Every garden has a story and mine in large part began here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Every gardener hears and answers to their own song, has their own vision and every garden is unique.

A long time ago on the south side of a small mountain in a woodland glen I cleared a bit of land bit by selective bit and built a small sunlit house. I gathered together divisions of old plantings from the tiny house I had been living in which sat nestled at the foot of a blueberry hill bordered by a stream, an enchanted forest and one large Apple Tree.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I dug divisions of Bearded Iris, Monkshood, Monarda and Primrose; Old Roses and Solomon’s Seal, Feverfew, Hostas and Rue. My goal was to rescue as much of this garden as I possibly could as the tiny house was to be demolished, the apple tree cut down and the site leveled. I worked long days into the night to better my woodland soil for transplanting and seeds. I wandered deep into the surrounding woodlands filling and gathering together buckets of old composting tree stumps, which I used to lighten and enrich my future garden beds according to what fairy folk say.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I planted flower seeds, Delphiniums, Cosmos, Bells of Ireland. I transplanted Ferns ,Violets, Forget me knots and Bluebells. I planted Arctic Hardy Kiwi, a gift from a Lonely Magician who lived by the Sea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Grandmother Catharine ; gardener extraordinaire, traveled a great distance to come view this garden that had always lived inside of me. She came to me one midsummer and shared her secrets of gardening, she whispered to me, “It takes courage to plant roses.., that which you have…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes someone comes along who visits my gardens and becomes so moved by the flora, the peace and the strength that a creative spark begins to seed itself deep inside of them and a vision of their own internal garden begins to take form, to sprout to blossom and eventually grow.