Companionable Existence

Early this morning, before the sun rose too high, I dug out the old cat mint and slipped armeria and black chervil into the ground, within the peninsula tip of my garden. Out by the street, I buried the perfect bulb of an elephant ear. By the front of the house a new vine still awaits digging in—red trumpet flowers, a hummingbird's seduction. I want hummingbirds to join my 24 carat finches. I'm glad the robin is back, in her old nest.

The new plants were all collected Sunday, from Handmade Gardens, Michael and Kathye Petrie's splendid Downington, PA, showcase. They were piled into my father's car, alongside all that he had bought to bring back to his own garden-rich home, and on my lap, as we drove away, was a black amarylis, a gift from Michael. This earthenness is something my father and I share—a love of growing things, a companionable existence with birds.

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More Positive Thinking

Friday evening I sat with a circle of young reader/writers and their mothers exploring literary voice and purpose, the pleated pulse of motivation, the active conversation that goes on with the characters that prance around in one's head. Two sisters, both actresses, spoke of a project in progress and the power of collaboration. One young writer confessed to fearing repetitions—of words, of phrases—and of assiduously working around them. The role of essays in defining points of views was discussed and honored.

I wasn't nearly as sophisticated when I was the age of these young writers. I was drawn—it was primal, it was defining—to sound and song, to the pairing of unlike things. So it was with keen interest and a sense of privilege that I entered into this literary conversation, and it was with a settled calm that I left it.

I spent the next day rehearsing for and dancing in that oft-mentioned, inanely feared ballroom dancing showcase, and all, by the end of that long day, was well. Jean had been right about positive thinking, straight backs, settled hips, and musicality. He had created a space within which I could dance. But mostly, showcases like these can't be about oneself. They are finally about the community of many who come together for a purpose, and all day Saturday I was alive within a community I've grown to love.

Finally, a note about gardens: I spent most of yesterday with my dad at a new Downingtown shop called Handmade Gardens, where the fantastically artful Michael Petrie is at the helm and his wife, the writer Kathye Fetsko Petrie, stands at his side. Handmade Gardens offers richly budded tree peonies, royal columbines, wide-budded hellebore, old lightning rods, antique watering cans, a freehand sculpture of hose nuzzles, and many more things I don't have the vocabulary to name. I came home bearing the promise of spring, the eagerness to go in deep with the earth again.

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