This afternoon was a lazy one. I'm still relaxing, in fact, jotting down some notes from a tucked-away community garden with cob pizza ovens and children running down grassy slopes.
When I first moved to Asheville, I thought I was going to build a cob house with curvy nooks and round windows, until I volunteered on someone else's project and discovered it to be backbreaking work. So I live in an old Victorian in constant need of repair, and I never even do that.
I also imagined my elaborate gardens. The vision I have of living roofs and secret arbors doesn't match up with the day-to-day of crumbling retaining walls and weeds choking the few nice flowers. Even this magical garden here has been mowed by invisible caretakers–if it were mine it would be a forest, and impenetrable.
Now that I know what it means to live in a house, responsible for the maintenance of outdoor space, I see well-tended flower beds and the short, even cut of lawns in life or in the movies and it makes my throat close up with the thought of the effort. But I am grateful that there are others who take on the tasks of maintaining these beautiful, usable spaces.
And an impenetrable forest is something wonderful and magical too.