As humans, it is our nature to meddle, whether with steel and concrete, or with pine and monkey grass. In our immature attempts at gardening we try to emulate that which Nature has so graciously provided us into a sometimes awkward assortment of flowers and shrubbery, both native and foreign, to try and spruce up the environment we have most likely bulldozed and destroyed during the construction of some structure. I find this type of garden, so common in Suburbia as well as urban areas, to make me somewhat uneasy, as if I may not at first detect it, but that something is assuredly amiss. A garden has the potential to be an oasis where one can escape to for reflection, rest, and renewal, where man may have placed a few plants, but Nature herself is the one in true control. We may tend the garden, manicure it, but at the same time we must let Nature’s plan show through for it to truly thrive. Forster describes “the monotony of the highway that oppressed me—dust under foot and brown crackling hedges on either side, ever since I could remember” (729). This manmade highway, with its disregard for what is natural and true, is what we attempt to construct in our daily lives, nothing we can do will ever reach us to our highest goal until we choose to look beyond that which has consumed our lives into that which is good, that which is untouchable, that which is found on “The Other Side of the Hedge” ( Forster 729). As our society rewards progress, “we do not admit in conversation that there is another side at all” (Forster 730), that there is a side where one can be happy just to be alive. The most effective, most regenerative gardens are those that conceal our efforts at grooming and primping, where a sense of harmonious chaos is preserved, where we can enter the divinely intentional “prodigal disarray” (Klinkenborg 721) and perhaps subconsciously recall an Eden where all is as it should be.