reveling in the lush green of rural New Hampshire
In celebration of Edith’s book launch this week all the Wickeds are talking about gardening, plants and all things green and growing.
I come from a family of gardeners. One of my earliest memories is of a dowser coming to our home to recommend a spot for a garden well. The dowser held her arms out in front of her, fists clenched. She walked the property, crisscrossing back and forth, her hands jerking downward now and again as she encountered likely spots for water. She decided on one and my father began to dig. The water was there and ever since, in my mind, gardens have been linked with magic.
Gardens are built on faith. You start with a vision, a hope of what just might be possible. Like a magician, you call forth life by placing seeds in earth and adding the twin enchantments of heat and water. Time bends and stretches when you tune into your place in the world as you search for signs of life, of frost, of predators. You notice the incremental unfolding of bud, to bloom, to fruit. You are humbled by the industry of insects and are entertained by the dramatic lives of birds.
You become attuned to the changes in the slant of the light as days lengthen and shorten. You notice how the plants respond to the rhythms of the season and begin to notice how you do the same. And you become aware of how, as the creator of the garden, you are merely the catalyst. The whole thing takes on a life of its own, seeds flinging into unplanned spots and flourishing, plants growing larger than the size noted on the plant tag.
Writing, is much the same. It starts with a vision and enough faith to fill a wheelbarrow. You summon characters to life because you imagined them into being. Time loses meaning as you get lost in the details of the story world with its own insects and birds and dramas. You fell the thrum of excitement as the story begins to poke up from the fertility of your own subconscious and to blossom and bear fruit. Characters grow beyond their expected size, ideas wither under the hot sun of editorial scrutiny. And, as magically as happens in the garden,if you are lucky, you realize, here too, you are just the one who set things in motion. The story runs away with you, the end surprises you and you’ve created something to love out of nothing more than time and ideas.
Do you garden? Do you write? How do you encounter every day magic?
A nearly life-long resident of the Granite State,Jessie naturally adores black flies, 98%