From manicured, exclusive retreats built on slave money to common ground in which to seed utopian dreams, gardens occupy a fertile space in our lives and imaginationsI have a dream sometimes. I dream I’m in a house, and discover a door I didn’t know was there. It opens into an unexpected garden, and for a weightless moment I find myself inhabiting new territory, flush with potential. Maybe there are steps down to a pond, or a statue surrounded by fallen leaves. It is never tidy, always beguilingly overgrown. What might grow here, what rare peonies, irises, roses will I find? I wake with the sense that a too-tight joint has loosened, and that everything runs fluent with new life.For most of the years that I have had this dream, I didn’t have a garden of my own. I rented until I was 40, and only rarely in flats with outdoor space. The first of these temporary gardens was in Brighton. I planted calendula there, which according to the 16th-century herbalist Gerard would “strengthen and comfort the heart very much”. I was training to be a herbalist and my head was full of plants, an entanglement of natural forms. Continue reading…
Source : theguardian.com
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