My mother always had a big garden and my grandmother tended the farm. I can't help but follow in their footsteps. A trait passed down from the generations. My little urban farm is ground laden with inspiration for my work. Digging my hands into the dirt connects me with reality and nature. I spend two hours working it in the mornings, along side the busy little bees. They are very motivational little buzzers. The cat is my soul's companion in that patch of earth, always close by, easy with a nap in the shade where he can watch my progress and offer his fluffy little face for a pet or two. My work day is complete with random visits outside to wander the garden and smell the flowers with the cat.
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| Ducky perched in last year's jungle |
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| Oh honey, work it! |
The bees and I share a bit of an obsession with poppies. They are full of promise. A guarantee that with water, sun and soil they are endless, self-sufficient procreators, smiling their bit of sunshine for the curious to encounter. They shimmer iridescent and tempt a closer look, the ruffles of their petals swirling in the breeze. The stuff that dreams are made of. Early mornings - find us here.
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| Always stop to smell the flowers |
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| This baby is about to explode with wonder. |
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| Frye in the Garlic |
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| Walking Onions. Majestic |
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| 2013 Jungle |
It is always new and exciting to cultivate each year. I release a bit of control that comes with organization to the determined seeds of the year before. Poppies will inevitably find their way to any corner of the patch, marigolds run rampant, grinning in the middle of the path. Chamomile, dill and other surprises from years past poke their heads up in the darndest places. Walking onions become strange, alien like obstructions. I can't resist or condemn this persistence of life. Apologies to the morning glory, grass, and the thistle though. That's where I draw the line.
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