[Scarlett O'Hara]

I understand the two not at all. What the hell do they think I will do without my crutches? I can tell them, I can even give them a demostration. If I loosen my crutches and let them fall, so will I.

I drink my tea, that the Gardner provided. I look at The Unknown Man and realize how thoroughly he has invaded my Perfect Vistas. He is everywhere now, no matter where I look. And HER! She seems different, irritable somehow as if his very presence has ruffled her perfect herbs or unsettled the Spode china gracing her hutch.

What do they expect of me? I expect very little of myself. I am very little. Just a twisted portion of a body left over from a stupid tree climbing experiment. They annoy me. My parents annoy me. The sheep annoy me. Only my trees and art do not annoy me and it is because they are perfect. My trees pick me up and place me in their crowns and my my art is a true reflection of the world as it exists.

Rules. All this talk of rules. Without rules, the clouds wouldn't form as they do, the breezes would not rustle the trees or provide birds paths of flight. Without rules, water would not run from high ground to low ground and without rules, seasons would not follow seasons and seeds would not set and produce flowers in the spring. I am quite happy with rules and tell them so.

I thank them for the tea and I must leave before they drive me mad with insane talk of rules. They look at me with sadness but then everyone always does. I don't want their sadness. I don't want anyone at all. That's why I prefer my solitude with the trees. They expect little of me but to paint and draw. Slowly, painfully, I make my way out of The Tilted House, down the jiggly path that seems intent on tripping me, by passing the rabbit who seems to block my path at every turn.

I see my sheep waiting patiently, grazing on the high hill side, right next to one of my favorite trees, the Japanese Magnolia with its purplish pink blossoms. I make my way there with my basket on my arm and wait. But the tree ignores me.

[Hereford Eye]

In a Perfect Garden, the day-to-day becomes magical, the magical becomes routine, the routine unappreciated. The girl stands before her tree and waits; the tree senses the seed of doubt that I have sown and waits for the girl to believe.
The Gardener walks the path searching the flowers, the bushes, the trees for a clue to understanding, the seed of unrest I have sown irritating her normalcy.
The ability to look at ourselves, to understand ourselves, to try to improve ourselves is a seed of unrest, a mechanism for change. Life's about changes, nothing ever stays the same. A Perfect Garden wants to change, needs to change, cannot help but change.
The tree bends down to accept the crutched girl. The Gardener asks the rabiit if the hard rain did any damage and the rabbit hops behind her in mute approval of her conversation.
The door waits for me on the other side of the stream. After a long, appreciative look at the garden, a whispered thanks to the ladies, I exit the garden to the Hub of the Worlds.