Glass House

Bottle House, Airlie Gardens

Bottle House, Airlie Gardens © 2013 Bo Mackison

“Dare to reach out your hand into the darkness, to pull another hand into the light.” ~ Norman B. Rice

There is a glass house in Airlie Gardens.

The glass house is constructed with bottles of all sorts, all colors, all donated in honor of a beloved artist who was also the garden gatekeeper for 25 years. It was created by local artist Virginia Wright-Frierson in 2004 and is called the “Minnie Evans Sculpture Garden Bottle House”.

Bottle House, Airlie Gardens

Bottle Wall © 2013 Bo Mackison

There’s a well-known proverb. “He who lives in a glass house, should not throw the first stone.”

And as the saying proclaims, if one has faults of their own, one should not criticize the faults of others. My way of thinking, we all have our faults, and so perhaps it would be appropriate for none of us to throw the first stone. Or the second. Or the third.

Sounds like a peaceful way to live – accepting each other, no stone throwing.

Close Up of Bottle House, Airlie Gardens

Close Up of Bottle House © 2013 Bo Mackison

“Our job is to love others without stopping to inquire whether or not they are worthy. That is not our business and, in fact, it is nobody’s business.
What we are asked to do is to love, and this love itself will render both ourselves and our neighbors worthy.” ~ Thomas Merton

Bottle House, Airlie Gardens

Half Full, Half Empty © 2013 Bo Mackison

“It’s not, ‘is the glass half full or half empty?’ It’s ‘is there anyone around who’s thirsty and needs a drink?’” ~ Cory Booker

A glass house – an interesting place for a visit with a muse.

The Listening Tree

Spanish Moss on the Tree that Speaks

Spanish Moss on the Tree that Spoke © 2013 Bo Mackison

“Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.” ~ Hermann Hesse

I visited Airlie Gardens while visiting Wilmington, North Carolina.

I admired the antique camellias in bloom and studied Airlie Oak, one of the oldest live oaks in North Carolina estimated to be 467 years old. I sat in century old gardens by the sea, watched as several swans acrobatically supped from an algae covered lake, and played in a bottle house – a house constructed of thousands of colored glass bottles – dedicated to local artist Minnie Evans. And all the while, as I strolled through the 67 acre park with fellow member of the Thoreau Sauntering Club, Debi Bradford, I searched for a tree.

I thought, quite certainly, that the tree I wanted to touch and listen to would be one of the magnificent live oaks. Such majestic trees, ancient, hovering over our heads, draped with Spanish moss. But I passed dozens of oaks. I thought them beautiful and stretched my hands upon several of their trunks. But I didn’t really feel the right connection.

And before anyone begins to think, “woo – woo, she talks to trees”, well . . . I do not talk to trees. But often I do listen to trees. Truly, I do.

Even Hermann Hesse understood the practice of listening to trees.

After an hour of sauntering, we came upon a small formal garden, the Pergola Garden. The structure was built from coquina, crushed shells, in the early 1900s. Water in a three tired fountain gurgled; the leaves on the nearby live oaks rustled.

There, on the fringe, buttressed by the wooden beams, stood a pine tree.

Crushed stone covered its roots which were stretching towards Airlie Lake. It had thousands of pine cones, a few strands of Spanish moss dressed its bare branches, and it didn’t have many needles. An old tree.

It was a sunny space, and since the wind was blowing chilly, we stopped to rest in the sunlight. I reached out, as is my habit, and placed my palm on the pine. Nice. There was a pleasant energy about the pine. So I put both hands on the tree, leaned my head upon the bumpy bark.

Listening to the Pine © 2013 Debi Bradford

Listening to the Pine © 2013 Debi Bradford

I stood there a long time, long enough that my sauntering partner respectfully walked another path, a kindred offer of time and space. I stood there, soaking in the sun, letting my mind wander, and studied the pine, her branches, the moss, the cones and needles. The wood beams squared against her trunk. I waited.

Finally, I searched in my camera bag for pen and paper, found a torn piece from an old check book cover, and scribbled these words:

There is perfection in imperfection.
What you think you must have is not always what you need.
There are alternatives and workarounds.
What I seek while I journey about, I often discover on the journey within.

That is how I listen to a tree.