Today spring is all around my garden, the cherry tree is covered in pink blossom and hardly any petals are on the ground yet, many flowers are still tight little buds. I have looked carefully at the lilac bushes and their leaves are beginning to sprout, blossom in a few weeks. I can never decide whether I love more the intense scent of the white lilac or the gentle lavender colour of the lilac…lilac. In an ideal world, like so much else, one would choose a combination to make the perfect reality. Rather like love really, how does one choose between this sweetness or that scent or that intensity of shade when in fact one loves life in all its variety. There is so much opportunity to love when one has an open mind and a fine eye for subtleties of existence. In an ideal world, my little cottage would receive visitors galore, perhaps on a windy autumn night a dark stranger on horseback with a cloak buffeted by the wind and pale long fingered hands that would need defrosting by the fireside.
On a spring day such as today, perhaps two women walking up the path and sounding the copper bell by the gate to let me know they were to cross the perimeter into my garden. One holding a willow basket in her left hand and helping her partner over the cobbles of the stone path, which I leave purposefully to be taken over by moss, an old trick to make unaware strangers announce themselves by the sound of their falling. I walk on the grass, of course, not wishing a similar fate. The other wears a long skirt, woollen still at this season when one can never tell what weather the day will hold. Early risers come to surprise me with a mobile breakfast contained within the basket. A smile escapes me as I watch their demure clothing, clothing hiding legs and ankles, blouses long sleeved and shawls at the ready gathering on their bosoms. So proper a semblance of maidenhood, yet such different realities beneath. Part of the tapestry that life offers me, witches enough to accompany me when company is wanted. In that I grow more fortunate with every season.
This place attracts a discreet sort of guest, not every person who knows of it may enter it, and few know of it who are not witches. There is something to the energy of the place which defends itself from easy gaze or curious hand. Before ever I came into this part of the world it was already so, only after several visits did it unveil itself to my eyes and a path eluded me for some time. As it should be, for I had requested a place far from prying eyes and insensate hearts. Having gathered friends enough willing to help build in other realms, the path opened one day with the ease one experiences when permission has been granted in a higher place, no obstruction to mar the way nor to fool the unheeding. To watch stone gather and pile in shapes of its own will, cohesive and strong, is an experience which makes other realities pale. The art and toil of it is invisible, only the result is warm and tactile.
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