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A garden path
My hands have touched the earth; the cycle of seasons has not let me down.
Mary Darlington arranged words on a page the way an artist moves paint around a canvas; as a composer assembles musical notes. Words carefully selected to conjure an emotion, a memory, a dream. She wielded this talent quietly, perceptively, and to searing impact.
As in her garden, Mary could see the ragged possibility posed in a sensitively crafted composition of nouns, verbs and punctuation. The probability of the prosaic. So she took great care. Slowly. Gently coaxing each word to the page. Nurturing them individually until she was satisfied that the work presented her ideas with the best chance to emerge and bloom. To perhaps take hold in another gardener’s imagination.
Mary wrote a monthly column for The Times for two short years—2007 and 2008. A few thousand words. Simple yet contemplative and inspiring words. About her garden.
Late this past October, Mary Darlington passed away in Oakville. She was 95.
This newspaper has been blessed with great contributors over these past two decades—a reflection of the talent and creativity that resides in this special community. Mary Darlington was a rare thing among this esteemed cohort.
Her ideas were simple yet so delicately woven and finely crafted they transcended the page and took flight in the readers’ imagination.
A small garden has taught me that simplicity is important, space is elegant, and size is manageable. There is time to become very close to the beauty of each plant and how its beauty relates to its neighbours.
Mary showed me what good writing wanted to be. She inspires me still.
We were little more than acquaintances. I saw Mary on Main Street in the village, at the library, and at St. Andrew’s events. She tended her community with grace and kindness and all the attention she could spare. I saw it most days.
Mary approached me about the idea of a regular column. I agreed before reading a word. I sensed instinctively that a soul this gentle and thoughtful would produce something wonderful. And she did.
She found the results of a monthly column rewarding and the readers’ responses encouraging. The process, however, proved too difficult, too stress-inducing. So after an all-to-brief run, Mary stopped.
A few years later, her husband, Arthur became sick. They could no longer manage in their home on East Street. Mary explained that she and Arthur were moving to Trenton. To an apartment in which she could care for her husband. There was nothing for them in Wellington. Tears betrayed a brave attempt to say farewell on her own terms. We stood awhile together on Main Street.
I have shared Mary’s story many times over the years—as a cautionary note—an emblem of our collective inability to incent or build housing formats in our village to serve the folks among us who must graduate from our single detached homes. We believed we were preserving something. Instead, we were changing our community.
But I refuse to dwell on this sad aspect of my memory of Mary Darlington. Instead, I will remember her writing about the unruliness of her garden—of how drought, flooding and severe temperatures—tend to shape both the garden’s contours and the gardener’s outlook. But from harsh conditions, something beautiful and unpredictable may yet emerge.
Mary was that unusual creature—ever optimistic while eminently practical and grounded.
From one of her last columns in this newspaper:
Gardener or not, we need to be in awe of the resilience of nature.
I pray Mary is right.
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