I planted my first Florida garden this year.  It isn’t big, only a small strip in front of my house, but it took all the energy and love I had.  I’m not a gardener.  In fact, I don’t even know what most of the plants are, but I still think I did a great job for a beginner and I’m proud of it.

I try to show it off to others.  Most of the time, I get “uh huh” or “it’s nice,” and then they walk away.  Most of the time, I can’t even get people to look.  Others don’t see, or care, about the struggle I had digging up all the grass, tilling the soil, the planting of the seedlings.  It took me weeks to do.  I’m 60-years-old and not in tip-top shape, so it was quite the chore.  Others don’t know or care that I now have to go out every week and dig out the weeds while kneeling on my bad knees.  To them, it’s just a bunch of bushes, no different than any other Florida bushes.  But, these are MY plants, and I love them.

There are gorgeous gardens in the world.  Professional landscapers can make a work of art from the same bushes I have in my garden.  Someday, I’d love to have one of those gardens.  It’s what I visualize every time I pull a weed or give my plants some Miracle Grow.

I can relate this garden to my writing.  I’m here.  I work daily to put out the best plants and bushes I can possibly create.  Few will take notice of my work, even fewer will care.  But, it’s my garden of literature, and I love it.  I love sweating all through the creation and research.  I love digging through the soil.  In the end, I hope and pray my books will grow to have the most beautiful blossoms in the neighborhood.  Until then, I’ll continue to plant and water my little garden just for me.  It makes me happy.