The Bottle Garden
By Beth Zarret, New Hope, Pennsylvania, U.S.
I am winding my way this morning towards my favorite destination in New Hope: the partially-deteriorated silk mill that has been transformed into an enchanting modern-day home. Affectionately called the “Ruins” or the “Old Mill” by locals, it is a spot I delight in.
But today there is something else. I stop, mesmerized. The curb in front of the mill house has been lined with old bottles and jars. Some whole, some broken. Each claims a spot, catching the morning sun. I kneel by them, breathing in their beauty and sensing the attention with which unseen hands have placed them. The intentional sharing opens my heart up. Gratitude swells within me. I return home, scrawl a note of thanks, then walk back and leave it at the mill house.
Days later, nestled among the bottles, I find a note from a little girl and her mother— the “mill house people.” They are grateful for my appreciation of their gift. They are touched by the kindness that touched me: the joy from a girl’s treasure.
If this town has ever been more aptly named than now, I do not know it. New Hope blooms with wildflowers in the spring. And I must heed my instinct to rearrange the wildflowers to adorn the bottles with color, delicacy, and precision. So I create bouquets. My vision for what can be, when you see beyond the dirt and brokenness. Although I have only intended to give the girl joy and surprise, I learn that the bouquets are enjoyed by quarantine walkers, bikers, and runners. All those also looking for hope.
As my gratitude grows, I find quotes from artists, writers, and scientists, and I scatter these among the bottles: “It is not about what it is, it’s about what it can become” (Dr. Suess), and “In every walk with nature one receives more than he seeks” (John Muir). Soon I discover that the “mill people” have placed quotes there, too. “From the heart it has to come, from the heart it has to go” (Beethoven), “Generosity could be as contagious as the zombie plague (or COVID-19) as long as enough people were willing to be carriers.” Jonathan Maberry, Dust and Decay).
Then I meet the girl and her mother. The mother has captured everything in pictures. In one, the girl is crouched down, leaning towards the unusual bottle “garden,” arms crossed, caught in a moment of quiet contemplation, apparent rapture. Through her eyes, it becomes clear that this garden is not a sum total … not the flowers, not the notes, not the bottles. Instead, it is the communication through these objects. This garden is the nurturing of souls, the ability to feel another’s presence through an object and communicate without traditional dialogue.
Summer is over. The bottles are still lined up, partially covered by leaves. I am filled with new hope kindled by a girl wandering through long-ago discarded debris. A girl who sees the beauty in the broken. Sees possibility. A new hope.