching. Just…there. Sitting beneath a canopy of climbing roses, his long legs crossed in unhurried leisure. Today he wore trousers and a loose fitting white dress shirt. The sunlight dappled his cheeks like soft lace, and his eyes—half-lidded, unreadable—tracked the movement of a bee.

He was so still, so quiet, I nearly missed the way his fingers brushed the pages of a small, weatherworn book resting on his lap.

He looked up, his crisp blue eyes falling on me.

He wasn’t startled. And he wasn’t looking at me in a way that beckoned me to come closer. It was just a gaze that met mine–almost as if he knew me before I was born.

“You found your way,” he said in that relaxed, cultured voice of his. It was like he belonged everywhere and nowhere.

I opened my mouth to reply, but the words left me before they could land. I had too many questions and too much to say, so all that came out was nothing. He noticed this and simply smiled—not with amusement, but with a kind of inner knowing, like he’d seen this moment a thousand times. And loved it every time.

He closed the book he held in his hands

“You’ve heard me,” he said. “In pieces. In pauses. In the shiver before a choice. And honestly, I’m a bit disappointed. This is the perfect day for reading a novel—”

My heart started to race from recognition.

“—not some book about work,” I finished breathlessly, before he could. I stepped closer him. That mesmerizing floral scent I couldn’t quite pin down stirred in the air.

“What are you?” I said in almost a whisper. “Are you some kind of…muse?”

He tilted his head, and wispy silver strands fell across his brow. “That’s always the question, isn’t it?” He let out a soft laugh. “I’m much more than just some muse. I’m the part you try not to need. The part you forget when the world gets too loud. But I’m also the part that kept you creating in the dark.”

I rolled my eyes. “Ugh. It’s always more riddles with you! I don’t get it at all.”

“It’s because you try too hard,” he said bluntly. “You always try too hard. If you want to understand, you need to trust me and try less.”

I raked a hand through my hair, but before saying my next words, I checked myself. He may not be a muse in the traditional sense, but I feared that if I said anything that made him too angry, I would find myself without creative ideas forever and lose my job. I let out a breath.

“You keep saying you’re a part of me, but let’s be honest here, you look nothing like me. You’re like, my exact opposite.”

I’m short, and he’s tall. I have dark eyes and his are blue. His skin is a fair porcelain while mine is a rich, earthy brown.

He rose at my words, fluid and effortless, like mist lifting off the lake.

“The way I look reflects the energy of our relationship,” he said. “Opposites attract, sometimes.”

“And although I desire your trust, I want you to know that I’m not here to lead you. I’m here to walk beside you. Or carry the silence when you can’t.”

“Oh.”

That was all I could say. Maybe I judged… wrong?

“So…are you a dog or a wolf?”

“I’m your loyal companion,” he said.

Silence fell between us. I took another look at the blossoms swinging in the breeze. The yellow ones especially caught my attention.

“These yellow flowers are pretty,” I said, attempting to soothe the atmosphere between us and move on somewhat. “Do you know…what they are?”

“They’re ylang-ylang,” he said softly. “My favorite.”

I found myself remembering. Some years ago, my best friend Michelle had bought some organic ylang-ylang essential oil for her diffuser. She complained about how the sweet floral scent wasn’t exactly what she expected, and she ended up passing it on to me. And I—I loved it. I used that bottle down to the very last drop, and I added it to my online shopping wishlist.

But I never bought any for myself. I had completely—

“I forgot about it,” I said halfway to myself and halfway to him.

He gazed at the blossoms appreciatively and reached out to touch one. The wind stirred in the garden like a sigh. He tucked the loose fringe of his free flowing hair behind an ear.

“It’s about time you make some space for the things you truly love, my dear.”

His presence shimmered—more essence than form now, as if the light itself remembered how to hold him.

“Rest when you need,” he said, already fading into golden shadows. “I never leave.”

And then he was gone.

But I felt him everywhere.

Like the pulse of a poem.

Like the hush before a masterpiece.

Like the music of my own soul.

Of course there’s an ever evolving Pinterest board for this story…