I have gardened many plots of dirt in my life:
~ outside the kitchen of my childhood home without much success because aside from designating the spot, my parents had very little interest in my interest.
~ off the edge of an apartment balcony in the stifling window boxes of a controlling boyfriend.
~ in a field adjacent to a rented carriage house that I shared with my (then) new boyfriend.
~ off the back patio of a condo that was not shielded from traffic, and where we had thousands of dollars of antique wicker furniture stolen, but thank God, not the tomatoes.
~ next to a swing set.
~ down a rock-laden hill that was once a place of battle during the War of Northern Aggression, and where my children found a 100 year old handmade crutch of a long forgotten wounded soldier.
~ Under, and around, a huge centuries-old Oak that cradled our home, our children, and many happy memories.
~ Carved out along the curves of a swimming pool.
~ And, currently, in an itty-bitty courtyard garden.
I see the arc of my life in these plots, and give thanks for the wonderful journey I have had the privilege of being part of.
Because, after all, gardening is breathing, and breath is life…
in full bloom