When I was a kid, I was always barefoot. I'm still always barefoot. And the thing I miss perhaps the most living in the city, is being able to run out my front door with nothing on my feet into green. I love that feeling of interior and exterior spaces just being a fluid continuation of each other. The freedom of that feeling. The life pulse through the growing world.
So when we visit Yvonne, R.'s mother, I'm usually out the door with nothing on my feet and still in my nightgown within minutes of getting up. It's a magnetic pull. Into the garden I go.
I look for the cat sisters, Ginger and Isaac who love to weave down the garden pathway with you. They follow the master gardener herself everywhere she goes in that haven.
I look for the plants that are reaching higher than the day before. The vegetables that have grown fuller and more intensely colored. The flowers that have unfurled with the sun that morning.
Ginger hunts butterflies and I look for ladybugs. I love staring at a seemingly known little patch and finding it full of a story you hadn't noticed before: little bugs on their morning mission, vines curling their grasp up into a tree...
But perhaps the very bast part of all, is feeling a touch hungry and wandering through the garden tasting this and that or fairly stuffing ourselves silly with ripe berries and fruits.
It's a magical place, a garden, le jardin d'Yvonne.
