My father's earliest memory was of an aunt reading "The Secret Garden" to him. Perhaps he, like so many others, had his heart and imagination caught up in this image of a hidden, neglected "bit of earth" surrounded by wealth without happiness, grief without healing and childhood without innocence or play.

Protected by its walls, the garden seems to have waited like an inner fountain of joy for just the right moment to overflow into the outer world, bringing all the strength spring, of sprouting and blossoming, into a wasteland of sorrow.

Would it have survived without being locked up and lost? Would it have the same power to heal if its walls weren't so high and shielding? Perhaps not.

There's something about the walls of a garden that give it meaning, like the frame of a photograph. We see the world differently simply because it's separated, walled and enclosed. The space inside might be as small as a bonsai pot or as large as a park, but it is still detached from the outside world, a space in which wonders might happen.

Walls can serve other purposes. They create space within which we have control, within which we are the creator, the judge, the king. Nature, of course, has a few things to say, using frost, wind, bugs and sunlight. But we can fight, or cooperate, or simply give up. We always have choices.

Walls also give us a sense of comfort, of privacy. Our encounters within them are more focused, more intimate than those in the outside world. We can sit and admire a snowdrop without being overwhelmed by the presence of cars or strangers. We can have a long look at the azaleas while we're weeding around them. We can even sit and do nothing.

And perhaps nothingness is the most powerful of the elements enclosed. It can be space in time, space to wander and putter around without intrusion, or space given by a lawn of an uncluttered greenness, open to croquet or lounging. Space for relationships to grow. Essential space, worth guarding both with walls of brick and walls of decision and intention.

In some Native American vision quest traditions, a student is surrounded by a ring of stones, placed with prayers and deep intention. This ring becomes not only a protection from what might harm or hinder, but also an invitation to the larger universe, to whatever might give help or wisdom.

Could our gardens become this kind of invitation to forces larger than ourselves? Possibly. If we learn how to build our walls with the same focus of mind and heart, with prayers for healing woven into brick and wood. The choice is ours.