Somewhere between 1972 and a bag of potting soil....
At ten years old, I was absolutely certain of two things:
- I had no idea what the lyrics to Garden Party meant.
- I was going to kiss Ricky Nelson.
Not “maybe.”
Not “if given the opportunity.”
I was going to chase him down and plant one right on him.
This was the confidence of youth, the kind that does not require context, parental permission, or a clear understanding of metaphors.
Now, the lyrics say:
“Yoko brought her walrus…”
And let me tell you something, I had absolutely no idea who Yoko was, and I definitely didn’t know her walrus was John Lennon.
All I knew was this:
There was a walrus.
At a garden party.
So naturally, when I created The Garden Party, I placed walruses in the background.
Because if the song says walrus, then there shall be walruses.
No decoding.
No Googling.
No cultural analysis.
Just… walruses.
That is how my ten-year-old brain operated. Literal. Enthusiastic. Slightly unhinged. And while creating The Garden Party as an adult, I knew I had to be true to that ten-year-old brain.
Back then, I didn’t understand that Garden Party was about identity and being misunderstood. I didn’t know it was Ricky Nelson returning to a stage where no one recognized him. I didn’t know it carried the quiet sting of, “You can’t please everyone.”
I just knew I was going to kiss him.
Preferably, with him running from me across the playground so I could catch him. Because chasing is half the fun, as any ten-year-old will tell you.
And if Yoko could bring a walrus, I could certainly show up in a floppy hat with carrots.
Which, frankly, I did.
When I look at The Garden Party artwork now, the skeleton in the sunshine, the carrots held like trophies, the walruses lounging in the background like mildly judgmental guests, I see something I didn’t see at ten.
I see permission.
Permission to show up exactly as you are.
Permission to not fully understand the subtext.
Permission to attend the party anyway.
Because here’s the thing about garden parties, real ones and metaphorical ones, half the people there are trying to be recognized, and the other half are trying to be liked.
Ten-year-old me was trying to be kissed.
That’s clarity.
No performance.
No strategy.
No narrative management.
Just joy.
Somewhere along the way, we start decoding everything. We analyze tone. We read between the lines. We measure ourselves against the room. We wonder if we’re being recognized properly.
But ten-year-old me? She heard a walrus lyric and thought, “Excellent. We’re adding sea life.”
She heard Ricky Nelson and thought, “Excellent. We’re kissing him.”
No existential crisis required.
And maybe that’s the real garden party.
Not the one where everyone recognizes you correctly.
Not the one where you perform the perfect version of yourself.
The one where you show up in a hat, holding carrots, with walruses in the background, fully prepared to chase what delights you.
Even if you don’t understand all the lyrics yet. Even if you don't understand life yet.
Especially then.
So here’s to garden parties.
Here’s to Ricky Nelson.
Here’s to Yoko’s walrus.
Here’s to ten-year-old crush energy that required zero subtext.
And here’s to the version of us that still shows up in the sunshine, with dirt under our fingernails, slightly irreverent, slightly reflective, fully alive.
If you need me today, I think I’ll be in the garden chasing dreams.
Kissing life.
Walruses optional.
Take care,
dz