This is my story of a garden. It started six years ago, as the cheapest, quickest way to stabilize a part of the yard where we ripped out overzealous poison ivy and rangy scrub oak. The garden was set on the poorest, rockiest, rootiest soil, and built with little more than memories of places I had loved, and time, spent outdoors with my dog. I amassed a lot of information about water, dirt, mulch, light and temperature, as well as growing, collecting, eating, cooking, saving, and sharing food. As all of this was happening, I acquired a marble statue of Persephone, and that inspired me to build her a home dedicated to Carl Jung’s mythic shadow side. Spot died, how I miss him. Ground hogs, rabbits, and chipmunks encouraged me to shift from vegetables to flowers, and think about the garden as a place to sit and look out at a view. Then there was the cutting garden with dusty miller and dahlias for the wedding. And then there was the wedding, with Newbury Street stylists coiffing hair in my potting shed.
Very soon, I think this patch of land will become something else, although I am not sure what. Before it is a hazy recollection, I want to try and write down the story. It was such a wonderful place.