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I was a skinny, nearsighted, and very shy child. Crowds of two overwhelmed me. When my mother would invite her bridge club to our house, I'd flee to my closet, armed with stuffed animals and favorite books, and stay there for hours.
Besides the closet, there were two other safe places in my young life: our neighborhood library and my grandmother's garden. You wouldn't think that the two have much in common, but they do.
Both a library and a garden are silent places, and I needed silence. From my earliest memory, there's been a committee of voices, my muses, carrying on serious, and sometimes silly, conversations in my head, so going to the library and daydreaming over a book was sheer bliss. And in my grandmother's garden—actually, gardens—I could dig in the earth or cut a bouquet or simply lie down between the rows and listen to the silence.
Remembering those long afternoons spent looking up at the sky makes me think of another common vein running through the library and the garden. There is an order in each one—the systematic shelves of catalogued books, the regular rows of named vegetables and flowers—that calms me, reassures me. The chaos in my head, that ongoing conversation, is allowed to run its course without interruption.
I carried a diary with me everywhere, even at a very young age, and, daydreaming in one of my safe places, I would write down my thoughts. They would read like gibberish today, but those early scribbles were the first tentative breaths of the writer's life I was to lead.
And that statement takes me to hope, the third quality that the library and the gardens had in common for me as a girl. If you have ever finished a book and said to yourself, "I can do that," or "I want to grow up and be just like that person," then you understand my excitement, returning an armful of books to the library, anxious to check out more. And anyone who has ever planted seeds and watched them grow knows what I mean about the hope in gardens.
And to this very day the library and the garden remain my favorite places. I have five gardens and an orchard in which I work, almost daily, from early May until the first frost. Then much of the late fall and winter is spent in my library, daydreaming and reading and writing, on the second floor of our home. Like a small animal in hibernation, I make a warm nest in the old wing chair with my grandmother's quilt and the lamp and my beloved books. It is paradise.
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