There was once a builder who had a great desire to create. The builder longed for a space that could be called his own so that he could create things of great beauty. He thought to surround himself with beauty and in his beautiful surroundings he imagined he would create great works that would serve all of mankind. The builder had the seeds to greatness planted deep within him.And there they lie.
Those precious seeds of imagining that the world is so hungry for lie there deep inside the builder. Waiting.
The builders dreams were grand. He thought often of the perfect abode for his gift and the gifts he would create from the talent he had been given. He thought much about how he should present himself when the time for the sharing of his creativity finally arrived. He designed in his mind the gardens he would stroll in and could in his mind’s eye see the trees he was waiting to plant.
The builder was happy only in his dreams of tomorrow. He sat in daily squalor waiting for the place for him to build to reveal itself. He grew impatient. His creativity became dulled by the monotony of his constant search for this perfect place, he place that he could call his own. He passed many bitter years waiting.
The builder found himself in a barren place that he knew he could not stay in, yet he lingered many years. He watched as seasons changed in this desolate place in which he found himself. As a dusty summer faded into a mud covered winter the builder watched in despair. As winter brought forth a timid spring in which nothing chose to grow the builder could bear it no longer.
Knowing full well that he might never see seeds become trees he planted a garden. He cleaned away the filth row by row. He worked the soil. He removed the weeds. He worked long into the day. He got dirt under his nails. Sometimes he would wake to see that trash had come to rest again. At first this would anger him. He thought to leave the space to its ugliness. But his soul could not bear it and he came to terms with the difficulty of his task. He learned to patiently clear obstacles and begin again. He slept well and dreamed of the gardens.
Finally the garden was planted. He tended it. Cleared the weeds and rubbish. It bloomed. The builder would sit outside in his temporary garden and he felt a great peace in the midst of the work of his hands.
Soon a great event moved the builder from his garden. He found himself in a place that had no garden and no dirt to plant one. The place was not very comfortable and there was little the builder could do to make it better.
He thought often of the beautiful garden he had created. He knew that someone else lived in the shack where he had planted the garden and he was surprised at the joy it brought him to think of the family in the garden he had planted.
Soon the builder was moved to yet another place he knew he would not stay. It was better than the others but not the place he had dreamed for himself. He settled in and begin to plant a garden. Knowing this garden would also soon belong to someone else. He used all his talent on its design. He made it as he would like it to be. He thought of the family in the first garden he had planted and he worked with great joy.
Soon the garden bloomed and again the builder was surrounded by the effort of his labor. He sat in his window in winter and watched as rain fell on the well tended earth. He sat on the porch in summer in the cool warm evening watching the flowers sleep in their perfect beds. He worked late into the day in the spring tending this garden that he did not own.
When the builder thinks of the place that will finally and forever be his own; he hopes someone is tending his garden.
Never give up
never give up
keep planting seeds
I like your poem
in this fertile world
Oh how wonderful to share in the builders realization. i too went from house to house planting gardens, always believing they would keep me rooted. However, each time I moved on and left behind my hand(y) work for the next occupant to enjoy. In Sacramento I planted Birds of Paradise fully knowing it would take 5 years for me to see one bird bloom (unfortunately I moved away during the fourth year). Not to be outdone, I visited them six years later without the knowledge of the current occupant, and found all twelve had grown into a healthy bouquet. My heart leaped. When I moved yet again and bought another 40 acres, I planted and planted until there was very little space left. Sadly, even birds of Paradise fly south for the winter in the mid-west. But each year my harvest is bountiful. Today, I sit waiting for the snow to clear so that I can once again help momma Gaia show her splendor. For now, I will wait patiently in my office and look out onto an atrium that I have claimed as my own. I will pretend I am on the West coast smelling the salty air and look for new seeds. It is not hard for me to imagine, for right in front of my view is a Bird of Paradise blooming just for me.
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