In my dream, I found myself in a beautiful garden. It had all kinds of flowers and plants arranged in the most exquisite way. I walked about in awe. In a corner of the garden, I met an old man in a pavilion, and I asked him for permission to join him. He was agreeable. Then, before I could be conscious of myself, I remarked "This is such a beautiful garden!" like a sigh of exaltation.
The old man looked troubled, and then he thanked me. He introduced himself as the head gardener and owner of this garden.
"You must be very proud," I said and congratulated him.
"Thank you. And if you don't mind me asking, who are you?"
"I am... nobody in particular, I think. I am a dreamer, who have the good fortune to find myself here. Hope you don't mind my intrusion."
"No, no, it's my pleasure. If you don't mind me asking for your opinion about something that has been troubling me. Since you come from the reality, perhaps you may lend me some insight."
I was sceptical of what I could help with, but I agreed to try anyway.
"You see, a garden critic came to my garden some time ago. He was a renowned professor from a famous school and very well-known for his meticulousness. So, I was very proud when he praised my garden and especially commended me on how there were very little bugs and insects. He had noticed that the leaves of the plants were very perfect, with the lack of insect bite marks."
"It must be splendid to have your efforts validated by an expert from the field."
"Yes, indeed. I was very happy. He said he was going to list my garden as one of the exemplary gardens of our time... and he did. Soon, visitors flocked from faraway places to visit my garden."
"That's great! Why are you troubled then?"
"Last week, a famous poet came by to visit my garden. He was renowned for writing beautiful poems in praise of gardens. I admire his work, and I had hoped that he could write me a couplet so that I could put it up at the entrance of my garden.
"After taking a walk around my garden, the poet said that this garden is so perfect that it was like a garden in heaven. I was ecstatic, and I thought if he would write me a poem on that, my garden would surely be immortalised in more than one way! But, he went on to say that if this was how a garden was like in heaven, he would much rather stay on earth.
"I did not quite understand him, I thought he may mean that there was no need to go to heaven now that he has seen my garden. But then again, he said it with a tone of regret and was shaking his head, so it must have been a negative remark.
"I asked him what he meant. He explained that the garden was perfect, but there were no butterflies dancing around and no birds' song that could be heard. He imagines that in heaven, that was what he would expect of a garden, since no mere butterfly or bird could fly in through the gates of heaven.
"The poet, however, said that in gardens, he personally preferred to watch the lively fluttering of the ordinary butterflies instead of the most exquisite bloom of flower. So, he would rather remain on earth."
Indeed, even though the weather was pleasant and there was a gentle breeze, the beautiful garden suddenly seemed very still because of the lack of birds and flying things. The gardener had taken so much care of the garden, in removing all garden pests, that no caterpillar was allowed to hatch, and without the caterpillars, there were no butterflies to be there to pollinate the flowers to bear fruits for the birds. Then again, there were also no dragonflies, no bees, no ants, and no stray grain of sand.
"My flowers bloom for a longer time than in other gardens, because there are no insects to pollinate it, they do not wilt to become fruits. I do have some earthworms, because they are good at mixing the earth, but I removed all other insect traces, to keep this garden perfect. And because of that, the garden is now imperfect.
"I will one day come to pass, and so would the perfection of the garden. I could take a few million photographs, but nothing besides poetry could ever truly capture the beauty of the garden. Now I am troubled because the garden would never be immortalised through a poem."
At first, I thought that to comfort the gardener, I could have told him about how perfection is imperfect, because it leaves no room for improvement and imagination. Since he had now discovered the imperfection of the garden, he should be glad that he found a new way to improve and breakthrough. Then again, there was the dilemma that if he succeeds in introducing the butterflies, he would lose the original appeal of the garden and its perfection. Or worse, even if he succeeds to resolve that dilemma somehow, the garden might become truly perfect, and then, by the definition, be truly imperfect. I decided that it was too muddling to discourse through this argument.
Then, I thought that I could remind him to enjoy the garden for himself, and measure the success by his own yardstick. But such a beautiful garden couldn't have come about from a man who did not understand the importance of balancing self-fulfilment and others' validation. This was not an issue about his confidence or showing off.
I thought that I could remind him about the critic's appraisal, but I already knew that the critic's endorsement would not immortalise the garden's beauty.
"Haven't other poets visited your garden before? Haven't they written anything?" I asked.
"They might have, but they were not famous."
"Is it that important?"
"A famous garden has to bear the quotes of a famous poet, and that is only befitting. Otherwise, it would be like a lady wearing the most exquisite dress with a pair of cheap-looking shoes."
Initially, I thought that I could have told him that the other poets' poems were just as good as the famous poet's. They may become famous one day, or at least, there are probably more of them and there was only one of the famous poet. Then, what about quality versus quantity?
I thought that I could have told him that I could come back to reality and write him a story, then I realised that I'm not a famous anybody either, and that wouldn't be very comforting to him.
Is fame important? I have not been famous before, but he was a gardener who has gardened a very famous garden. I was in no shoes to discuss the futility of fame.
At this point, the garden didn't look very beautiful any more. It looked dull and everywhere I looked, I saw dead caterpillars and poisoned insects' corpses. I realised that I was in no position to help the gardener at all.
Dismayed, I took my leave and told him that I'd return if I thought of anything that might be helpful.
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