I dream of a garden. It is surrounded by high hedges and old, brave, billowing trees. Flowers grow there, and weeds that should be known as flowers, and fruit trees that I keep mostly for their blossom. Part of the garden is its horizons: its shadowy hills and suggestions of a distant sea. I do not want to leave the garden and go to those wilder places, I just want to hold their wild mystery.
Every day in the garden a sun shines gently. Every night it rains. And there is no news in the garden, no people who feel they have to give you the benefit of their opinion, no people who think they can just barge on in. The only information comes by birdsong and breeze. It tells of weather, wishes, peace.
In the garden there is tea. And I can eat all the shortbread biscuits and ginger cake I want without having to worry. I can sit in white dresses, a big rather foolish straw hat, and write whatever I please. No one will call my work brilliant just because it's what they like to read. They'll tell me instead that my pen should echo my own heart. They'll want to read what's true from me. I have roses in the garden, lavender, a dog.
And at night the garden will sigh quietly, and lift its face to the moon-stung clouds, the coming rain. And I'll keep my windows open to the wind, the rain, the scent of garden song.
I am making a garden in my heart. No, you can't come in.