About

“Sometimes he used a spade in the garden; sometimes he read and wrote.  He had but one name for these two kinds of labor; he called them gardening.” -Victor Hugo (concerning the Vicar), Les Miserables

In the morning, when I sit in my window seat with a mug of coffee and watch the titmice and chickadees at the bird feeder, I think about many things.  I wonder, I pray, I worship.  Sometimes, even, I sing.

I still keep a bound journal, in long-hand, mostly to record the annual garden chores, and this is where I sit to write, in my kitchen window.  In writing, I discover things about myself, God, life.  Writing, for me, is like a trowel, bringing to the surface thoughts that go deeper than the work at hand, down into the warm earth from where life springs.

The garden, on the other hand, is Life itself.  Teeming, blooming, fruiting, dying.  I like getting my hands dirty.

“The Spirit is a garden,” said <the Vicar>.

I invite you to walk in my garden with me.

Love,  Carie

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