A letter to my Readers
Greetings,
If we have met before through my columns, you know I have shared my life with you while writing about nature—as unlikely as it might seem: divorce, a second wedding, and flowers for my mother’s funeral have been part of my columns.
There is a gratifying and almost mystical connection between our lives and plants, sometimes in surprising ways. Certainly, working in the garden brings peace and a sense of release. Once, in a fit of temper I divided a long line of agapanthus—one small 118-pound woman hacking away with the fury of a broad-shouldered man. I did it in an afternoon and felt much better for it.
I was picking Gravenstein apples in the back garden when a nurse phoned to tell me my mother had died. I disconnect the call and listened to over ripe apples fall to the path like small bombs. I went back to picking apples for a while, moving slowly until I had gathered the strength to phone my father.
The archeology of my life is buried in the garden. Trimming the wisteria, I found a champagne cork, and it made me smile. Yesterday, as I weeded the path, I picked out pieces of embedded glass from the great fire that roared down the hill and blew out the windows of my neighbor’s house. Bit by bit, I reconstructed myself as I weeded the path until it was a clear stretch of velvety green moss and aged stone. Perfect. Life is like that, too—don’t you think?
Momentarily.
Thanks for checking in with me. Readers have been such a large part of my life as newspaper columnist that I am never surprised to hear someone unknown to me by name, address me personally in the street. We have shared so much together.
Keep well and keep on walking those garden paths.
Katherine
