Growing up, I read The Secret Garden once a year, staring at the flowers on my wallpaper. After, I’d spend afternoons wandering through my dad’s roses outside, dreaming of Mary Lennox and Dickon and the magic things that happen in the sunshine that none of us can see. (I think I even made me brother act it out with me, and he refused to say “wick,” Dickon’s word for “alive,” and so I had to give up.)
It’s springtime here in Utah — where I’m speaking at a conference today, and I was walking the grounds at Thanksgiving Point when I found a tunnel covered in branches that lead to an arched door.
I felt like I was 8 years old again, and I didn’t realize why, until I pushed the door open — and found myself in the pages of my beloved book.
The Secret Garden, brought to life:
Later that night, I read about how the woman who started Thanksgiving Point dreamed of a Secret Garden, too — and what magic, for the rest of us, that she did.