When I was a little girl, I loved this book. Mostly for the title, the cover illustration, and the idea. I was a dreamer, and in my world a secret garden was just about the best thing possible. Flowers, fairies, secrets, magic.
I think one of the things that draws me to Vermont, to the forest and the mountains, is the promise of this secret garden that still blooms in my heart. A place where I can dream, where I can read, where I can whisper. Where I can grow and nurture and soothe and day dream and waste time and hide.
And over the past couple of months, I've started on that dream. I've planted and sung and danced and sighed at the stars. I've chased firefly's. I've watered and coached and pleaded and relaxed.
I've struggled. This space isn't my own. How I ache for a space of my own.
But oh, how it has bloomed.
It may be borrowed, but it's beautiful.
A garden. A secret. A jungle. A cacophony. A promise. A wish.
It's not secret, but it is finally real.
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