My Garden

Phillip Seo

There is one thing that scraps of paper lying around my desk, my notebook, a pad of post-its, a blank kids menu mat at a restaurant, a note card, an old homework assignment, and a boring in-class assignment have in common. They are all gardens for my soul. It is through bits and pieces and little scraps of paper that my creativity is expressed. My garden is my drawing, and I can start a garden nearly anywhere.

There is a certain magic about a blank piece of paper, a feeling that I only get when I look at that blank rectangular plane. One time, I was sitting with a few of my friends before school. We were sitting at a small, round table in an area near the cafeteria that is closed off by a shutter-door after school and is opened in the mornings. We were sitting together, talking about what was new in life, when I noticed a huge stack of blank printer paper, just sitting on a shelf. After looking around to make sure no one else was watching, I carefully pulled out a stack of paper about a half-inch thick and stuck it in my binder. “Are you out of paper?” one of my friends asked with a very confused look on his face. All I had to say was, “Nope.”  I wasn’t really out of paper, and I had a great abundance of notebook paper, but I was running low on drawing paper: that pure, heavenly paper that can only come from packages of freshly opened printing paper. That beautiful paper has been my artistic sustenance for the greater part of my life. However, a paper isn’t enough for me to draw; I need something to draw with.

Most people aren’t very particular about what they write or draw with. They could pick up any low-end pencil stub or blue-ink pen and start their work. I, on the other hand, am very particular about what I am holding in my hands when I get down to business. Every day I come to school with my binder, and every class I zip open the top pocket of that binder and bring out the heavy artillery. If it looks to be a normal class with just a bit of notes, I’ll pull out one, No. 2, HB soft, Ticonderoga pencil with a good, full eraser and a tip that’s sharp, but not too pointy. I’ll also pull out a plastic, green, cracked, taped-up pencil sharpener from Staples (the department store). If it looks to be a more note-intensive class, or if there’s a quiz, test, quest, or writing assignment to deal with, I’ll pull out an additional three Ticonderoga pencils of similar quality as the first. I’ll then do any necessary last-minute sharpening before I settle down for class. At the end of class, I’ll pack away the Ticonderoga pencils and empty my sharpener into a trash bin before putting it away as well. On my desk at home, I usually have about two or more boxes of twelve Ticonderoga pencils ready for use. When a pencil gets too short, or when the eraser runs low, I replace the pencil, because why should I deal with inferior quality when I can whip out a nice fresh pencil?

The pencil, and paper are the tools I use for cultivating my gardens, and with the use those tools all of my stress, my anger, and my exhaustion melts away. One day, I came home from school to an empty house. I plodded upstairs to the cold, stuffy, little study room that is adjacent to the boys’ bedroom and across from the girls’ room. I let my backpack fall with a thump, dropped my binder onto the light-blue desk that my dad had made for me, and sat down. I had been up late the past few nights getting all my work done, I had a mountain of homework for today, I had fencing later on, violin practicing to catch up on, and I had found my backpack in the lost-and-found earlier that day (minus my TI-84 Plus calculator and my dad’s expensive gloves). I needed to destroy something. Instead of attacking my desk with the power tools my dad keeps in the basement, I pulled out a piece of paper, grabbed a brand new, sharp pencil from my desk, and stared at the paper for a few moments. For a while I was lost in the white expanse of the paper. It was so perfect and pure, but so undeniably blank, so undeniably inviting. I picked up the pencil, and began creating. I created a character, the Shadow Master, but scratched him out because his skin was too dark. I drew him again, but differently. His chin was not strong enough. I picked up a comic and looked at a few pictures. I drew again. His eyes had no expression. I got up to sharpen my pencil. I drew again. His clothes were too complex and confusing. I created and destroyed and researched and did it all over again. All the while, the world disappeared and I became one with my creation. I grimaced and smiled and frowned and laughed with my character as I worked to make him perfect. I was as peaceful as if I was lying down in a green field on a summer day with a cool breeze and a bright sun shining on my face. I never managed to perfect the character, but I loved it all the same. I suppose a parent would sympathize with me, because that character was my brain-child, my masterpiece, and through the creation of that being, I found piece and happiness in myself, even if my character, being the Shadow Master, would be doomed to a dark existence.

After a few moments, I looked at my watch to see what time it was. It turned out that “a few moments” was actually about forty-five minutes, and everyone else had come home without me noticing that they had arrived. I put down my pencil, stretched out, and yawned. Then I got up and realized that I was starving. I still had work, fencing, and violin, but I could handle it.