Our family went to see the production of The Secret Garden. The music was enchanting, and watching young children carry weighty roles was wonderful. 

Mathematically speaking, the plot is impossible. You string together people who have never met one another, people crippled by enormous losses, and through the course of an English spring they all break open like daffodils. No one is left behind. Everyone wins. 

Miracles are that way. Not like Vegas, or the race track where one person's gain necessitates someone else's forfeiture. Secretariat won the Triple Crown when I was still in high school, and when he died it became apparent that his heart was two and three quarter times as big as an ordinary horse. 

Often I forget that possibility of a shared win. I believe the lie that marriage is some kind of race. If John does more chores, I get to do less. It's like when the spoiled orphan Mary Lennox hangs her hands at her side expecting Mrs. Medlock to carry her bag. But when she partners with Dickon to reclaim the garden, his efforts to prune and weed actually inspire Mary to work harder than she ever thought she could. 

It seems that when one person's heart doubles in size, there is no need for others to diminish. Everyone can grow. Then everyone wakes up in a garden.