A Garden of Wood and Leather

I live in the heart of gardens, among a myriad of blooms---foxgloves, peonies, iris, clematis, roses--as rich as any gilded illustration from a Medieval Book of Hours. And within the ten acres of trees and gardens that define this estate, in the heart of a small Virginia town, is my "inner garden" inside. Yes, inside. Inside the house.

While my loved one weeds and waters and landscapes under the walnut tree, around the crepe myrtle clusters, and along the ancient English Boxwoods, I work in "my" home garden among the rare books, the heirloom angels, and the inherited furniture. And the fallen insects who gave up their lives on the parquet or carpets from Persia.

The fading leather jackets of elegant books and the gilt edges of mysterious art call to me. Mid-morning and dusk seem to be the times I settle to watch memories and ideas fly in to "feed" like finches and grosbeaks and butterflies among the things that fill the many rooms of this mansion. I am not a "thing" person; I spend money on books and travel and fine foods. But having been bequeathed, by parents and my late husband, a medley of chairs, a pod of silver accessories, a murder of ebony and mahogany chests, a flock of china cups, a gaggle of linens, an infinity of fine books, and Eschers of collectibles, I find time to savour [yes, feels more appropriate with the "u"] the delights of these inner gardens under the 13-foot ceilings and Italian plasterwork and deep crown moldings of the garden walls.

While my blog and Facebook pals plant kale, fertilize corn, and pick flowers, I dust an Austen held by my late paternal grandmother Charlotte, straighten a Twain enjoyed by my late father Henry, delight in a Thackery held by my late husband Keister, and revel in the pictures of a first edition of "Benjamin Bunny" with which I grew up. I dust, tidy, admire, shift things around, share.

The books are my treasures, my heirloom tomatoes. Nothing, nothing, nothing fills my soul like ideas. And ideas grow in a garden well-tended and nurtured. My fine education and companions in literature and life have allowed me the luxury of gardening indoors among leather and wood. Next time, I will share the chair(s) in which I sit to think. I have a Thinking Chair. A Dream Chair. A Grief Chair. A Memory Chair. A Vacation Chair :) Carpe Diem, carpe post meridiem, carpe noctem. Carpe librum.