Issue One of Wonderground Journal has landed.
I’m rarely the recipient of negativity, of course. Everyone smiles when I mention I write about gardens, that I am a gardener. “How lovely,” they say, seeing me as a simple and wholesome woman, secateurs fused to my right hand and fingernails permanently encrusted with soil. “Salt of the earth!” they suggest enthusiastically. I smile outwardly, and inwardly too, telling myself they have no idea just how gritty this woman really is.
Wild nature, in contrast to the urban landscape, is a place that invites the grieving to grieve. It does not seek to silence a damaged, confused heart or distract it with noise and activity
I am committed to tending to this world as a gardener. I am committed to cultivating new shoots, new stories, new hopes, new futures. I do this work with dirt under my nails, with curiosity, reverence and respect. And I wonder, is there any better way to be in the world right now than the way of the gardener – aware, engaged and in love?