Wild Greens

Miniature homes in mushrooms and corked glass bottles for thumb-sized fairies. Spellbinding colors and patterns in watercolor pencil and crayon. A wish on a delicate, embroidered dandelion. This month’s issue of Wild Greens is an enchanted garden of literary and artistic delights.

Maggie Topel's digital logo “Enchanted” entices us into a fairy ring created by fantastic red mushrooms. It will transport us into the issue of Wild Greens.  

Melissa Lomax’s watercolor and crayon “Mushroom Village 03” depicts a tiny village of mushrooms, complete with miniature lawn chairs and chimneys that suggest someone small and magical may be at home.

Carol Mikoda’s poem “True Love” evokes love and magic, inviting fairies to a lawn party. Grace Clark’s watercolor and colored pencil “Glass Terrarium” makes us look twice; is this an ordinary terrarium, or are those fairies in the cacti?

Kimvalrie Neal's watercolor pencil and color foil “All in Nature” depicts the cycle of nature in stunning colors.

In Nilsa Mariano’s short story, a woman visits "The Healer," who gives her a riddle. The riddle suggests that love can mend a broken heart.  

Lisa Dailey’s “Make a Wish” depicts a delicate dandelion seed head in acrylic and embroidery. In Ngonidzashe Mhizha’s poem “Hypnotic,” love casts a spell over the speaker.

Angela Patera’s watercolor “The Owl Whisperer” pulls us into a fantastic world of magic and adventure.

When you leave the issue, we hope you take a little piece of the enchanted with you. A tiny seed in a bottle, a bit of earth in your pocket, a poem in your ear.

-Rebecca

True Love

The Healer

by Nilsa Mariano

I heard that she was a healer, and despite my good health, my heart was hurting. It felt bruised and tender. Betrayed and bereft, I longed for faith or hope. Concerned friends gave me the address. The house was set back on a country road, with five-foot fences staked on each side of the walkway to protect the enclosed gardens.

Tinkling chimes were hung throughout; tiny house bird feeders stood architecturally proud. Gables, gingerbread trim, teeny columns, and chimneys; you could see the attention to detail in each one.

There were rocks near flowering plants, painted with inspiring messages and patterns that looked joyous and innocent. I wondered if she had children paint them, or if this was evidence of her nature. Looking right to left, I watched the play of light as the breeze moved bells and small colorful pinwheels spun carefree in patterns of dots, stripes, and colors of red, blue, yellow, and purple.

Iridescent colored glass decorated several chimes on her porch, so large their tubes almost skimmed the ground. Eyes of glass surrounded the bell on her door. My cultural upbringing understood that they were for protection. The door opened to the brief soundtrack of Bob Marley’s “Stir It Up.” I was intrigued.

I first noticed she was tall. But then again, I am short. Anyway, she was dressed in flowing pants and a flowered shirt in soft violet colors. She wore multiple bracelets of beads, stones, and gold. Thick curls of silver framed her face, yet her skin had no discernible lines or wrinkles except around her eyes when she smiled. Her voice was soft but not fake, meditative, like the mellow tone of a Spanish guitar. She asked my language of preference and apologized because she only spoke six. English, Spanish, Italian, German, Mandarin, and Faerie. When I told her I loved her garden, she smiled warmly and invited me to see the huge one in the back. We stepped out to her back deck, where the fantasy of Narnia seemed to have originated.

There were roses, violets, gaillardia, more bird feeders, and magical creatures. Tiny dragons with wings and a bit of an attitude puffed smoke at me from their rear ends as they glided by. Winged unicorns, semi-dressed nymphs, bearded gnomes, dragonflies, a couple of miniature horses eager for petting, and birds that spoke in many languages chirped their greetings. Teeny mermaids with glistening fins swam in a fountain. They spray us with water from their teeny mouths as we walk by, then jump in the water, giggling. The walkways glistened in neon colors. Between tall stacks of sunflowers and tiny faerie villages, we spent hours sipping wine from grapes she harvested outside her greenhouse.

As dusk began to fall, we ate greens, fruits, and cheese curds with fresh hot bread. We laughed and joked until I spilled my whole life, while she listened attentively. I can’t remember what she responded with, but the words left me feeling tender, cared for, even a bit wiser. I do remember she quoted some poetry and got up several times to fetch a book and read a passage. The memory is in my mind, a visual picture with no spoken narrative.

I woke up the next day not knowing when I left or how I got home. A basket of fruit with a set of chimes lay on my table. Reaching for the chimes, my ears pick up a low undertone, a secret chord from the tubular bells. A note tucked inside the basket says, “One life, only love can.” I am not sure what that means. I don’t like cryptic notes.

I glance out the window and see my neighbor struggling to carry in her garbage can and recycling containers. She is an avid recycler, fervent environmentalist, and physically frail human. I grab my jacket and go out the door, greet her, and take two recycling bins into her garage. I then go back and get two more. She is very grateful and asks how she can repay me. I look at her and respond, “Well, just save me a cookie when you bake.” She smiles, since she claims to be a great baker. “You got it,” she says.

I go back to my house and put away the fruit: grapes, pears, and apples. I wonder again what her cryptic message means: “One life, only love can.” It hits me as grammatically injured or stunted. Hmm, that will stay with me for a while. Embarrassed that I may have been drunk, and that is why I don’t remember how I got home, I put it to the side. Nothing I can do now, and I am okay. Instead of worrying about it, I think I will invite some friends over to get some opinions on this cryptic message.

That will certainly generate an interesting conversation. As for the magical part of the garden, that’s mine to savor. The house seems too quiet now, so I put on some music; for some reason, Bob Marley is on my mind.

Hypnotic