Summers are so alluring... the heat, the sun, the greenery, everything compells you to venture outside. Luckily my sister loves hiking as much as I do, and Bernard never complains for some vegetation underneath his paws. So a company of three explores the wild wild wild. The more I am surrounded by it the more I realise how far removed our daily lives are from it. Sometimes the most wonderful thing is of the simplest, and words do it no justice. The gardens God planted are not English gardens with 90 degree hedges, herbs found in the herb garden and the roses only facing the Southern wing. To us outsiders it might appear as sheer chaos. But stay a while, allow the cobbling stream to mesmerize you - a minute or two later it sounds like a song. And you realise how well this self-sufficient garden functions. Everything happens in its perfect time without having to remind Innocent to water the Azaleas.
Songs of the stream also by occasion have the effect of introspection. Therefor I could not help but wonder what kind of garden am I? Up close all I see is disarray and labyrinths that lead to who knows where. Could it be that when you listen closely, the stream will have a song? I pray that I may hear it too.