The pots of lavender and rosemary on my front deck need a permanent home. So do I.
As I watered and tended them, still fussing over the collateral damage incurred last week during the great cypress cutting, I lamented that they were not yet in the ground and nicely settled. That said, they likely would have suffered far more injury were they planted, like the ornamental plum whose entire top was roughly shorn by a falling, amputated limb of the tree, because I was able to move them under the sheltering eaves of the house.
Previously I wrote in a post that if you visited this little cottage where I currently reside, but for the single orchid at the kitchen sink and these potted lovelies on the deck, you wouldn’t likely guess that I’m a plant lover. The same could be said for books in my house, or the relative scarcity of them. This situation is largely because I have been a nomad for too long, and I grew tired of giving away my leafy green children each time the painted gypsy caravan rolled on to its new campsite (or sailed across an ocean, always very difficult for plants).
And so I have only these few select companions, along with two cherry tomato starts that were recently given to me. I always have lavender growing just outside my house, whether I’ve planted it there or not; it seems to be part and parcel of who I am, and I adore its narrow, silver green leaves and spikes of fragrant, purple beauty. It’s a profoundly healing plant, lavender is, and I guess I would go so far as to consider it a plant ally of sorts. Some people have totem animals, some have plants. Some of us have both.
And rosemary, or romarin, as I like to call it, as if we were both thriving in Provence. Another powerfully medicinal plant, it’s a healer’s friend and a constant companion in the kitchen; this one too I need close at hand where I can rub my hands over it each time I pass and then lift palms to my face, inhaling the resinous goodness.
Initially these friends of mine remained in their somewhat ugly containers on the front deck because it receives the only significant sunshine in the front garden given the shade of the Grandmother Monterey cypress. That’s what I reasoned, anyway. The other facet of truth is that I’m always moving on, and I had only selected this cottage as a temporary landing spot, one that I didn’t plan to be at more than a year, and I’m not leaving any more green companions behind.
I have spent the entire month of April with my arse essentially parked in my desk chair, spending eight or more hours each day diligently editing the manuscript for my next book, a memoir about our years of living in England. Wading through that process, pen in hand, I am saliently clear of the profound longing for a place to call home that weaves through this story of our ongoing travels. I feel it even now, a swirling blue spiral in my chest around my heart.
More than once in this journal I have lamented how weary I am of the nomadic life, wishing only for the place that both my beloved and I feel called to put down roots, where we feel the nurturing of nature and culture, and where we might park the painted gypsy wagon to let the wheels rot off beneath a grand old tree. A home where I can finally start the vegetable patch, because I don’t need the landlord’s permission and I’m not moving on, and these dear little green ones can find their place in the earth and remain, rooting down.
We are a rootless and alienated culture overall. Lacking real ties to the land where we dwell and severed from a sense of relationship with place, like tumbleweeds we ceaselessly roll on to the next destination, job, or passing fad. It’s almost like an inability to maintain a long term relationship, thinking there must be someone prettier and more alluring, less difficult to live with, or generally better suited to us. We think we have freedom in our mobility, but mostly we are suffering from ennui and meaninglessness.
As a drifter, I’m speaking from experience, for I have spent most of my life roaming around. Yet, what I most desire now is to settle amid some lovely trees, away from other houses and the grid work of streets, and to begin cultivating a sense of place and natural community, both human and other. I long to remain rather than move on, building relationships and culture by staying in a place because I have chosen it as home and there is no other. I am ready to grow like the great trees that I adore, offering well-rooted shade and a contribution of something essential, if at times intangible, to the web of life in which we are all entwined.
In some fashion or other, almost weekly this journal explores the importance of opening our senses and heart, paying attention, and appreciating the ordinary sacred that surrounds us. Tirelessly, I advocate a communion with life because everything is relationship. Yet more and more I feel that such awareness must become rooted. To know that we belong in a place, that we have chosen it because it nourishes in a significantly soulful way, and that we are building a sense of natural community with nature and human culture, this is partly the cure for our listlessness.
C.G. Jung often remarked that his work in the world would not have been possible without his patch of earth, the stone tower he built at Bollingen on Lake Zurich. It was only because he had that place to nourish his soul that his deeper work was able to come through.
I feel the same, or rather that the future work coming through me depends entirely upon having that sense of deep-rooted connection to my place in nature. And yet, for a dozen mysterious reasons, I simply couldn’t have dropped anchor earlier on the voyage, and I continue to have the very profound sense of being guided by mysterious currents that I cannot even begin to fathom or understand.
“Not all who wander are lost,” wrote J.R.R. Tolkien, a consolation and encouragement that I long ago took to heart.
It is close now, nearer than it has ever been, that sanctuary in the trees that is calling me and that I am looking equally to meet, anxious to know it in my bones and breath as a lover. Its exact location, time schedule, and how it will arrive remains a mystery; I am simply trying to be patient and focus on the tasks at hand.
All I know is that the potted lovelies on the front deck will be going with me, as surely as the two English Whippets. And it will be a place where my beloved and I can sit in rocking chairs on the front porch holding hands, watching the painted glow of sunset fade to periwinkle cast with diamond stars.
And in the meantime, perhaps I will purchase some prettier pots for my dear plants to travel in.