I admire gardeners, I really do.
I met a woman last week with beautiful, well-loved, well-tended gardens. (She had a house full of mermaids too, but that’s another story.) And I thought about how gardens are a living art form. They need nurturing, time, attention and love, just like any art project. I have a rambling, overgrown cottage garden in front of my house, filled with with flowers, herbs and native plants. Right now it’s wild and unkempt and untended. It didn’t get much attention from me last year because I spent so much time caretaking my father. This year, I have a Tarot deck and book to finish.
But yesterday, I played hooky from art for a couple of hours and pulled weeds in the garden. Ah, the bees, flitting around the Spanish lavender! The oregano, lush and green and pungent. The warm sunshine, oh so welcome. The swallows flitting around and hawks circling high overhead. The native artemisia that’s so happy, it’s growing several inches a day (or so it seems) — one sniff, and you’re in trance or off to dreamland.
As I dug out the weeds (vetch and horsetail mostly), I thought about pulling out all the negative self-talk and downward emotional spirals I find myself caught in from time to time. It felt so good to rip those out and make room for golden sage and echinacea to breathe and spread out. Just so, may my own creative projects flourish and breathe and smell oh . . . so sweetly.