A Map of a Not Imaginary Garden

Slashing Through the Energy of the World

I awoke suddenly saddened by the thought of losing my self-given name, what with all the blooms blooming. I wrote myself a note for the morning: "Ungardener, when will it no longer be the truth?" The Garlic Mustard reminds me, the Robins too, we are all the things we ever were.

You can keep your name.

I can keep my name.

But I’m not there yet.

I remember an aloe plant in the kitchen growing up. We used it for most cuts and burns. The bigger wounds got iodine and gauze and we were yellow for weeks.

These were our gardens.

This is a Map of This: The Five Acre Wood in West Chester, Pennsulvania

The Five Acre Wood

There is a Garden. Don’t be fooled when I say there isn’t. I’ve been ungardening our five acres for seven years, but when I look up, now, in April, I still see bewildering warriors draped in thorns and barbs in multitudes rising. And I know about the others too, soft, fragrant, green, abundant - the bubble wrappers of the earth. Suffocating. I wince at the thought of May. It is about now when I embrace the involuntary, not-un-seeable reality of my smallness with vigor. I see my two swollen hands, and my desire also, to live outside the garden, say, cooking and eating food, filling pages with scribbles and words, at the movie theatre, biking, chattering, traveling. Even if I gave the garden all of my time, every waking hour, I’d still be small.

This year I’ve been clearing paths on the hillside — ungardening aslant. My legs feel it, this crooked new perspective. I’ve been pulling those steadfast soldiers for years, and by now I can identify them - eyes closed - by how they touch my skin, eat into my flesh. The sounds they make when they come out of the ground. Some are easy — a pleasure to pile up and to watch wither. Others won’t let go unless I dig a wide hole around them, and then what? A fire?

Yesterday, when I was checking on what I’ve planted inside the loops of my random path making, I spied a trio of Jack-in-the-Pulpit leaves emerging on the path along with ferns unfurling, false Solomon’s Seal, deformed form being stepped upon, and an endlessness of violets. I felt confident! Slightly bigger than small even. Look what I did!

To confirm this good-doing and hard won winnings of my swollen hands the next morning, I began my day visiting the path. There I found Toots and Yedda with their four newly hatched fluffs nibbling at chickweed. But just outside the lines I made, something sinister — the army of invaders had recruited someone new overnight —Japanese fucking Knotweed!

I felt defeated, depleted of breath, my bones grew soggy. For every one three-leafed Jack-in-the-Pulpit, there are millions of stiltgrass babies, mile-a-minutes, barbed and thorny things, and now this.

Maybe this is why we spray the world.

But, another morning, this morning, I step onto the path and there are more of what I desire. Everything multiplies even if the ratios are horrifying. This drama is brutal. I didn’t anticipate this war. I began with simple repetition: Touch the dirt everyday.

There is so much to learn, so much to move, and so much to ungarden.

So I return to there is no Garden here.

There is only movement.

At least this can be solidly celebrated.

A Poem

Breakfast, A Poem

Purple Dead Nettle Tea

Purple Dead Nettle Tea in a Very Good Mug made by Amelia Butcher

Back to the Map

PS: If you are in or near Pennsylvania, we are part of an Open Studio Tour in Chester County May 17 + 18, 2025. Come visit! If you are interested let me know in the comments and I’ll share more details.

Tetrapack Plants!

Two of my favourites - these would make lovely endsheets

Tetrapak Plants of The Five Acre Wood

These guys are Helping the Hurting.

Parts of a Map

Another Map with Hopes and Dreams and Tetrapak Prints