Whitaker's beautiful prose enjoins the reader to cultivate their own soul.

Our true self, our innermost being, is not unlike a flower. The most beautiful, exotic, radiant blossom ever known. Instinctively we tend to and nurture this gift from Spirit - our prized possession. We beam with pride as it flourishes in the rich soil of our infant soul. And soon, although our time in this world has yet been brief, we can contain our excitement no longer. We throw our arms wide to reveal our inner garden.

But instead of admirers we find ourselves confronted by seasoned, unimaginative gardeners. "Pretty, they say". "But too unusual". "Doesn't fit in our general theme". "Won't make it in this climate." And as a self-fulfilling prophecy, our fragile blooms begin to wilt under their intense scrutiny. "Plant azaleas," they say. "Everybody likes azaleas".

And so we retreat. We build a great wall around our precious flower to protect it from their pollution. And outside our wall we grudgingly cultivate azaleas, for we so desperately desire the approval of our fellow gardeners.

Advice on our outer garden abounds as we busy ourselves with cuttings offered by our well-intentioned guides. From time to time we slip away to tend our inner garden but alas, those opportunities grow few and far between.

All too soon the path between the two becomes overgrown from lack of use and our hidden treasure slowly withers from neglect. Our only hope is that it lies as a bulb, dormant, season after season, patiently awaiting the day when we tire of tending our false garden and begin to search for our deeply buried truth.

copyright 2001 C. P. Whitaker