The garden of my mind is a rich, fertile place, reaching out far beyond me and touching places I can only begin to imagine. Right now it requires sustenance, food of a physical and not just a creative kind. I find myself woken up at 6am by the characters in my new story shouting for attention. Like the persistant ringing of an alarm bell, they wish to speak. Their words and wishes take precedence and scenes form and fade, tumbling one over the other.
Eventually they calm down and let me have a cup of tea. I wander in the garden, cool and cloudy now, admiring the pots and trembling violas. I notice a snail has already nibbled the brand new alstromeria, leaving a silvery trail on the leaves - make a mental note to put gravel on top of the compost (I knew I ought to do it yesterday and was distracted!).
Last night's barbecue lies cold and blackened. Memories of the Easter Egg hunt my lovely son organised. We were frantic, racing across the gravel in search of sweet chocolate surprises. He's carrying on a tradition lasting years. I always organised an egg hunt for family and friends. Now he's taken on the mantle and I'm moved by the fun and dedication he shows. Photographs are posted on Facebook. We are tagged and people smile at our antics.
It's good for the garden to be a happy place. I take so much pleasure in it, becoming an accidental gravel gardener - such a surprising medium for plants to seed themselves down in. The tomatoes are sprouting at last and my addiction for filling every pot in sight with flowers or food is fully indulged.
Getting back to watering the words of a new story and watching it grow now. Even the weeds are allowed to seed themselves in case they reveal a new nugget or direction. All creative worms are welcome here.